TO WIT: SPITBALL
Like law, life does have its rules. Unlike the law however, the rules of life are, for the most part, optional. Oh, I know well enough that old saw about death and taxes, but I’m working on it and I’ll let you know. Otherwise, most of life’s rules may be chosen from an infinitely large menu to suit a particular life style, and as long as no harm can come to another by reason of the selection, the choices can be freely made.
Now I believe in a simple life. Accordingly, I have chosen simple rules. For instance, I have made it a cardinal principle of my sojourn here to avoid boils and rabid dogs. Lest you erroneously conclude I am in the wrong profession if that is truly my wont, I can tell you that with respect to the former, I have been entirely successful, and with respect to the latter, my success has been qualified only by an encounter with a certain trial judge in my first jury trial.
Another of my rules has to do with maters. I keep a respectable distance. It isn’t that I am without opportunity, though. What with my prep school, my college and my law school, I have more maters than most, and I have been at least as alma to them as they have been to me.
It is not that I am without sentiment either. To each one, I drop a kind, albeit negotiable, note annually, and each of their prompt and grateful acknowledgements assures that my yearly presence, if only in signature form, assuages any doubts they may have as to my well being.
What I don’t do, however, is go home to visit. I cannot account to you as to why I don’t, and even if I could, I’m not sure I would. Suffice it to say that at the first few reunions I attended, after I had utilized the “how’s the wife, husband, kids, practice” gambit, I had run out of things to say, and despite the obvious attempts of some to goad me into it, I simply refused to discuss the size of my verdicts. The question of professionalism aside, it reminded me too much of high school gym.
I’m not sure what prompted me to suspend the operation of my rule in favor of attending my last law school reunion. It may have been the imminent arrival of a significant birthday, the spectre of which has, for some time now, directed my attention to the rear. Or maybe it was the universal instinct of hope conquering experience. Whatever reservations I may have had were dispelled by the suggestion of a certain His Honor, a former classmate, who, while reviewing my requested points for charge advised that he needed a ridge to the dinner. Though illustrious, I never decline the opportunity to curry favor with the Bench whenever possible. I didn’t learn that in law school.
We arrived together, His Honor and I, but he headed straight for the judicial seminar going on in the vicinity of the Judge’s Bar, and he was gone for the evening. I immediately saw one of my best law school buddies standing over in one corner. She had married a classmate right after graduation and moved to another state, and I hadn’t seen her since.
“It’s so nice to see you,” she said, meaning it, “and let me introduce you to my husband.” She signaled to a man standing off to one side, and he headed over.
“This is my husband, Ralph,” she said, and he extended his hand.
No it isn’t,” I replied, backing away. “You married Fred, remember?”
Even I could add one and one in the pause that followed, and when I had, I excused myself and headed for the lawyers’ seminar.
At the bar, I noticed a vaguely familiar face whose body was wearing tails for the occasion. We had been in freshman class together, but he had switched to the evening division after the first year and I had lost track of him. “How ya doin”?” I offered.
“Fine, thanks, how about you?”
“I’m just fine,” I answered, proving I could lie as well as he. “Where are you practicing?”
“Actually, I’m not. I’m working here this evening,” and he offered forth a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Would you care for one?”
“Uh, no,” I said. “I’m just on my way to seminar, but thanks.”
When dinner was called, I got to my assigned table without further incident, grateful for the opportunity to fill my mouth with something other than words. When Mom has us all for dinner like this, she always seats at least one professor at each table, as against the remote possibility that a discussion of the law might erupt, and accordingly, I found myself seated next to my old contracts professor.
I remembered at once the very first day of my law school career, in the very first class, when this same professor mounted the podium and announced that his primary job was to week out one-third of the class by failing them. I had mistakenly assumed that he was there to welcome us. I had also assumed that he was there to teach us contracts, but I was wrong about that too.
“Be excellent,” he had bellowed, “and I will never forget you.”
I re-introduced myself to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping away the little white flecks of foam that had just appeared at the corners of his mouth, “I just can’t seem to recall you. What do you do for a living, now?”
I was entirely devoid of gambits by dessert, and when one of my colleagues at the table produced a ten-inch cigar, lit it with a fifty dollar bill and said, “Did I ever tell you all about my seven figure verdict for a soft tissue injury?”, it was time for me to leave. I had heard the story before. He tells it well enough, but he always leaves out the part about his being defense counsel.
As I headed empty for the door, the Dean spotted me and came over. “Leaving so soon?” he asked. “We haven’t even talked.”
I hadn’t seen him in years, and he called me by my right name, even though I wasn’t wearing a name badge. “I know,” I replied, “but I have a long drive home.”
“Well then, go on, but from now on, don’t be a stranger. You’ve done well for yourself, and we’re proud of you.”
Well, maybe I will go back, and next year too. Rules are rules, but there are amendments. Now, if I just didn’t have so many damn siblings.
© 1985 – S. Sponte, Esq.