Legally Wasted (26 page)

“They got away when Millie’s back was
turned,” said Uncle Donnie. He shook his head, but it was unclear
whether this was because of his displeasure with Terry or the
simple absurdity of the situation. Perhaps neither. “The two of
them have spent half the evening hunting naked chickens.”

Larkin turned and gazed in the direction of
the chicken coop. “Will they survive?”

Uncle Donnie leaned back and chewed on the
end of his pipe. He seemed disinterested in answering Larkin’s
question. His tale had finished and that was that.

“Maybe,” said the confederate. “It’s better
that it happened in warmer weather. Poor things would have died of
cold in the winter. Feathers won’t grow back neither.”

“Sure will,” said the man in the red hat to
Uncle Donnie’s right.

The tattooed man shook his head.

“Hell yes they will,” said the man across the
fire. He shot an angry look.

“Feathers don’t grow back,” the tattooed man
insisted. “They got plucked. It ain’t hair you know.”

The man across the fire stared at Larkin and
his log mate in silence for a moment. “I know it ain’t hair,” he
finally said. “But that shit will grow back.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

The tattooed man crossed his arms. The
southern flag curled and stretched as the bicep flexed. “Shut your
mouth, Randy.”

Uncle Donnie blew a smoke ring into Randy’s
face. “Knock it off.”

Loud footsteps signaled Terry’s return.
“She’s going to fix you up, Mr. Monroe. Now,” he sat onto a bit of
bench next to Uncle Donnie, forcing him to slide closer to Randy.
“How can I help you?”

Larkin swirled his drink. “You’re actually
doing it right now. Other than this, I don’t know. I’m pretty much
just screwed.”

“That’s a shame,” said Randy.

“Who here ain’t been screwed before?” asked
one of the men. Randy smiled. “Not that kind of screwed,” said
another.

“Did he say he was screwed?” asked Uncle
Donnie. He leaned in from his spot on the bench. “Why do you feel
like you’re screwed? Can’t you do your lawyer thing and get out of
it?”

Larkin stared at the fire.

“He’ll work his way out of it,” said Terry.
“Mr. Monroe is the smartest man I know.”

“Did you know I’m not even a real lawyer?”
asked Larkin. “I didn’t even go to law school.”

“For real?” asked the tattooed man.

“I read for the bar. That means I worked for
a guy who signed off on this thing that Virginia allows that . . .
it was a paper that . . .” Larkin took another sip. “I just never
went. No law degree.”

“So how can you practice law?” asked Uncle
Donnie.

“I have a law license,” said Larkin. “I don’t
have a degree from a law school, but I have a license. It’s like
this loophole thing in the state law regarding lawyers.”

“Huh,” said Uncle Donnie with a nod. He
puffed on his pipe and nodded. “How long you been practicing
law?”

“Twelve years,” said Larkin, “maybe
thirteen.”

“Huh.”

“Ain’t that something,” said Randy.

The man with the long beard who had quietly
sat in between Randy and the confederate shook his head. “Tomorrow
I’m going to go and get my own law license,” he said.

Randy laughed. “Who you going to sue?”

“I’ll start with the post office,” said the
man.

“For real?” asked the tattooed man.

Randy laughed. “He’s been drinking for
hours.”

Uncle Donnie spat his pipe into his hand,
flipped it over, and smacked it against the heel of his palm. He
then blew through the mouthpiece. A high-pitched whistle punctuated
the night. “So you never went to law school,” said Uncle Donnie as
he inspected the empty bowl of the pipe.

“Right,” said Larkin.

Uncle Donnie reached into his chest pocket
and withdrew a small tightly wound plastic bag. He unfurled it with
a flick of his wrist and withdrew a pinch of dark material and
stuffed it into the pipe. “You didn’t have to pay for none of that
schooling.”

“No.”

“You’ve been practicing law for over a
decade,” said Uncle Donnie as he flicked his lighter. “Legally. And
all because you found some loophole. That sounds like smart
lawyering to me.”

Randy chuckled and nodded his head. “You
know, that’s making some sense there,” he said.

“Not everyone has an eye for that stuff,”
said Uncle Donnie.

Larkin raised his jar of fire water in
appreciation and Uncle Donnie reciprocated. The man’s little
comment had truly and surprisingly made him feel good inside.

He took another sip and as the now familiar
heat subsided he noticed that Millie had silently appeared next to
him. She peered at his leg and shook her head as if what she saw
just would not do. “I think it stopped bleeding,” he said.

“Got ourselves into a fight with a good sharp
rock did we?” she asked with a cluck of her tongue.

“You don’t win those fights,” said Randy. He
stood and stretched. “Anyone up for some food?”

“Paper covers rock,” said the bearded
man.

“You going to cook those burgers up?” someone
asked.

Terry pointed to Larkin’s drink as Mille
kneeled to the ground. She pulled some items from her apron pocket
but Larkin could not see what she had brought. “You’re going to
want to sip that faster,” he said to Larkin. A smirk appeared at
the corner of his mouth.

“Why’s that?” he asked. “And I don’t like
your face right now.”

Millie spat into her left hand and appeared
to knead something dark and soft. “Because when I put on this
poultice,” she said, “it’s going to hurt like all get out for about
twenty seconds before the oils set in.”

“Poultice? You’re going to put a poultice on
my leg?”

“It will stop the bleeding, disinfect the
wound, and knock that pain right away. Course Terry is right.
Drinking helps.”

“Amen,” said the man in the beard. He raised
his jar and saluted the fire.

Randy nodded and turned. “Shout if you want a
burger before I come back,” he said.

“I want two,” said the bearded man.

“Done and done,” said Randy as he disappeared
from view.

“No!” shouted the bearded man. “Medium! In
fact, make that medium rare.” He looked at Uncle Donnie. “Rare for
the blood you know.”

“But what for the brain?” Uncle Donnie asked
the fire.

“So what’s in the poultice?” asked Larkin.
“Other than your spit.”

“Cayenne to clot the blood,” said Millie as
she worked the poultice furiously with her fingertips. “Valerian
for the pain. Some other things.”

“You’re going to put cayenne pepper on an
open wound?” His hand brought the mason jar to his lips as if in
reflex, but he did not move his leg. It could have been exhaustion
or sheer apathy. He was at the bottom of a deep well of misery.
Given his circumstances, what was the point in complaining about
someone seasoning him up a bit?

“That’ll sting like a son of a bitch,” said
Uncle Donnie.

“Mmm hmmm,” nodded Terry. “Like a bunch of
little ole bee stings. Drink up, Mr. Monroe.”

Larkin obliged Terry and swallowed a large
gulp of apple pie.

“Also, some other things,” continued Mille.
“Some extracts, some mushrooms I thought I’d done used up, and some
other things.” She looked up and gave him a wink. “Don’t worry your
tail off. I’ve been making poultices for a long time.” She held up
her hand. In the center of her strong outstretched fingers lay a
mound of dark moist material. “Take a smell of that.”

“I think the apple pie burned out my nose.”
His rejection was of no use. Millie forced the poultice upon him,
her fingers nearly in his nostrils. Larkin fought against it, but
the mound of dirt and spit was just too pungent. “Jesus,” said
Larkin.

“What’s it smell like?” asked the tattooed
man.

Larkin’s eyes watered. “I don’t know.
Fear?”

Mille shrugged and kneaded the poultice just
a few more times before gripping Larkin’s right ankle with the
strength of an iron manacle. “Don’t you go and kick me in the fire
now.”

Larkin held his breath and closed his eyes as
he waited for the pain to begin. A strange metallic squeaking noise
became audible and then increased in volume. His curiosity got the
best of him and he opened his eyes to see Randy pushing a beaten
up, wire framed shopping cart literally onto the fire. He was about
to ask when Millie slapped the poultice onto his leg. She pressed
the moist clod deep into the wound and refused to lessen the
pressure despite his screams begging the contrary. Eyes streamed
tears and teeth gnashed. He did try to kick Millie into the fire,
but the woman was made of strong and sturdy stuff. She did not
budge.

“What did he say?” asked Uncle Donnie.

“I don’t know,” said Terry. “But I bet it’s
that cayenne pepper talking.”

“Don’t get tossed in the fire now,” said
Uncle Donnie.

“Shit,” said Terry. “Mr. Monroe is a badass
but he ain’t got an inch on Millie.”

Close to twenty seconds later, the
flesh-eating sensation subsided followed by a sudden burst of
cooling as if he had just dipped his leg into a mountain
stream.

He opened his eyes, but the world swam behind
an inch of tears. Millie stood, clapped her hands with a bit of
dramatic flair and stepped back to consider her work. “That looks
like it will hold. You keep your leg upright like that for at least
thirty if not forty-five minutes. When it’s all said and done, you
won’t be bleeding or feeling a thing.”

Larkin wanted to ask what the hell was wrong
with a band-aid and an ibuprofen, but he merely wiped the tears
from his eyes. As his vision cleared, the bizarre scene in front of
him took shape. Randy stood atop the log bench and stretched his
left arm over the shopping cart.

“Watch yourself,” said Uncle Donnie as he
grabbed the back of Randy’s belt. Randy leaned further and
liberally sprayed the blackened center of the shopping cart with
cooking spray. The fire flared and Randy leaned back as the heat
threatened to singe more than just his fingertips.

“Dumbass,” said Larkin’s log-mate. “You’re
supposed to spray the cart before putting it over the fire.”

Satisfied with his performance, Randy hopped
off of the log and stooped low to the ground. He picked up a plate
stacked with ground beef patties. A long spatula protruded from his
front pocket. With great precision he began placing the patties
onto the wire-frame center of the cart. “You want a burger,
counselor?”

“Is that a Weber grill?” Larkin asked.

“Big Lots,” said Uncle Donnie.

“Burger,” repeated Larkin, though he did not
know why. He stared at the fire. His muscles felt unusual. He was
exhausted, that was obvious. But an energy flowed through him.
Though he had run for most of the night, he suddenly felt as if he
could vault the shopping cart grill if he really wanted. His skin
tingled. He repeatedly stroked the fabric of his jeans.

The energy reached his brain and quickened
his thoughts and played with his vision. Where the fire had earlier
seemed merely a blend of oranges and reds, he now saw small sparks
of gold and silver twinkling between the flames. “What’s that?” he
asked, transfixed by the light. “Did someone throw something in the
fire?”

“Randy’s just cooking up some burgers on the
cart,” said Terry.

“No,” said Larkin. “Right there,” he said as
he pointed to the fireworks display beneath the cart. “It’s getting
brighter.” Several of the sparks flew into each other, coalesced,
and then burst into copper-colored carnations of light. “Wow. Did
you see that?”

Terry squinted and peered into fire. “I don’t
. . .” He shook his head.

“Damn!” shouted Larkin as he elbowed the
confederate flag to his left. The sparks showered as if a demon
welder was hard at work at the base of the fire. “My God, that’s
something to see right there.”

The scene went quiet except for the sizzling
of the burgers and the sounds of grown men scratching their heads
and beards. Somewhere in the distance, a naked chicken clucked.

Larkin was hypnotized. The fire had come
alive, a swirling slurry of exploding lights and small
indescribable objects that must have been torn from heaven. It
seemed so radiant, everything that surrounded it had no life, no
importance. It was just the fire. “It’s just the fire.”

“How much of the shine did the lawyer have?”
asked Uncle Donnie.

“He’s hardly had half,” said the bearded
man.

The men continued to speak, but Larkin paid
no mind. He was away, far away. His heart thumped like a drum and
his muscles were electrified. A light in the distance
shimmered.

“Hope,” he whispered as he stood. He would
find the light.

“Aw hell,” said Uncle Donnie.

The office phone rang. Larkin re-scattered
the mountain range of documents on his desk.

“Phone,” Larkin called, projecting his voice
toward his office door and the hallway that led to Charisma’s desk.
A manila folder poked out from beneath a stack of Virginia Lawyer’s
Weekly newspapers. He gripped the corner with his fingers and
pulled. The periodicals tumbled to the floor. The folder was bare.
The phone rang.

“Charisma, phone!”

He picked up his expired edition of the
Federal Rules of Civil Procedure and tossed it aside revealing a
fifty-page judicial opinion from the Court of Appeals. He stared at
it for a moment. When he felt convinced that he had already seen
it, he discarded it on the floor.

“Christ,” he spat. The phone rang.
“Phone!”

“Don’t be taking his name like that,” snapped
Charisma. “He heard it and he don’t like it.” Her frame took up the
majority of space in the doorway.

“I’ll say or not say whatever the hell you
want if you pick up the damn phone,” said Larkin.