arresting officer.”
“ What ?”
“Constitutional whupp-ass! You say, ‘My client’s rights have been violated!’ You say, ‘My client committed no illegal acts that raised probable cause that he should have been pulled over in the first place!’ You say, ‘You are trampling on the rights guaranteed by the United States Constitution! This is a clear-cut case of illegal search and seizure. What’s next? Police entering private homes randomly, without search warrants, in the hopes of finding evidence of crimes? What is this, the old Soviet Union? Are we now living in a martial state? ’”
I’m out of breath and Steve’s stunned.
“Really?” he says. “I say all that?”
“Well, hopefully you say it better, since you are the attorney. But basically? Yeah.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he says.
“You mean my argument’s that off-base?”
“No, it’s that on -base. That’s the thing – how could I have missed that?”
“Welllll…”
“Well, what?”
I don’t know how to say the following because: 1) it’s a hard thing to say to someone you barely know and 2) I don’t want to lose this job, but…
“The drinking,” I say.
Steve raises his eyebrows at me.
“I’m not saying you have to give it up entirely,” I continue before I lose my nerve. “But, you know, maybe cut back a bit? And maybe not every night?”
I don’t know what he’s going to do. Hit me? Fire me? But then his eyes mist over.
“You’re absolutely right, Johnny. No one else has had the guts to say that to me, but you’re absolutely right.”
Geez, I hope he doesn’t hug me right now. He’s probably got booze coming out of his pores from the night before.
But no, he doesn’t try to hug me. Instead, he does the guy thing. He clears his throat loud, pushing the emotion away.
“So, about those Opening Day tickets. I know it’s just the Yankees and not the Mets, but they really are amazing seats. They’re those ones right behind home plate.”
“You mean the ones that go for something like eight hundred dollars per seat per game?”
He nods.
“I’ve read about those things. Those really are some great seats.”
“Well?”
“I don’t know. I get kind of busy come April.”
“But it’s for Opening Day.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll think about it.” What I’m really thinking is: Do I really want to go to a game with Steve Miller? I mean, sure I’d love to sit in those seats, even to see the Yankees, but what the hell would we talk about all night? It’s not like we’ve got anything in common.
“Good enough,” he says. “I’ve got your card. I’ll give you a ring when it gets closer to Opening Day.”
* * *
“So, what was that snort about?” I finally ask when Sam and I break for lunch a few hours later.
“It’s just: Only you, Johnny.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Do you think Steve Miller asks everyone who does work on his house to go to the ballpark with him? You think he asks the maid to go to the opera? You’re painting that guy’s living room. You’re doing blue-collar work for a white-collar guy and he’s all, ‘Ooh, Johnny, will you be my best friend?’”
“He didn’t ask me to be his best friend,” I scoff.
But she ignores my scoffing, instead going on with, “ ‘Will you go to Opening Day with me?’ I swear, if the guy wasn’t already married, he’d be asking you to be his Best Man.”
“Ohhhh, go listen to Allison Iraheta.”
Men at Din-Din
A month after Billy and Alice’s wedding, it’s a fairly seasonable March evening and it finds me standing package in hand outside the door of their new house.
The call came from Billy three days earlier.
“Alice and me’d like you to be our first dinner guest,” he said.
“Really? Both of you?”
“Well…”
“Wait a second. You sure Alice wants me there too or was this just your idea?”
“Well, when I suggested it, she didn’t exactly say no way or threaten to
“ What ?”
“Constitutional whupp-ass! You say, ‘My client’s rights have been violated!’ You say, ‘My client committed no illegal acts that raised probable cause that he should have been pulled over in the first place!’ You say, ‘You are trampling on the rights guaranteed by the United States Constitution! This is a clear-cut case of illegal search and seizure. What’s next? Police entering private homes randomly, without search warrants, in the hopes of finding evidence of crimes? What is this, the old Soviet Union? Are we now living in a martial state? ’”
I’m out of breath and Steve’s stunned.
“Really?” he says. “I say all that?”
“Well, hopefully you say it better, since you are the attorney. But basically? Yeah.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he says.
“You mean my argument’s that off-base?”
“No, it’s that on -base. That’s the thing – how could I have missed that?”
“Welllll…”
“Well, what?”
I don’t know how to say the following because: 1) it’s a hard thing to say to someone you barely know and 2) I don’t want to lose this job, but…
“The drinking,” I say.
Steve raises his eyebrows at me.
“I’m not saying you have to give it up entirely,” I continue before I lose my nerve. “But, you know, maybe cut back a bit? And maybe not every night?”
I don’t know what he’s going to do. Hit me? Fire me? But then his eyes mist over.
“You’re absolutely right, Johnny. No one else has had the guts to say that to me, but you’re absolutely right.”
Geez, I hope he doesn’t hug me right now. He’s probably got booze coming out of his pores from the night before.
But no, he doesn’t try to hug me. Instead, he does the guy thing. He clears his throat loud, pushing the emotion away.
“So, about those Opening Day tickets. I know it’s just the Yankees and not the Mets, but they really are amazing seats. They’re those ones right behind home plate.”
“You mean the ones that go for something like eight hundred dollars per seat per game?”
He nods.
“I’ve read about those things. Those really are some great seats.”
“Well?”
“I don’t know. I get kind of busy come April.”
“But it’s for Opening Day.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll think about it.” What I’m really thinking is: Do I really want to go to a game with Steve Miller? I mean, sure I’d love to sit in those seats, even to see the Yankees, but what the hell would we talk about all night? It’s not like we’ve got anything in common.
“Good enough,” he says. “I’ve got your card. I’ll give you a ring when it gets closer to Opening Day.”
* * *
“So, what was that snort about?” I finally ask when Sam and I break for lunch a few hours later.
“It’s just: Only you, Johnny.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Do you think Steve Miller asks everyone who does work on his house to go to the ballpark with him? You think he asks the maid to go to the opera? You’re painting that guy’s living room. You’re doing blue-collar work for a white-collar guy and he’s all, ‘Ooh, Johnny, will you be my best friend?’”
“He didn’t ask me to be his best friend,” I scoff.
But she ignores my scoffing, instead going on with, “ ‘Will you go to Opening Day with me?’ I swear, if the guy wasn’t already married, he’d be asking you to be his Best Man.”
“Ohhhh, go listen to Allison Iraheta.”
Men at Din-Din
A month after Billy and Alice’s wedding, it’s a fairly seasonable March evening and it finds me standing package in hand outside the door of their new house.
The call came from Billy three days earlier.
“Alice and me’d like you to be our first dinner guest,” he said.
“Really? Both of you?”
“Well…”
“Wait a second. You sure Alice wants me there too or was this just your idea?”
“Well, when I suggested it, she didn’t exactly say no way or threaten to
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