---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Ice King” Down in the Dirt (v141) (the January 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Study in Black the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 418 page Jan.-April 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Hearing

Liam Spencer

    The hearing was at three. My aged suit fit uneasily around my belly. I organized my papers and notes to make sure I had everything. My last beer had been two hours ago. Fuck it, I thought, one more won’t hurt. It’ll calm my nerves.
    I was about to attempt the impossible; represent myself in front of a judge. It was a workers’ comp case regarding income. I was facing off against an assistant attorney general for the state of Washington. I was overmatched.
    I rehearsed one last time, pacing my shitty apartment, talking to myself. Empty beer cans littered tables and counters. My voice echoed off sympathetic walls.
    My days of college and internship reawakened. The dream of law school flooded back. A sad sigh and a few tears escaped. I had always wanted to be a lawyer, but could never afford law school. Here was my chance.
    I lived in lower Queen Anne, so I could simply walk to the courthouse in downtown Seattle. It would save bus fare. I was on comp, after all.
    Thoughts turned to my then estranged girlfriend of three years. Her. The Her. Of poetry fame. Samantha. She lived a mere half block north of me. We had lived together for quite a while, had been nearly engaged twice, and had been in love. Now we never spoke. I longed for her to be in my corner. It was not to be.
    One last smoke covered my breath a little. Security didn’t bat an eye. I must have looked pretty good in my suit, as amazingly attractive women gave me the look. That look. I felt a glow for the first time in months. Poverty has its’ effects.
    The judge was an attractive woman in her forties. She treated me with kid gloves, glowingly reassuring expressions on her face, as she explained the prima fascia requirements.
    I presented my evidence for the court’s approval. The judge sat there in silence for a time. Her eyes grew wide. She looked up at me with a broad, encouraging smile.
    Despite objections, the judge accepted all of my evidence. Every bit of it. She then heavily ruled in my favor. The case would move forward. After the official, on the record stuff, she spoke to me;
    “Wow. You’ve really put a lot of work into this. Good job!”
    I thanked her. My nerves were settled a little, but I needed a smoke and a beer after such an ordeal. The hearing was over.
    The assistant attorney general walked up beside me. She was an older woman, thirty years experience. We shared the elevator.
    “Great job. I had rolled my eyes when I saw you were representing yourself, but you’re pretty good.”
    “Thank you.”
    We got off the elevator and walked together.
    “As good a job you can do, but we’re still going to win, you know. I mean, you’re right morally, but not legally. Eventually laws will catch up to where you are now, but laws are not there yet.”
    “Well, thank you for advising me of that, but I guess we’ll see how it ends up. I think I can win.”
    It was then that two other attorneys came up to the assistant attorney general. She introduced us all. It somehow was decided that we should all go to lunch together.
    Sitting there, in that establishment, surrounded by lawyers, it was as if I were one. I listened intently to their conversations. This was my chance.
    A really beautiful brunette caught my eye. She was well dressed, sitting there at the bar, nursing a cocktail. She had a certain glow, mischievous. She seemed to keep eying me for some reason.
    As the lawyers wound up their lunches, and I finished my gin and tonic, we all went to the bar to pay our bills. It was within hearing distance of the brunette.
    “So, what firm are you with?”
    “Oh, I’m not really a lawyer. I just play one in court.”
    Laughter. The lawyers left. I remained.
    “Hello.”
    “Hi.”
    “I’m Liam. Great to meet you.”
    “Sara.”
    “Well Sara, what do you say we have a drink together?”
    “Don’t you have to get back to work?”
    “No. I have the rest of the day off. How about you?”
    “I had a job interview today. It didn’t go all that well.”
    “Sorry to hear. Something will come along. But that does mean we’re both free.”
    “Yes, we are.”
    Drinks poured and downed. The place filled up for happy hour. There we were, two outsiders in our own world, laughing and flirting. Hitting it off. Really hitting it off. All too obvious.
    As she ended a humorous antidote, I tested the waters by leaning forward in laughter, glancing at her mouthwatering legs, and placed my hand on her side. Her hand grasped mine, as her face glowed. We held hands, giving each other the look. That look.
    “Let’s go somewhere else.”
    “Ok.”
    Her place was only five blocks. We each squeezed each other’s hands for reassurance. This was really happening. The elevator finally opened at her floor. Number 206 opened. A small, neat apartment welcomed us. She tore away to go to the kitchen. I sat on the loveseat.
    Vodka and soda over ice. They both went down as quickly as the laughter. It was just too tense. We both knew what needed to happen, and it did. Repeatedly. So raw. So primal. So needed.
    I awoke even more turned on than the night before. There she was. The most gentle of caresses led to the hardest of fuckings.
    It was a hit. A brilliant affair was born. Amazing conversations, laughters, lovings, fuckings, making love and cuddling. Two lost souls holding each other on long chilly nights. It was brilliant.
    Then came the day.
    “How do you have so much time? I mean, when do you work? Are you really an attorney?”
    “Like I said when we met, I’m not really a lawyer, I just play one in court.”
    “What does that even mean?! Are you a lawyer or not? Who are you?”
    “Who am I? Must we really define ourselves by what we do? We have great times together, right?”
    “Ok, ok. But what do you do?”
    “I’m on workers comp. I’m representing myself in...”
    “Oh Gawd...”
    “What? I’m doing very well and...”
    “You’re such a liar. Such a fraud. I should have known...”
    “What? That’s not right. Not fair. Just because I am working class...”
    “Don’t you dare! You let me believe you were a lawyer...”
    “What difference does that make? What I do is not who I am...who we are. What we can be. Look, I really like you.”
    “Get out. Just get the fuck out!”
    “Ok ok.”
    The door slammed behind me. It was something I was used to by then. A sigh from deep within me met the world as I loosened my tie, and walked down the lively streets, going home to my shitty apartment once again.
    It would go on to where I won three out of four areas of contention. A large check would come my way. Winnings are nice. The judge and the assistant attorney general would go on to recommend me for a paralegal position with the Washington State Attorney General’s Office.
    There were no openings.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...