I see her from across the hall. She’s slack-jawed and pale; struck dumb on the spot. The bustling crowd of the bridal convention continues its brutal rampage around her and her teary, sheepish-faced friend. She doesn’t seem to hear any more of her friend’s guilt-laden words; only stares blankly at the woman in front of her. The teary woman shakes and pleads. She finally responds, not with words, but with a firm closing of her mouth, and the removal of her engagement ring. She holds it out stubbornly to her pleading companion until it is no longer in her possession. I blink and she disappears into the anonymity of the crowd, leaving her sobbing friend behind.
Terry Dale was the leader and guitarist of the band Downlow. His playing and songwriting made the group a local favorite and kept them constantly busy. Janice was okay with vocals but had the bad habit of bending at the waist when hitting the high notes. Some songs made her look like she had constipated cramps as she moved across the stage. Terry must have put up with it because she was beautiful and sounded a lot like Chaple Roan. The rest of the guys had been with him since high school.
Rick poured a stiff drink and kept the clientele mostly in their thirties. Dark wood, neon beer signs, and dim light gave the bar he’d named after himself a classic roadhouse vibe. A few college kids started coming in to listen to Downlow’s country rock-inspired sound and to steal Terry’s rifts but not enough to cause a problem. I looked for my brother-in-law, Jack Rawson, and found him hanging out at a table with three girls young enough to be his daughter. That was Jack. He was pushing fifty but dressed and acted like a twenty-one-year-old
I watched my sister Lauren and niece Cece Rawson enter the bar and pause to let their eyes adjust to the dark. The woman at the door carded them even though Lauren was forty-seven. She still looked good, though and I didn’t understand why Jack slept around on her. He’d done it forever, but I’d just moved back into town after going through a divorce and knew what it felt like to be cheated on. I told Sis she needed to dump him and that I’d bankroll the bill for a clean break. Making money was never one of my problems.
Lauren wouldn’t have done anything if I hadn’t pushed her. I told her to think of Cece. Do you want the same thing to happen to her as is happening to you? Jimmy Watkins and I’d gone to school together, so Lauren and I went to see him in his official capacity as Attorney James B. Watkins. Sis had the divorce papers in her hand. I was waiting for the mother and daughter to neuter Jack by serving them in public and telling him that she was taking half of everything he owned.
Jack continued making a play for the girls and didn’t see Lauren and his daughter until Sis was standing right behind him. I raised my hand, and the music stopped. Jack looked around and noticed Lauren and Cece and froze like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Sis handed Jack the papers and spoke loud enough so the entire bar knew he was a lying, cheating bastard who was lousy in bed. Cece kicked him in the nuts. I waved my hand. Terry and the band began to play the Ray Charles classic Hit the Road Jack, and Janice started belting out the words as everyone laughed and watched the scumbag hobble to the door.
John was delighted that his technical paper on a new method of variable rate speech digitization had been accepted for publication in the journal of the Acoustical Society of America. It was his first professional technical paper other than reports within his company. He had applied for a patent, so now he could publicly disclose its details.
But he was nervous about publically presenting his paper in front of a large crowd of people in a ballroom in Midtown Manhattan. How would he describe the subject? Would he look inexperienced? Would his speech be clear?
And thus he apprehensively walked onto the stage and observed the large audience of engineers and scientists before him. Stage lights were in his eyes and a microphone was in his face and he held a graphics projector control in one hand and an audio control switch in the other.
It suddenly seemed to John that he had been here before. For three years he had played lead sax in a ten-piece dance band in high school and college. Stage lights and microphones made him feel at home. It was as if he were playing Moonlight in Vermont or Intermission Riff all over again in a college ballroom or a downtown hotel. Stage lights and mikes and handheld devices became surprisingly comforting. He was surprisingly relaxed and confident.
And so he began his talk as if he were once again soloing his alto sax. Like music, some of his words were from a written score and some were improvised. At the end of his presentation he received thunderous applause just like in his old dance band days.
Feeling rewarded and thrilled once again, he looked forward to writing more technical papers and soloing them to an appreciative ballroom crowd.
The old professor loved this day. The day the pre-laws received their results for the law boards. The keys to the kingdom. Good number and you are on a fast track. Too bad a number and you’re sunk. Maybe time to consider accounting. From a distance he watched the young students extract the envelopes from their mail cubbies. He focused on his favorite. She had so much potential. She opened the envelope. First, no reaction at all. Then it seemed to wash over her like a wave. The tears came. The look of joy. Relief. She looked for a moment like she would drop to her knees. Then with a whoop she crumpled the paper, tossed it in the bin and bounded away.
He found himself moving toward that trash can as if drawn by a magnet. What was he doing? Was this an invasion? No, as he had learned in law school she had no expectation of privacy in this scenario. He learned other things in law school too. And after. In years of practice in a soul deadening profession. Finally, he escaped for academia. Reclaimed his life. He’d had such high hopes for her to escape. He would never say any of this to her. It was her decision to make. Not his place. But he could dream. Based on her reaction it seemed she had aced the exam. It would grease the skids for a law career, anywhere she wanted. Who was he to tell her it wasn’t what she wanted.
He fished the balled-up paper out of the wire garbage basket. Smoothed out the wrinkled scoresheet. A 19. That was 35th percentile. She wouldn’t get in anywhere with that score. She wouldn’t be a lawyer. Not anytime soon.
Then it hit him. She’d been happy! Overjoyed. Maybe a kindred spirit after all. A bullet dodged. Now came his tears of joy.
I see her from across the hall. She’s slack-jawed and pale; struck dumb on the spot. The bustling crowd of the bridal convention continues its brutal rampage around her and her teary, sheepish-faced friend. She doesn’t seem to hear any more of her friend’s guilt-laden words; only stares blankly at the woman in front of her. The teary woman shakes and pleads. She finally responds, not with words, but with a firm closing of her mouth, and the removal of her engagement ring. She holds it out stubbornly to her pleading companion until it is no longer in her possession. I blink and she disappears into the anonymity of the crowd, leaving her sobbing friend behind.
Terry Dale was the leader and guitarist of the band Downlow. His playing and songwriting made the group a local favorite and kept them constantly busy. Janice was okay with vocals but had the bad habit of bending at the waist when hitting the high notes. Some songs made her look like she had constipated cramps as she moved across the stage. Terry must have put up with it because she was beautiful and sounded a lot like Chaple Roan. The rest of the guys had been with him since high school.
Rick poured a stiff drink and kept the clientele mostly in their thirties. Dark wood, neon beer signs, and dim light gave the bar he’d named after himself a classic roadhouse vibe. A few college kids started coming in to listen to Downlow’s country rock-inspired sound and to steal Terry’s rifts but not enough to cause a problem. I looked for my brother-in-law, Jack Rawson, and found him hanging out at a table with three girls young enough to be his daughter. That was Jack. He was pushing fifty but dressed and acted like a twenty-one-year-old
I watched my sister Lauren and niece Cece Rawson enter the bar and pause to let their eyes adjust to the dark. The woman at the door carded them even though Lauren was forty-seven. She still looked good, though and I didn’t understand why Jack slept around on her. He’d done it forever, but I’d just moved back into town after going through a divorce and knew what it felt like to be cheated on. I told Sis she needed to dump him and that I’d bankroll the bill for a clean break. Making money was never one of my problems.
Lauren wouldn’t have done anything if I hadn’t pushed her. I told her to think of Cece. Do you want the same thing to happen to her as is happening to you? Jimmy Watkins and I’d gone to school together, so Lauren and I went to see him in his official capacity as Attorney James B. Watkins. Sis had the divorce papers in her hand. I was waiting for the mother and daughter to neuter Jack by serving them in public and telling him that she was taking half of everything he owned.
Jack continued making a play for the girls and didn’t see Lauren and his daughter until Sis was standing right behind him. I raised my hand, and the music stopped. Jack looked around and noticed Lauren and Cece and froze like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Sis handed Jack the papers and spoke loud enough so the entire bar knew he was a lying, cheating bastard who was lousy in bed. Cece kicked him in the nuts. I waved my hand. Terry and the band began to play the Ray Charles classic Hit the Road Jack, and Janice started belting out the words as everyone laughed and watched the scumbag hobble to the door.
John was delighted that his technical paper on a new method of variable rate speech digitization had been accepted for publication in the journal of the Acoustical Society of America. It was his first professional technical paper other than reports within his company. He had applied for a patent, so now he could publicly disclose its details.
But he was nervous about publically presenting his paper in front of a large crowd of people in a ballroom in Midtown Manhattan. How would he describe the subject? Would he look inexperienced? Would his speech be clear?
And thus he apprehensively walked onto the stage and observed the large audience of engineers and scientists before him. Stage lights were in his eyes and a microphone was in his face and he held a graphics projector control in one hand and an audio control switch in the other.
It suddenly seemed to John that he had been here before. For three years he had played lead sax in a ten-piece dance band in high school and college. Stage lights and microphones made him feel at home. It was as if he were playing Moonlight in Vermont or Intermission Riff all over again in a college ballroom or a downtown hotel. Stage lights and mikes and handheld devices became surprisingly comforting. He was surprisingly relaxed and confident.
And so he began his talk as if he were once again soloing his alto sax. Like music, some of his words were from a written score and some were improvised. At the end of his presentation he received thunderous applause just like in his old dance band days.
Feeling rewarded and thrilled once again, he looked forward to writing more technical papers and soloing them to an appreciative ballroom crowd.
The old professor loved this day. The day the pre-laws received their results for the law boards. The keys to the kingdom. Good number and you are on a fast track. Too bad a number and you’re sunk. Maybe time to consider accounting. From a distance he watched the young students extract the envelopes from their mail cubbies. He focused on his favorite. She had so much potential. She opened the envelope. First, no reaction at all. Then it seemed to wash over her like a wave. The tears came. The look of joy. Relief. She looked for a moment like she would drop to her knees. Then with a whoop she crumpled the paper, tossed it in the bin and bounded away.
He found himself moving toward that trash can as if drawn by a magnet. What was he doing? Was this an invasion? No, as he had learned in law school she had no expectation of privacy in this scenario. He learned other things in law school too. And after. In years of practice in a soul deadening profession. Finally, he escaped for academia. Reclaimed his life. He’d had such high hopes for her to escape. He would never say any of this to her. It was her decision to make. Not his place. But he could dream. Based on her reaction it seemed she had aced the exam. It would grease the skids for a law career, anywhere she wanted. Who was he to tell her it wasn’t what she wanted.
He fished the balled-up paper out of the wire garbage basket. Smoothed out the wrinkled scoresheet. A 19. That was 35th percentile. She wouldn’t get in anywhere with that score. She wouldn’t be a lawyer. Not anytime soon.
Then it hit him. She’d been happy! Overjoyed. Maybe a kindred spirit after all. A bullet dodged. Now came his tears of joy.