Desperation

A combination time piece and short story

It was a Tuesday and I was tired. Not the kind of tired where it's two in the morning and restlessness has set in while your mind continues to crank away about trivial things. 

Like that tuna salad I ate when I got home yesterday really could have used a little bit of garlic. Garlic is the kind of thing you can toss on top of an otherwise ordinary dish and make you feel like you've thrown together the latest culinary masterpiece. It's definitely critical to have when the only thing left in the kitchen is three English muffins from two weeks ago, assorted condiments, and a can of tomato soup. Garlic salt can work fine as an alternative to garlic but if you have good garlic why not use it I always say.

Anyways, it was that kind of tired that happens in the middle of the afternoon after a particularly large and lavish lunch. It always seems to happen after going to that Thai place down the street. They package themselves as the ultimate Asian dining experience but who really knows the actual origin of that kind of food in the middle of North Carolina? I never really thought that sushi was a mainstay of Thai food but I trust the waitresses from Sri Lanka to provide quality service. 

The dynamo roll lunch special was the food of choice which precluded the emergence of this overbearing wave of fatigue. 

Half awake and half asleep, nearly completely attuned to every minute detail going on around you which might potentially stir you from this semi-conscious state. The lightest noise jerks you back into reality and you can almost convince yourself that you didn't miss anything while you were dozing off. It's these times which I personally find quintessential to sorting out the truly important things in life. The irony of having epiphanies regarding your future while you can't even consciously keep yourself awake is certainly a topic worth exploring by psychologists, but is not necessarily pertinent to the facts of this day.

This Tuesday was not a particularly important Tuesday. It began just like any other day: blaring alarm, cup of coffee, attempt at the crossword, half-a*s effort to move towards the shower to avoid being late for work. Truly we're lucky that the monotony of life hasn't killed us all yet; though I have an idea that at the end of the day time will probably win out in the battle of wills against human life. One of my teachers in high school always told me we'd all die. I suspect she's right. 

"The jury has reached a decision" finally did the job to stir me from my slight slumber where I had gotten relatively comfortable against the hard pews within the courtroom. This particular courtroom was far more expansive than needed and was unlikely to ever host the type of trial which the architects undoubtedly envisioned while laying the foundation for the room. It is slightly curious to me why church and courtrooms both have such uncomfortable seating. I reckon it's so that no one ever spends more time than is required in either venue while serving as a subtle reminder of the similarities between the room of God and the room of Justice. I also wonder if there's much of a difference between the two. The right-wingers who are in church every Sunday are equally as likely to find themselves in a courtroom once or twice in their lives despite their holy living and probably find at least some familiar consolation in the fact that each room boasts the same hard, uncomfortable features. Despite these completely engaging thoughts it's doubtful that the architectural design of either the local courtroom or the local church had much relevance as far as the decision the jury had finally reached even though I really truly would have liked those two to be intertwined. 

The boxes which had been stored in the back corner of the courtroom could finally be taken home. The lawyers who had spent days which became months which became years over the tiniest details of a random bank account based out of the Cayman Islands could finally go home to their pretty wives and their perfectly innocent children. It didn't really matter one way or the other what the verdict was in the case for most of the parties involved, despite the fact that these people were most likely the only ones who really even cared what the jury had to say. These cases are always bloated beyond the actual evidence. The occasional newspaper account might try to tell people how horrific a crime is, but seriously, who really cares? If it's not you, it's not you. 

"Have you reached a verdict?"

"Yes"

"You may read the decision"

"Issue One: Guilty. Issue Two: Guilty. Issue Three: Not Guilty"

"Thank you for your service, you may all exit the courtroom"

People like to act shocked when the outcome of a trial comes out but I never understood why. There are only three options: guilty, not guilty, your honor we're too tired to try and figure this case out because juror number three wants to show us all he's not just a cog in the civic machine. It's basically a game of Russian roulette, an exercise of intellectual masturbation. Some people gamble, some people bet the horses, some people try cases. Politics come into play sometimes, which I've heard can be quite the rush, but at the end of the day it all boils down to wanting to be able to look at ourselves in the mirror and say "well you've made something of yourself old boy". We all like competition no matter what kind it is. The only thing that matters in our compartmentalized little worlds is that there are winners and there are losers. However we can rationalize the game to say we came out on top is the way we all view things. No one ever thinks they're unfair, no one ever thinks they're losers, and unfortunately everyone thinks they're the smartest person in the room no matter what actual intellectual skill set they're working with. It's both a misfortune and a blessing. Who would ever want to spend a substantial amount of time with people who thought they were the scum of the earth? It's exhausting to co-exist with the self-loathing. But by the same token if you've ever spent more than five minutes in a conversation with one of those people who thinks that they're God's gift to earth, you know that you would rather be one of the lucky ones who finds themselves on a deserted island in the South Pacific following a plane crash than live in "high society".

With the guilty verdicts on two of three counts it turned out that one excessively rich white guy had to pay three only slightly less excessively rich white guys some money. I try not to get too invested in these type cases because they mainly just stir me from my afternoon comatose state. I always did prefer the theoretical application of the law and government more than I actually enjoyed getting bloody in the trenches where I had to find out that the actual application of the jury instruction sheet isn't that exciting. 

This particular Tuesday though was different from other days. As the defendant turned to leave the courtroom after thanking his handsomely paid lawyers who contributed to his loss of over four million dollars, he caught me gazing at him as I attempted to dissect exactly what was going through his head. And for that one moment where we locked eyes, I understood it. It seemed that everything else just faded away. The dynamite rolls were no longer important. For this one fleeting moment, I got it. Whatever it was. It is difficult to pinpoint or describe in hindsight. This was a visceral reaction and appeal to human emotion. For whatever reason I felt what this man was going through. Take away the extenuating circumstances: the million dollar beach house, the blonde wife, the Ferrari Enzo parked in the garage across the street where the guy at the parking stand who validates your ticket tells you how bitchin' your red piece of metal is, and you have a guy who just lost. It doesn't matter how many times in his life he has won. It doesn't matter how great he was in college, how much money he made, how important the business contacts were he met in Shanghai; all that mattered in this moment was that he lost. And this guy felt it. I felt it. I don't know why this moment was any different than any other, and maybe it wasn't. The moment could not have lasted more than a second, but in that second I understood what it was to feel self-loathing, to be disappointed, to be ashamed without knowing this man at all. This moment touched me deeply. 

As he turned to open the door and leave, everything returned to normal. I realized it was hot in the room. I realized that I was ready to go home, take my tie off, figure out if I had eaten the rest of the garlic, and grab a Budweiser out of the fridge. Why did this matter? It certainly seemed to be such a pressing matter to me, as if the very fate of the human race hinged upon my ability to rush home and get a swig of beer while I relaxed. And maybe it did for my sake, but it was an interesting juxtaposition feeling excited about beer and my own trivialities having just experienced a moment of the most basic human condition: desperation. 

It was even hotter outside as I crossed the street to get back to my own car, parked in the same garage as the Enzo, parked in the same garage where thousands of people enter hoping that their case gets continued or that their lawyer plays golf with the judge sitting on the bench in Courtroom 1A so they can get their case disposed. When I got to the car I decided that I didn't really need that Budweiser after all, what I needed was an extra dry martini with those blue cheese olives you can get at the end of the aisle at the grocery store. Now that would hit the spot.