On his way out the door the attorney signs off on all the documents. He’s got a 4:30 tee time at Broadmoor and he’s running late. As soon as he gets the pen in his hand, his secretary calls the messenger company. “it’s on the copier” she says, but it’ll be “ready in 2 minutes” and she’ll have a King County filing with copies for the judge, as well as copies to opposing counsel at four different addresses downtown. As soon as she hangs up the phone the dispatcher chirps me and unloads it all onto my plate. I hop on my bike and ride towards Two Union to pick all that shit up. Yeah whatever. Soon I’m on 7th Avenue crossing Union heading for the tunnel when the attorney in his Porsche Cayenne, comes flying out of the parking garage below and squeals into a left turn onto Union. At the very last second he sees me and slams on his brakes. He scowls at me as hard as he can from his expensive shell. But by that time I’m already passing him on his right, anticipating his move, assuming my invisibility. I make eye contact with him, smile and just shake my head, because I know how close he came to hitting me, I know he’s an asshole, but I also know he might be one of our clients. Seattle is a small town. The attorney is absorbed in his little bullshit world, aren’t we all, but he is so nearsighted in his nearsightedness, he’s oblivious to the fact that I am going to pick up his very important legal documents and I am going to file them with the court and get to all four opposing counsel offices in the next 20 minutes, before he even gets his golf shoes on and steps up to the first tee.
I might like you better if we slept together
I might like you better if you drove a Cayenne instead of that janky old bicycle
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