Attorney v. Audiologist

The Attorney returns the legal documents to his tan briefcase. He takes out a large, heavy, heavily marked, dog-eared, highly annotated book of law and places it on the table. He closes his briefcase and sets it upright just beneath the table.

The Attorney begins thumbing through the book of law.

The Audiologist hollers from the poplars by the road. The Attorney looks up. He frowns slightly and turns back, continuing his study.

The Audiologist is a stout, sanguine, large-breasted, blond haired woman. She walks with a cane, with a limp, as if gout-ridden (which she is).

Hullo! she hollers again, half-way between her previous position and the oak. This time the Attorney turns and smiles, greeting her with tempered yet courteous welcome. She waddles up. They shake hands. She sees the book of law.

Studying during such picturesque weather, surrounded by such a picturesque scene? she asks teasingly.

The Attorney explains that although he's found one loophole in the unspoken rules, he might have a lead on a loophole that would allow them circumvent the duel all together.

Do we really want that? asks the Audiologist.

The Attorney asks if she'd rather die.

Well I might not die, says the Audiologist. And in any event we all die at some point.

Yes, says the Attorney, but we might escape death-by-duel.

How? she asks.

Well, the Attorney says, let me say this first:

The provision of this theoretical loophole - as it stands now - would benefit both parties. If we're to assume that each party represents him or herself, I'm the representative of my party, which I'll henceforth refer to as the party of the first party. You, in this case, would be the party of the second part. Now the party of the first part, as both a party and a representative of that party, has no duty to act as representative to the party of the second part. Are you following me so far?

No, she says.

The party of the second part must act as representative to her own party. Unless the party of the first part offers his services on behalf of the party of the second part, which I, the party of the first part, would be willing to do for a fee. In securing this fee, I, as the representative of both of the party of the first part and the party of the second part, could bring forth said loophole which would benefit both parties of both parts.

This I understand, she says.

Good. So, to begin, I'll need a retainer.

How much?

The Attorney names his price.

The Audiologist balks and counteroffers. Negotiations go on for several minutes. Finally they come to an accord, and the Audiologist sets down a retainer of $2,500 (which is a lot of money to an Audiologist, and a lot of cash for a Audiologist to be carrying on her person, but in truth she was always rather foolhardy).

Excellent. Now for this to work, he says, consulting his book of law, according to Milkman v. Miller, 21 U.S. 540 (1897) all we need to do is apologize to one another. Verbally.

Well, says the Audiologist, just imagine that.

You can begin, says the Attorney.

I'd rather you, she says. Because I'm skeptical. Especially after all those things you did.

What did I do that you haven't, in other ways? says the Attorney.

Oh you know quite well.

As your attorney, I advise you to apologize first.

I'll take that under counsel. Anyway, I just realized that having you as my attorney would more than likely lead to a conflict of interest.

Well, it seems we've come to an impasse. Let's take our guns. I'll take my place behind the tree, and you in the field.

That doesn't seem fair, she says. As my attorney, tell me if your actions seem on the level - with regard to our duel.

As your attorney I'd have to say that no party can take a position away from the field unless its agreed upon in writing, he says reluctantly.

Thank God I hired you after all, she says.

They take their guns and walk out to the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Athlete v. Attorney

At some point the rain stops. There's a period of high winds from the north. Then snow. Then more snow. Then a bit less snow. Then heavy snow. Then a snow that's neither heavy nor light. Then snow and rain. And then snow again, sans wind. (Which is, nine out of ten landscape painters agree, the most picturesque kind of snow.)

The Athlete runs in place during this entire meteorological drama. A testament to her stamina. Also, her Down syndrome.

At some she wearies, stops, and falls into deep contemplation.

When combining the picturesque falling snow sans wind, the blanketed corpses in the middle distance, and the overwhelming serenity on the face of the Athlete, this scene constitutes the penultimate wet-dream of the hypothetical love-child of Winslow Homer and Francis Bacon and Diane Arbus, who appears later in this series as the Switchboard Operator.

The Attorney arrives. He carries a tan leather briefcase.

I think I've found a loophole in the unspoken rules, he says, sweeping aside the guns, laying his briefcase on the rosewood table.

This breaks the Athlete's meditation.

Great job, she says.

The Attorney explains.

Great, she says.

So that's basically all we need to do.

I think that should do the trick, she says.

The Attorney is bearded and serious, in suit and tie. He opens his suitcase and pulls out some legal documents.

I'd like you to sign here and here and initial here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here. And the date here. And we're done. Thank you.

You're welcome, she says.

Now you can take the field. I'll stand here behind the tree, with my pistol aimed at your face.

I have to warn you, she says, I'm a very good shot with this!

I take that warning under advisement, thank you, he says.

She takes the field and he hides 5/6th of his body behind the trunk of the oak, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.