SATURDAY NITE SPECIAL

     It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve and I'd been snorting lines of crushed Oxycontin most of the day trying not to think about tomorrow without Michelle.  Usually I'd scarf up two at a time.  I had several important cases on for trial after the first of the year.  These clients still owed me money.  I set up the meetings today knowing they'd pay cash.  I figured I'd start Christmas shopping on the way home.

     Wiping then licking my index finger clean I stashed the mirror in my top draw and stepped to the window.  Across the street I saw my next client exiting Bank of America.  He slipped and almost fell climbing over a mound of snow.  After making it midway into Merrimack Street he looked up, saw me and waved.  He was an alcoholic.

     A few minutes later I greeted him at the door and led him to my front office.  Once we'd taken our seats on either side of the desk he handed me a bank envelope marked "$7,500.00."   It was stuffed to capacity with stiff twenties. This payment represented the rest of the flat fee owed on his case.  Opening my draw I placed it on the mirror.  I'd count it when he left.  Up to now there wasn't anything remarkable which would've caused me to remember this day, but that would change.

     "The kids look terrific,” my client commented towards the picture of Kyera holding baby Anthony hanging on the wall to his left.  "How are they?"  What he meant was how are they doing now that they're mother is dead?"  "Good.  My family is an enormous help, this picture is from last year; here's the most recent."  I said before turning the 8 x 10 frame 180 degrees; " Wow, they're getting big,” he responded before lowering his gaze to the inscription and mouthing the words:  "Worlds Best Daddy."  

     I figured the picture was going to be a present from the kids.  I don't know when she had time to dress them up and sneak them to the mall to have it taken.  My sister Lisa found it hidden under a sweater when she was cleaning out Michelle's side of the closet.  I still can't believe she left us on Father's Day.

     "God bless them... well the office came out beautiful,” was the awkward segue my client made while turning in his seat to scan the room.  I'd forgotten the last time he was here Michelle was in the midst of decorating.  "Yes, it did,” I replied.  Then, while he turned back, I noticed him linger a millisecond on the bar.  Offering him a drink entered my mind then quickly exited.  His case was a hair from being a vehicular homicide where the young couple in the other car ended up in intensive care.  A "No Vacancy" sign flashed over my conscience;  the last thing this fucking guy needs is a drink.  From the faint odor of stale hops floating my way I felt safe to conclude he'd started priming long before our meeting.

    For the next hour we conducted a comprehensive review of his case and set a time to meet with his witnesses before trial.   Then he departed, but not before gazing over at the bar once again.  This time I ignored his silent plea.  I knew exactly how he felt.  It was my turn to prime.

     After licking away the green time-release coating I dried the now white pill with my shirt and began sifting it back and forth into a fine powder between my thumb and a screen tea bag strainer.  This was the method of pulverization I preferred.  Feeling pressured by the time I pulled out my ID and stretched the pile into one long line.  Then with a snipped plastic straw I blasted half up each nostril.  Sinking back in my leather chair I tilted my head waiting for the drug to drip... and take hold.  Picking up the envelope from my open draw I flipped through the $7, 500.00 and thought:  The next client will arrive any minute with his father, and an additional $25K.

     I'd counted half way through the stack when a knock came up front.  Putting back the cash I hurried out to the reception area, turned the deadbolt and pulled open the door.  Catching me off guard was a man who extended his hand introducing himself as John Sullivan.  "I hope this isn't a bad time," he began,  "I have a criminal case and I'd like to hire you."   His eyes searched behind me while he spoke, and if it weren't for the bank envelope he carried I would have shut the door in his face.  " Come in,” I said while turning to let him pass and the front door swing shut. "What are you charged with?"   " It's my second OUI."  Standing face to face between the coffee table lined with magazines and my secretary's desk piled with files I gave John the once over, and was surprised it was only his second.

     I put him somewhere around fifty; slim, balding with a ruddy complexion. His navy blue parka, Levis, and Converse were worn but clean and still John looked skeevy; a result made inescapable by a mishmash of jagged teeth and bleeding gums.  My sixty-second conclusion was that at some point in the last twenty-four hours John had consumed alcohol, crack cocaine or meth, heroin and possibly all of the above.  I was on the verge of shoving him back out the door when my eyes were drawn to the white, red and blue in his hand.

     "If it's in Lowell District I’ll need  $2,500.00 before I can file an appearance."  Breaking into a vulgar grin: "Will a thousand get us started?" John said while raising the Bank of America envelope.  Unable to repress a smile of my own I gestured, waving him in ahead of me.

     John Sullivan looked familiar to me; perhaps I'd seen him around town or in the courthouse.  Who knows I probably prosecuted him back when I was in the DA's office.  Rounding my desk I took my seat.  On the other side John remained standing.  Before I could offer him a chair he reached into his jacket with the envelope and in one smooth motion drew a revolver to the bridge of my nose: "Give me the fucking money!  All of it! Right now!"

     My jaw dropped open as fast as my heart hit my stomach, then I closed it to force back the vomit.  Unable to squeeze out a word I must have looked ridiculous with hands raised shaking my head like I had no idea what he was talking about.

     "Cut the shit!  I was behind a guy at the bank who took out seven and a half thousand and came here.  I just watched him leave."

     Until now the onset of the drugs had been delayed.  But suddenly, with John yelling and the barrel five inches from my face, adrenaline dumped in on top of the opiates to create a speedball that would have made John Belushi envious.  My pulse raced; every hair stood on end; completely out of my mind; I was fixated on the revolver.  Not because of the obvious threat it posed to my life but because of its striking resemblance to my father's snub nosed Smith & Wesson .38 Chief's Special.

     "Come on, hurry up!"  Spit flew off John's impatient, cracked lips as the gun shook in his hand - although the barrel was too short to actually waive - I mean the entire firearm was only like six inches long.  I knew it well.  Heavy enough to carry a threat; light enough for a grade-schooler to wield with ease. 

     Growing up there wasn't a square inch of our home I left unexplored.  You'd think all adults would remember their childhood but either they'd forgotten, or delusionally believed they were superior parents raising better, well behaved kids.  Whatever the case, the choice of storing the burner in Dad's top dresser draw with me living under the roof was way-the-fuck-out-there— to say the least.

     Sitting idle in the blue cardboard box it came in; long before the advent of trigger locks; the only precaution was keeping it unloaded.  Alas, with all five bullets resting in the same box, both home protection and safety seemed a bit compromised.

     The second my babysitter put me down for a nap and settled into All My Children I was off.  Dragging Mother's gold vanity chair across my parent’s bedroom I'd climb up to pull open the draw, grab the sidearm, and return everything as it was.  

     Back in my room I'd marvel at the cold steel in my hands.  Pointing it made my little heart race.  Peeking around corners to synchronize my mischief between television commercials was half the fun.  And when the coast was clear, I'd take not only mock target practice but also innocent hostages during bank, armored car and stagecoach heists.

     In first grade I brought a single bullet to school wrapped in a white handkerchief.  At this point I'd found more ammo and a cleaning kit in the closet.  Removing a round from this cache gave me more time to get it back and less chance of being caught. 

    During the summer between first and second grade I began sneaking the banger out to play in the neighborhood.  While other kids were armed with their impotent toy guns I ran around in the clouds, intoxicated by my powerful secret.  

     Once in fifth grade I took the .38 to school to impress Diana Shaw.  All day I carried it in a black dress sock inside my book bag but ended up in after school detention and showed it to no one.  I was better off.  Having it made me way too nervous and Diana ended up making out with me in a secret spot on the pipes behind the stalls in the boy's room anyway... 

     It sounds funny to say but I wasn't careless with the gun.  I never mishandled or dropped it— not even a scratch.  And I returned the weapon safely each and every time.  Hell packing a gat kept me super-alert, taught me responsibility, and no I never carried it around loaded.  Although in the privacy of my room I couldn't resist sliding in those five rounds, giving the cylinder a brisk spin and  sharp cock of my wrist to "snap" it into place.  Or, only when I was absolutely positive it was unloaded, pulling back that hammer, allowing the gun to be dry - fired with the slightest amount of trigger pressure: "click!"

     "What the fuck are you looking at?  Hurry up with the cash!"  John's hysteria brought my current situation crashing back.  But by this point some subliminal quadrant of my brain had concluded he lacked the testicular fortitude to intentionally fire into my face. He had however pulled back the hammer with his thumb and placed his index finger on the trigger. Add his epileptic shaking and my comfort level plummed.  

     "Ok man, take it easy."  Displaying my palms, making no sudden movements:  "I don't know what you think you saw but no one left any money here. If they did you could have it, I don't want any trouble."  The jackhammer in my chest, and the swell of oxy's and adrenaline, carried me to my feet.  "Listen, you’re not going to shoot, we both know that.  Pull the trigger and you'll get nothing.  It's Christmas Eve for chrissakes. The jewelry store downstairs is packed. You'll never make it to the street. But I think I can make this worth your while. Why don't you sell me the gun? "What" "Yeah. It fires doesn't it? And its not registered; not to you anyway?  Right?" 

    The look of disbelief on John's face broadened when I reached in my breast pocket.  "Don't fucking move!  What are you doing?"  He swung his other hand up to the grip and widened his stance to show he meant business.  Ignoring him, I pulled out my wallet and began thumbing through the contents:  " It looks in decent shape, what do you want for it?  A hundred?  One fifty?   I've got eighty here; let me run over to the bank before it closes..."

     You can never count on anyone being on time for an appointment.  Believe me I'm the worst.  But you'd think just once....  Patiently I'd been praying for the knock, and now it finally came during my offer.

     The client was a young kid,  a computer geek who got in over his head dealing weed with the Asians.  His father was a loud Armenian guy.  I knew they would knock and barge in the unlocked door.  "Holy shit there's no where to park!  I had my wife drop us off, I hope you'll validate the ticket for the garage."  

     John, who clearly thought office hours were over, lunged closer almost mounting my desk to stay out of their sight.  "Be right with you!"  I yelled, feeling more fearless. 

      Stuffing the piece in his waistband and bowing his head, John spun off while I hurled myself over the desk in a failed effort to grab his jacket. "Wait I'm serious.  Come back, I want to buy it!"

    I never saw his expression; John moved so fast I barely caught sight of the rest of him.  When I made it out to reception the door was swooshing closed and my client and his Dad wore expressions of extraordinary inconvenience for being so rudely pushed aside. Acting embarrassed, I made my apology and gestured them in for our meeting.  Bending to pick something up: "That mad man dropped this,"  The father said handing me an empty white, red, and blue envelope.  "Why thank you, now come on in."

     On my way home that evening I got all my shopping done, giving the kids a wonderful Christmas from what I was told.  

     After that afternoon my peripheral vision was strained for months, expecting "John" to emerge from the shadows or around a sharp corner seeking retribution.  I'm not sure what he thought about my offer.  The way life turned out all my guns were seized by the authorities and I have been threatened with twenty- five to life if found as a felon in possession.  Had I known this I would have tried harder to catch up with John that afternoon.

     I've often wondered how things would have turned out if I hadn't been so high; convincing myself I handled the situation better since I was.  This way of thinking spread to other area's of my life.  Eventually the kids seemed happy, the cases came back wins, and money piled up so I kept my dopamine receptors full to the point there was no room for doubt, or mourning.  But who was I kidding?  Did being doped up like a friggin elf really make me a better father or more cunning attorney?  Could narcotics create a braver hostage and robbery victim?  Or were John Sullivan and I both addicts completely wasted on the same drug that none of us can kick:  Greed?