Dispatched a rush to a courtroom on the 8th floor at King County. Trial in session. Attorney needs these documents NOW! The special instructions on the messenger slip read: “Attorney is a white male wearing a dark suit. You’ll see him. He’s waiting for these, it’s urgent.” Shit. We’re in Seattle in the courthouse, how many white guys in dark suits could there be? 30? 50? 150? Oh and it’s urgent. Oh, OK.
I am messenger, hear me roar.
Whatever. King County Courthouse, here I come, for the 217 billionth time.
As I stroll up to E-842, I turn my Nextel down to vibrate and take off my hat, but I don’t touch my cell phone because nobody ever calls me. I pull open the door like I know what I’m doing and enter the courtroom. Several heads turn, the bailiff glares at me as I scan the room for
my white guy in dark suit. Not just any white guy, but the one that really really really needs this shit in my hand. No words are spoken but some serious body language is exchanged in those 14 seconds. There he is. Here you go. Here I go…but just then my phone
rings it’s 87 calling and it’s loud and it’s the Commodores “Easy” The judge stops proceedings and points at me. She winks, she smiles, she nods her head and sings along with my man Lionel Ritchie.
I wink back, and say “hey Your Honor, you have a great weekend”
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What if you work for a small legal messenger company and you are expected to standby “uptown” which means City Center. Because that’s where everyone else stands by, that’s where a very big client is and that’s one building the drivers know how to find. And during slow times you read books, magazines, newspapers, conspiracy theories and zines while sitting on various benches and in various chairs in the lobby, especially when it’s 37 degrees outside. OK that’s cool, warm and dry and well read. It’s the same on the weekends as the rest of the days. But what if around 3:00pm Mr. Poopy pants strolls in and sets up camp in a chair upstairs. What if he smells as if he shit his pants last month and has been riding it out since, and not just riding it out, but adding to it. What if he has no plans to leave the building because it’s warm and dry in there. What if building security is a bunch of minor league rent-a-cops that couldn’t get piece of gum unstuck from a greased slab of wax paper. What if they’re all so clueless, that they think it’s a plumbing problem. What if it soon smells so bad in the building that you cannot breathe. What if you look around and it seems that no one else is experiencing the traumatic aroma. What if you’re forced to exit and standby in another building. What if I'm not making this up?
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Humans with healthy “normal” eyesight can experience a field of vision spanning over 180 degrees. Clearly focused in the center of the field of vision with diminishing quality at the periphery. You know how it is, rods and cones and the whatnot. You cannot really see clear detailed images off to the side of your head while you look forward and focus on some detail, but you sure can sense movement and light and general dynamic shifts. You can catch the drift, if you catch my drift. However, take a government worker, put her behind a desk, behind bullet proof glass and give her a computer and you can toss all that vision stuff in the trash. This woman in the Federal Building has 8 hours of workday to kill. She’s not updating her Myspace page, she’s not looking at amateur porn, she’s not studying for the LSAT, she’s not doing government work, she’s playing solitaire. And when I approach the window, I can see the side of her head, I can even see her right eye. But apparently she can’t see me. I could watch her finish this game and the next one, and the next one too if I had a chair to sit in. I scratch myself as loud as possible, I jingle my keys, I key up the Nextel, then finally I put my face up to the little vent in the bullet proof glass and say “excuse me”.
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