I have a story, and like all good stories, this one was told to me by someone else. I heard it at a bar on the outskirts of town–well not really in a bar, but more like pub, or maybe it’s best described as an imaginary tavern on the outskirts of reality, and it wasn’t really someone else who told it to me, it was just the story I heard in my head, on the outskirts of reality, in an imaginary tavern.
Let me set the scene.
It was a hot, humid day, and I walked in with a thirst. The kind of thirst that requires a certain type of libation, one that not only hits both a parched mouth but also a depleted soul. Although the day was bright with a relentless sun, I felt the gloom of an uncertain world hanging over me. It felt like things were bleak, artless, pointless. I needed something to restore me, to buoy me, to sustain me. I know that is a lot to ask of a single drink, but that’s the type of thing you can get in an imaginary bar on the outskirts of reality.
I bellied up to the bar and waved down the barman. I’m never sure how eager I should look and how much emphasis I should put into the wave. I knew I didn’t want to act like I was hailing a cab or swatting away some gnat nor did I want to get too cool and subtle because I did want to convey the depth and urgency of my thirst.
I settled on a two-finger move, one that looked a little like I was conducting a jazz band or testing the mobility of my wrist. As soon as I made the move, it felt like too much, and I may have winced a little. But it worked, and the barkeep gracefully sauntered down the bar to where I was sitting, sized me up and asked in a voice that I can only describe as a bad Benoit Blanc impression–syrupy sweet but with a touch of affectation, “What can I get you, my friend? You look a little nonplussed.”
I wasn’t sure. Maybe the voice threw me. Maybe it was my state of mind with the deep thirst and the parched soul. But I looked at him and thought this is a man who has spent the better part of his life making drinks and listening to sob stories from sad sacks–he’ll know.
I told him, bartender’s choice.
He hesitated for a moment, and I thought he was going to walk away,maybe in disgust, but perhaps I was reading into things too much.
Then he said,
“Ah, bartender’s choice? That is a bold move. I’m going to recommend the TLC, a concoction with a deep mahogany appearance of the most exclusive law club. Like all good drinks, it comes with a story. I’ve discovered that some things can only be expressed in certain ways.”
It seemed like a good combination: a drink and a story. I was hopeful this two-pronged attack would cure what ailed me.
He started to work his bartender magic. He made a series of moves that were extremely efficient, but with enough flair to let you know he was a professional.
You’re a pro, I told him, and immediately regretted the comment.
He responded:
“Well, that’s the story. You see, I’ve not always been a bartender, you see, although it looks like this is my natural habitat. You see, before I was delivering tasty concoctions here at this establishment, I was Frank W. Harrison, Esquire. I defended some of the most abused and maligned defendants that this state has seen over the past 25 years. Not all of them were innocent, but all of them deserved a vigorous defence. And I must admit, I won more than I lost.”
I told him, he had a way with words, and I could see how he would have been a successful attorney.
“Thank you, my friend. I do enjoy the way words can be mixed together in a cocktail of meaning and sounds. That I do.”
How did he end up here at the bar rather than being a member of the bar, I said. I was proud of that pun.
“A very fine question. And a clever play on words. Well done.
“You see, I was knee-deep in a particularly challenging case: a young woman wrongfully accused of bludgeoning her jealous husband and throwing his body out the window, and I could tell the jury was on the fence, so I knew I had to reach them. I had to pull out all of the stops in my closing statement.”
He paused for a moment and started to pour some cassis into a mixing glass filled with ice. As he twirled around the drink, it was like he was rewinding time and found himself back in the courtroom. He began to speak in the rhythm that only happens in flashbacks:
“I began my closing argument with an appeal to the jury, nothing fancy there. I said, Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Before I let you return to the jury room to deliberate, I want to remind you of the high stakes in front of you today. My client’s life, her future, and her children’s futures are in your hands. If you rush to judgment too quickly, or are inappropriately swayed by the fallacious arguments of my opposing counsel, you will be making a grave mistake. But sometimes in moments like these, we cannot rely merely on words, for words can be manipulated or twisted. Words can generate a certain feeling that obscures their meanings. For example, think of the word “pulchritude.” You might hear that and think it is some sort of ailment or a nasty disposition. Even when I tell you that it means beauty, you probably still wonder if I’m telling the truth. It isn’t a particularly pretty word. If the State claims that my client’s pulchritude contributed to her husband’s jealousy and ultimate demise, you’re already thinking that she did. She’s so pulchritudinous. Guilty. So, how am I to convince you of her innocence? There are so many ugly words that have been thrown around during this trial. Words like “psychotic,” “bludgeoned,” “rampage,” “defenestration.” I can’t argue with those forceful words by just layering on other words to get you to feel the truth like “possibly psychotic,” “mildly bludgeoned,” “accidental rampage,” or “partial defenestration.” No, you’ve already been tainted by the opposing counsel’s dangerous and reckless rhetoric.”
I looked around the bar and noticed everyone else was absorbed in their own thoughts. Maybe they had already heard this tale before. Or maybe it was a story designed just for me.
He continued: “I could tell they were wavering, hesitating, wondering. That’s when I knew I had to find a way to bypass the word infection they had been poisoned. I needed a way to make them absorb my message without getting hung up on our imperfect language.”
How did you do it? I asked. I must admit I had forgotten all about the drink at this point.
“Well, the only way I know to do that is through dance. So, I delivered the rest of my closing argument in movement.
It was a well-choreographed expose of the fallacious arguments of the prosecutors and stacked deck against my client. It connected with the hearts of the jury, and I could tell that they were moved. And it would have worked if not for the judge and some ugly words thrown around after that: mockery, disrespect, contempt, mistrial, disbarment.
I have learned my lesson. Not everyone appreciates dance. Not everyone sees the majesty and artistry in movement, the poetry of a pose, and the lyricism of a lengthened leg. I now know that there is a time and place for the dance with the divine, and the courtroom might not offer that opportunity. We all have much to learn in our journey around the sun.”
He poured out the drink into a glass and pushed it over to me.
“And there you are, my friend. The TLC–because we all could use a little tenderness.”
I took a sip of that drink, and while it wasn’t the best tasting cocktail I ever had, it did seem to pair well with a long meandering tale that quenched my thirst.
He turned away and started back down the bar. Over his shoulder he said,
“There may be a time and a place where dance is not appropriate, but I haven’t found it yet”