clothing.
“Oh my God,” she says, staring at Otis, “that dog is so cute. Can I pet him?”
“Sure.” She reaches in, slightly bending, and scratches under his chin. Her tank top floats down and open, so now the ancient question arises. When a girl wears an inviting shirt that showcases her gifts,early in the season while a nip is still in the air, put on no doubt to attract the attention of her male counterparts—pork bait—am I supposed to look?
“What happened to him?” she asks, focused on Otis.
“Cut his paw, stitches,” I answer, noting a pile of résumés jutting out from under the cover of her law book. “What year are you in?”
“Second,” she says, without looking over.
“I went to BLS,” I offer, trying to connect.
“Really? What kind of law do you practice?” She still hasn’t looked away from my dog, scratching him intensely, arm back and forth causing things to jiggle, wiggle, joggle.
Before I get a chance to answer, some guy on the sidewalk yells out, “Cool car,” giving me the thumbs-up. I say, “Thanks,” then turn back to my intern candidate.
“Personal injury and medical malpractice, specializing in HIC cases.”
“That’s interesting,” she answers, now working his neck.
“And I happen to be interviewing law students for a summer position.” I thought that would induce her, but no dice. Given her reluctance to look at me, I feel it’s safe to sneak a peek from the perfect angle she has provided. I almost feel like it’s my duty as a man to check out the goods, so I do. Ah yes, they are lovely. I look up after a quick glance and finally we are eye to eye. She smiles. I smile back. She has beautiful, expressive green eyes and I can tell she’s about to express herself.
“Asshole!”
“No, I just glanced for a—”
“You were peeping the whole time!”
“No, not the whole time, just—”
“Uh!” She storms away, back to her friends.
Well, that answers that ancient question. You’d think, being a law student, she would’ve asked me what an HIC case was, anyway. The follow-up questions are the most important ones. I can’t have someone like that working for me.
The rest of my journey, left on Atlantic Avenue, onto Flatbush, thentaking side streets to my destination near Prospect Park, went without a hitch. Tallying the number of thumbs-ups the Eldo gets has become sort of a counting game for the kids and me. Eleven is the total for this trip, a big number, all since coming off the bridge. Brooklynites possess a certain spirit of understanding for this old relic, something most of my neighbors up in Westchester just don’t get.
I noted that the defendant, Brooklyn Catholic Hospital, the institution sued in Suzy’s case, is just three blocks away from my expert’s medical building. I find this fact curious.
I park in the lot underneath the medical building and take out from my bag the black marker I’d grabbed from my drawer with the cigars. “Hold still, Otis!” I plead as I write on the funnel in capital block letters, SEEING-EYE DOG IN TRAINING . I walk up to street level, and in the front door of the Smith Pavilion, with Otis on a short leash, instructor-style. Three steps in I see a security-type guy twenty feet away and closing in.
“Sit,” I direct, and Otis complies. “Good boy,” I say, pretending to give him a treat, creating the illusion of positive reinforcement.
I look up and see the guy is ten feet away.
“Come!” I order, and walk away from him. “Heel!” I command in a loud voice in an effort to further perpetuate my charade.
“Hold on there!” demands the guard.
“Otis, sit! Good boy,” I say as Otis complies. “Yes, sir?”
“You can’t bring that dog in here,” he states smugly, apparently convinced of his authority.
“Sure I can. It’s part of his training.”
“I can read what you wrote on that plastic thing, but you’re not fooling me. Besides, you left out the DO NOT PET part. I’ll need to
“Oh my God,” she says, staring at Otis, “that dog is so cute. Can I pet him?”
“Sure.” She reaches in, slightly bending, and scratches under his chin. Her tank top floats down and open, so now the ancient question arises. When a girl wears an inviting shirt that showcases her gifts,early in the season while a nip is still in the air, put on no doubt to attract the attention of her male counterparts—pork bait—am I supposed to look?
“What happened to him?” she asks, focused on Otis.
“Cut his paw, stitches,” I answer, noting a pile of résumés jutting out from under the cover of her law book. “What year are you in?”
“Second,” she says, without looking over.
“I went to BLS,” I offer, trying to connect.
“Really? What kind of law do you practice?” She still hasn’t looked away from my dog, scratching him intensely, arm back and forth causing things to jiggle, wiggle, joggle.
Before I get a chance to answer, some guy on the sidewalk yells out, “Cool car,” giving me the thumbs-up. I say, “Thanks,” then turn back to my intern candidate.
“Personal injury and medical malpractice, specializing in HIC cases.”
“That’s interesting,” she answers, now working his neck.
“And I happen to be interviewing law students for a summer position.” I thought that would induce her, but no dice. Given her reluctance to look at me, I feel it’s safe to sneak a peek from the perfect angle she has provided. I almost feel like it’s my duty as a man to check out the goods, so I do. Ah yes, they are lovely. I look up after a quick glance and finally we are eye to eye. She smiles. I smile back. She has beautiful, expressive green eyes and I can tell she’s about to express herself.
“Asshole!”
“No, I just glanced for a—”
“You were peeping the whole time!”
“No, not the whole time, just—”
“Uh!” She storms away, back to her friends.
Well, that answers that ancient question. You’d think, being a law student, she would’ve asked me what an HIC case was, anyway. The follow-up questions are the most important ones. I can’t have someone like that working for me.
The rest of my journey, left on Atlantic Avenue, onto Flatbush, thentaking side streets to my destination near Prospect Park, went without a hitch. Tallying the number of thumbs-ups the Eldo gets has become sort of a counting game for the kids and me. Eleven is the total for this trip, a big number, all since coming off the bridge. Brooklynites possess a certain spirit of understanding for this old relic, something most of my neighbors up in Westchester just don’t get.
I noted that the defendant, Brooklyn Catholic Hospital, the institution sued in Suzy’s case, is just three blocks away from my expert’s medical building. I find this fact curious.
I park in the lot underneath the medical building and take out from my bag the black marker I’d grabbed from my drawer with the cigars. “Hold still, Otis!” I plead as I write on the funnel in capital block letters, SEEING-EYE DOG IN TRAINING . I walk up to street level, and in the front door of the Smith Pavilion, with Otis on a short leash, instructor-style. Three steps in I see a security-type guy twenty feet away and closing in.
“Sit,” I direct, and Otis complies. “Good boy,” I say, pretending to give him a treat, creating the illusion of positive reinforcement.
I look up and see the guy is ten feet away.
“Come!” I order, and walk away from him. “Heel!” I command in a loud voice in an effort to further perpetuate my charade.
“Hold on there!” demands the guard.
“Otis, sit! Good boy,” I say as Otis complies. “Yes, sir?”
“You can’t bring that dog in here,” he states smugly, apparently convinced of his authority.
“Sure I can. It’s part of his training.”
“I can read what you wrote on that plastic thing, but you’re not fooling me. Besides, you left out the DO NOT PET part. I’ll need to
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