I finally had to shut my mind to ward off the chattering of the young college students. I was riding the university shuttle bus to Georgetown with that segment of youth - the rich kids - who feigned weariness with the world yet breathlessly gushed about shoes and trust funds.
The university hall was a modest, well-lit room, with a couple of tables against the back wall with trays of cookies and refreshments. Rows of simple metal chairs faced two long tables that had been joined to form the panel. Most of the students were seated when I arrived.
This segment of youth had no trust funds, colored faces that had turned out to see the panel of nine lawyers of color, alumni of the university, speak about their experiences in law. Because we were lawyers - thoroughly disassembled and reassembled by the Great Machine of society - we took turns complementing each other and outdoing each other in smoother and more impressive maneuvers. Laughter punctuated the event.
While someone at the far left was speaking about how wonderful it was to work at the legal department of a gigantic media corporation, I finished my carrot stick. I was speaking suddenly out of a sense of urgency. Biting back the nausea of the evening, I disarmed the room by making a quick joke about the funny thing that happened to me on the way to the forum - I had nose surgery, and touched the splint. Then I launched into the message that I had to deliver as if on a mission.
There was a disease within the Great Machine, a sickness that only those who cared about the common good could sense. The engine of change and protection within the Great Machine was government. But that engine was being dismantled. Lawyers, as tools of the Great Machine, had the power and responsibility to ameliorate the sickness that everywhere the headlines screamed each day. But you, dear students, will find it hard to become tools of change. We with our many colors are all in the same group, and the ones who have written the rules are not in this room. So I caution you now: the rules were not written for you. You will have to work hard. But persevere. You will be able to do it. We sit before you here today as proof that it is possible.
The mission was accomplished: the nine of us had stepped out of the misty chamber of the past, time travelers with a message, but only I had apparently retained the memory of our temporal journey and of the charge that had been laid upon us by the masters of history. Being the single witness to history, the mission had been saved.
I sat back when it was over and watched the students fan out to speak to the panelists individually; a group was headed towards me, a black woman and two Asian men. As I answered their questions, I felt a sense of relief. The nausea was receding, leaving me with the certain knowledge that I was less detached, perhaps not detached at all. For what witness could tell his story in utter detachment?
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Chapter 19
For days my consciousness remained suspended, protected by the consolation of work. In the mornings, the dry leaves would congregate on the edges of the sidewalks; I had no discourse with them. Passing the newspapers in their dispensers, the headlines attempted to scream but their sounds were muffled, my consciousness protected by detachment. In any event, I was certain that the headlines were not screaming about the faceless and the numberless.
For days I had been holding down my regular caseload and at the same time attending what seemed like endless training at the United States Attorney's Office. Though I had been litigating cases for a couple of years now, no one was a true prosecutor until he had trained with the Feds. And so I plunged into the dizzying details of opening statements, the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Amendments, probable cause, search warrants, Miranda warnings, direct examination, hearsay, the exceptions to hearsay, drug test results, gun certifications, objections, preparing witnesses, impeaching witnesses, cross examination, and closing arguments.
Attorneys - by the time they become attorneys - have been thoroughly disassembled and reassembled by The Great Machine, that colossal, invisible system that sometimes goes by the inadequate term of "society." As such, they are ready with automatic expressions of sympathy when I volunteer information about my nose surgery, thus relieving them of using energy to look at my face and its nose splint nonchalantly. That energy could then be shunted to other productive uses, like parking their cars in the morning.
For days, the telephone would ring at my office with people on the other end who had things to say. One day, the telephone rang and an investigator introduced himself, explaining that he was assigned to my assault case. It was his job to develop a case, if any, against the nightclub in question. The irony - the leaves gossiped about this as I passed them once - was that armed as I was with prosecutorial weapons, the assailant would likely never be seen again. But the irony could not penetrate detachment. Thus, the energy of my interview with the investigator traveled along the telephone lines, igniting the awesome engines of Government as its great wheels began to creak and turn in the direction of the unsuspecting nightclub owner and his employees.
For days I had been holding down my regular caseload and at the same time attending what seemed like endless training at the United States Attorney's Office. Though I had been litigating cases for a couple of years now, no one was a true prosecutor until he had trained with the Feds. And so I plunged into the dizzying details of opening statements, the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Amendments, probable cause, search warrants, Miranda warnings, direct examination, hearsay, the exceptions to hearsay, drug test results, gun certifications, objections, preparing witnesses, impeaching witnesses, cross examination, and closing arguments.
Attorneys - by the time they become attorneys - have been thoroughly disassembled and reassembled by The Great Machine, that colossal, invisible system that sometimes goes by the inadequate term of "society." As such, they are ready with automatic expressions of sympathy when I volunteer information about my nose surgery, thus relieving them of using energy to look at my face and its nose splint nonchalantly. That energy could then be shunted to other productive uses, like parking their cars in the morning.
For days, the telephone would ring at my office with people on the other end who had things to say. One day, the telephone rang and an investigator introduced himself, explaining that he was assigned to my assault case. It was his job to develop a case, if any, against the nightclub in question. The irony - the leaves gossiped about this as I passed them once - was that armed as I was with prosecutorial weapons, the assailant would likely never be seen again. But the irony could not penetrate detachment. Thus, the energy of my interview with the investigator traveled along the telephone lines, igniting the awesome engines of Government as its great wheels began to creak and turn in the direction of the unsuspecting nightclub owner and his employees.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Chapter 18
The television reporter was in need of a bath. But so was everyone else in that forsaken country so the smells did not matter, merely part of the background. In the foreground, the local warlord had agreed to give an interview and tell the world how carnage had become as normal as the dust storms. It was dry morning in the village, before the blistering heat would overtake all but the warriors. With a sweeping gesture, the warlord - drooping robes over his thin arm, for no one was fat - pointed out the trajectory of his men. From this temporary base, the warriors - with no formal education, no employment prospects in the modern world, no understanding of the international order - would ride out and rid the land of its rot: the former inhabitants, all of whom had been terrorized into taking flight with only the clothes on their frail black forms, dragging their elderly and carrying their children and breadbaskets: refugees all whose lives were every day sapped by the scorching rocks of that sun-baked wasteland. Each day, the warlord's men on horseback drew ever closer with their spears and machetes until the scorching rocks cooled with the blood of nameless, faceless, numberless beings whose story would never be told in the evening news. The warlord grinned at the camera: a near-toothless grin, a smile beyond good and evil, like an earthquake or a tidal wave.
About 6,500 miles to the west, across an entire ocean, I was crossing the street and heard:
"Oh God! What in the world happened to your nose?"
My field of vision temporarily expanded, in a sort of spasm, and I took her in: an old woman - fat, dressed in layers of old coats - clearly homeless and mentally ill, shuffled past. Her two small, black eyeballs were lost in the clumps of flesh that collected on her blistered, wasted face. Those tiny orbs registered my nose splint for a moment, then moved on to the other senseless objects of her senseless world. Only her frozen, open-mouthed grin - nearly toothless - bore witness that she had once spoken.
About 6,500 miles to the west, across an entire ocean, I was crossing the street and heard:
"Oh God! What in the world happened to your nose?"
My field of vision temporarily expanded, in a sort of spasm, and I took her in: an old woman - fat, dressed in layers of old coats - clearly homeless and mentally ill, shuffled past. Her two small, black eyeballs were lost in the clumps of flesh that collected on her blistered, wasted face. Those tiny orbs registered my nose splint for a moment, then moved on to the other senseless objects of her senseless world. Only her frozen, open-mouthed grin - nearly toothless - bore witness that she had once spoken.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Chapter 17
When I awoke the morning after the surgery, it was too late to pretend that it had been a dream - though it had seemed like a dream due to the complete absence of fear. Occupying the lower third of my field of vision was the splint, a piece of grey plastic fastened to my nose to keep it in place while the broken bones inside healed.
I laid in bed for what seemed a long time; the dark walls in the apartment turned into shadows light and dark. For a moment, I thought the sadness had come to sit at the foot of the bed. But I turned and saw it was only the lone tree in the corner; I had watered it but it still needed more attention.
The man in the bathroom mirror, that one there with the black and white beard, tried to speak but I would not let him. Quietly - for what was there to say and to whom? - I dressed and stepped out into the grey morning.
Avoiding the crowded escalator that descended into the station, I opted for the elevator. A woman with a baby entered the elevator before the doors managed to shut. The baby made gurgling noises and the woman cooed in a foreign language but I could not see them as I had placed them behind me. The splint was affecting my eyes, pulling them down, narrowing their field of vision. To compensate, my hearing sharpened; life became all sound.
In the train car, the furtive glances rustled, the hushed sounds of eyeballs moving in their sockets and eyelashes fluttering. Newspapers creaked but necks craned heads above the papers to see this Creature that stood there under the electric light that was totally emotionally detached. The doors chimed, flung open, shoes thundered, coats flapped, and suddenly I was surrounded by backs and shoulders in a smothering crowd - cut off from all view. I breathed in the blind silence.
I laid in bed for what seemed a long time; the dark walls in the apartment turned into shadows light and dark. For a moment, I thought the sadness had come to sit at the foot of the bed. But I turned and saw it was only the lone tree in the corner; I had watered it but it still needed more attention.
The man in the bathroom mirror, that one there with the black and white beard, tried to speak but I would not let him. Quietly - for what was there to say and to whom? - I dressed and stepped out into the grey morning.
Avoiding the crowded escalator that descended into the station, I opted for the elevator. A woman with a baby entered the elevator before the doors managed to shut. The baby made gurgling noises and the woman cooed in a foreign language but I could not see them as I had placed them behind me. The splint was affecting my eyes, pulling them down, narrowing their field of vision. To compensate, my hearing sharpened; life became all sound.
In the train car, the furtive glances rustled, the hushed sounds of eyeballs moving in their sockets and eyelashes fluttering. Newspapers creaked but necks craned heads above the papers to see this Creature that stood there under the electric light that was totally emotionally detached. The doors chimed, flung open, shoes thundered, coats flapped, and suddenly I was surrounded by backs and shoulders in a smothering crowd - cut off from all view. I breathed in the blind silence.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Chapter 16
I never fully understood what happened to me or what they did to me in that room. The clock on the wall said a certain time; there was some friendly banter with the doctor who took photographs of my face for the "Before" in "Before and After." There was some more friendly banter with the anesthesiologist who ironically broke his nose years ago and never bothered to fix it. And there was yet more friendly banter with the nurse as they wheeled the stretcher down busy hallways to the operating room:
"Have you had anything to eat? Juice, crackers?"
"Are you offering me any? 'Cause I'd sure like some - haven't had anything to eat since last night."
Then there was the awkward shift from the stretcher onto the operating table, trying not to flash my ass to the operating crew as I struggled in one of those silly hospital gowns. The hairnet I wore was too big for my head. Then I saw another clock say a certain time and the anesthesiologist's hand came down on my face with a transparent mask that shot oxygen into my nose, winds that scattered the dry leaves down the hallways in my body.
Then Dr. Who appeared again, telling me that he was going to spray medicine down my nose to help with any bleeding. Suddenly, rivers of acid were rushing down the hallways in my body, searing away all the dry leaves.
"Holy shit!"
There was ringing laughter in the operating room at my response, perhaps from the doctors moving about, but the ringing seemed to come from the equipment. Everything was glaring bright: the machines, the lamps, the walls. Everything was antiseptic. Everything detached.
Somebody was injecting something in a tube connected to me. It would make me sleep, he said. There was a digital timer on the wall next to the clock but I didn't know what it was measuring. Then I looked up and the nurse appeared to be a walking avocado in her green smock with scores of avocados printed all over her or were they lemons it was hard to tell what the timer was timing perhaps another world where someone feared for me like a person paid to cry at a funeral because I never noticed the fear or the absence of fear but only that suddenly life mattered less and less and meaning was sliding helplessly off the bright walls and then
nothing.
I opened my eyes and it was another room, one of those curtained bays, overlooking a central station with doctors and nurses moving like traffic. A clock on the wall was whispering that an hour and a half of my life had been detached, beyond reach. Dr. Who appeared and told me that my nose was now straight and that I would see him again in nine days to remove the nose splint. Thank you, doctor. Then came the juice and crackers.
"Have you had anything to eat? Juice, crackers?"
"Are you offering me any? 'Cause I'd sure like some - haven't had anything to eat since last night."
Then there was the awkward shift from the stretcher onto the operating table, trying not to flash my ass to the operating crew as I struggled in one of those silly hospital gowns. The hairnet I wore was too big for my head. Then I saw another clock say a certain time and the anesthesiologist's hand came down on my face with a transparent mask that shot oxygen into my nose, winds that scattered the dry leaves down the hallways in my body.
Then Dr. Who appeared again, telling me that he was going to spray medicine down my nose to help with any bleeding. Suddenly, rivers of acid were rushing down the hallways in my body, searing away all the dry leaves.
"Holy shit!"
There was ringing laughter in the operating room at my response, perhaps from the doctors moving about, but the ringing seemed to come from the equipment. Everything was glaring bright: the machines, the lamps, the walls. Everything was antiseptic. Everything detached.
Somebody was injecting something in a tube connected to me. It would make me sleep, he said. There was a digital timer on the wall next to the clock but I didn't know what it was measuring. Then I looked up and the nurse appeared to be a walking avocado in her green smock with scores of avocados printed all over her or were they lemons it was hard to tell what the timer was timing perhaps another world where someone feared for me like a person paid to cry at a funeral because I never noticed the fear or the absence of fear but only that suddenly life mattered less and less and meaning was sliding helplessly off the bright walls and then
nothing.
I opened my eyes and it was another room, one of those curtained bays, overlooking a central station with doctors and nurses moving like traffic. A clock on the wall was whispering that an hour and a half of my life had been detached, beyond reach. Dr. Who appeared and told me that my nose was now straight and that I would see him again in nine days to remove the nose splint. Thank you, doctor. Then came the juice and crackers.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Chapter 15
The wind was whistling bitterly when I came upon the crime scene in the cold. There, on the sidewalk, a television set had been murdered in the night.
The thing lay like a cadaver face-down on the sidewalk. So I could not see its telltale blank expression to know that it was truly dead. But its power cord trailed on the ground, twisted, away from any life-sustaining outlet. I turned and rushed quickly to my apartment, sanctuary from the wind.
Beneath my new bathroom light bulb - a light still emotionally detached - I thought I recognized the face in the mirror. That evening, the Vietnamese lady at the salon had done a good job of restoring my face; time had done the rest. Still, you can never go back, said the face. Indeed, the Vietnamese lady said, "You nose still a little crooked."
But for her that wasn't the point in keeping the beard. She trimmed it and said, "Keep it. It look good." I imagined television stars getting this treatment, complete with shampoo, walking out as new people - whole new personas! - even though one day the television stars would all end up dead with their power cords pulled out.
Ah, but to be truly new - that required a nose job. And as fate would have it, I had one of those waiting for me tomorrow. "Your new nose, sir." said the doctor. Then, just like on TV, there would be an unmasking before a mirror and I would gasp in wide-eyed wonder at the brand-new old me, while in the background there would be some clapping and a couple of nurses laughing, carefree, and -
Wait - in the mirror, I thought I detected a new pattern . . . that face, eyes blank, said, "You cheated death." You should have laid there, face down on the steps, your pretty neck broken and your brain trailing out of your skull like cords . . . but - dancer that you were - you twirled and fell mostly on your hands. Death slunk away, the blood on your hands not enough for even a prime time special. Do you not know? Having cheated death, you are now detached from life.
About 6,500 miles away in the desert a television news reporter was left alone in that whole wild country to tell the world in pictures the story of the slaughter. He came upon a man, face-down in the dust, his entrails trailing away in twisting cords . . .
The thing lay like a cadaver face-down on the sidewalk. So I could not see its telltale blank expression to know that it was truly dead. But its power cord trailed on the ground, twisted, away from any life-sustaining outlet. I turned and rushed quickly to my apartment, sanctuary from the wind.
Beneath my new bathroom light bulb - a light still emotionally detached - I thought I recognized the face in the mirror. That evening, the Vietnamese lady at the salon had done a good job of restoring my face; time had done the rest. Still, you can never go back, said the face. Indeed, the Vietnamese lady said, "You nose still a little crooked."
But for her that wasn't the point in keeping the beard. She trimmed it and said, "Keep it. It look good." I imagined television stars getting this treatment, complete with shampoo, walking out as new people - whole new personas! - even though one day the television stars would all end up dead with their power cords pulled out.
Ah, but to be truly new - that required a nose job. And as fate would have it, I had one of those waiting for me tomorrow. "Your new nose, sir." said the doctor. Then, just like on TV, there would be an unmasking before a mirror and I would gasp in wide-eyed wonder at the brand-new old me, while in the background there would be some clapping and a couple of nurses laughing, carefree, and -
Wait - in the mirror, I thought I detected a new pattern . . . that face, eyes blank, said, "You cheated death." You should have laid there, face down on the steps, your pretty neck broken and your brain trailing out of your skull like cords . . . but - dancer that you were - you twirled and fell mostly on your hands. Death slunk away, the blood on your hands not enough for even a prime time special. Do you not know? Having cheated death, you are now detached from life.
About 6,500 miles away in the desert a television news reporter was left alone in that whole wild country to tell the world in pictures the story of the slaughter. He came upon a man, face-down in the dust, his entrails trailing away in twisting cords . . .
Chapter 14
(Two weeks ago, translated from the Spanish)
"Don't worry, mother. I'll be fine. Fine, fine, fine. Well, my right wrist was sprained and my left hand, the tissue there was damaged; it was swollen. And my nose was broken. And my head was cut. But that stopped bleeding."
"No, I don't know who he was. Some nut! He was bothering me. Security put him out. I guess he came back when I was leaving - punched me by surprise. I didn't see him until he was there. The punch wasn't bad; it was falling down the stairs, that was bad."
"I think he was caught. That's what one of the security guys said. But then he escaped. I don't know what happened. Yeah, the cops were called but they never showed up. But there's going to be an investigation into how the club handled this mess. They all locked their doors and disappeared. I was left outside in the cold holding my head and my nose - both bleeding. That's not how this kind of situation is handled."
"No, I'm not going to work tomorrow; it's my day off. I'm on my way to I___'s house now. A friend is taking me there. I___ will cook for me. I'll get to spend a day out there away from everything. Although with I___'s new baby, I guess it won't be all that quiet . . . "
(Tonight, translated from the Spanish)
"Tomorrow is the surgery. Yes, that soon. I have to hurry up and wash some clothes because I don't have any to wear. So I can't talk long. "
"No, I'm not staying overnight. I got someone to pick me up and take me home. Then another friend is coming to stay the night. The doctor said someone should watch me overnight."
"Well, what can I do? I have to go on. This is nothing compared to operations that other people get. I'll try to call tomorrow if the anesthesia doesn't have me too sleepy. Good night, Mother."
"Don't worry, mother. I'll be fine. Fine, fine, fine. Well, my right wrist was sprained and my left hand, the tissue there was damaged; it was swollen. And my nose was broken. And my head was cut. But that stopped bleeding."
"No, I don't know who he was. Some nut! He was bothering me. Security put him out. I guess he came back when I was leaving - punched me by surprise. I didn't see him until he was there. The punch wasn't bad; it was falling down the stairs, that was bad."
"I think he was caught. That's what one of the security guys said. But then he escaped. I don't know what happened. Yeah, the cops were called but they never showed up. But there's going to be an investigation into how the club handled this mess. They all locked their doors and disappeared. I was left outside in the cold holding my head and my nose - both bleeding. That's not how this kind of situation is handled."
"No, I'm not going to work tomorrow; it's my day off. I'm on my way to I___'s house now. A friend is taking me there. I___ will cook for me. I'll get to spend a day out there away from everything. Although with I___'s new baby, I guess it won't be all that quiet . . . "
(Tonight, translated from the Spanish)
"Tomorrow is the surgery. Yes, that soon. I have to hurry up and wash some clothes because I don't have any to wear. So I can't talk long. "
"No, I'm not staying overnight. I got someone to pick me up and take me home. Then another friend is coming to stay the night. The doctor said someone should watch me overnight."
"Well, what can I do? I have to go on. This is nothing compared to operations that other people get. I'll try to call tomorrow if the anesthesia doesn't have me too sleepy. Good night, Mother."
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