Testimony for the Defense (Edited at the Request of the Court)
[Begin Section 2 of transcript]
. . . and in the interests of full disclosure I have to say that I am not and have never been in the habit of taking candy from strangers, the candy in this case being a small purplish pill, which I see on the table there clearly marked as Exhibit A — I make no bones about it. In fact, I have never “made my bones,” as they say in The Godfather, notwithstanding your repeated mention of several John Does in the morgue who have what I’m sure are accidentally inflicted deep defensive stab wounds or a stomach full of similar if not identical purplish pills, which I can promise you are genuine and would rock your world. I would swear on it. In fact I swore on it just now, the Bible, your honor!
Well, it was certainly represented to me as a Bible. I think we may have grounds for a mistrial on that issue alone.
Yes, I beg your honor, your pardon. Your pardon, your honor. I hate when that happens, but I am not generally awake and about at this time of the morning, certainly not without the assistance of that small purplish pill, which you so definitively labeled as Exhibit A, and no, I do not, did not, have never taken candy from strangers, even if I was led to believe (erroneously, as it turns out) that it was recently approved by the Food & Drug Administration although not yet covered by Anthem Blue Cross/Blue Shield.
What’s that? No, I cannot at this time, to the best of my recollection, describe the man from whom I purchased the pill and several more of the same, your honor, your pardon, your — much as I would like to. In fact I would like to state for the record that I would like to find him, shake his hand, and, yes, I think, encourage him to continue doing God’s good work. At the very least I would like to take him at his word that if I cannot remember his name then the chances of me ending up in the morgue with an accidental defensive stab wound are minimal.
No, I cannot describe the man. Perhaps I should not say man. Certainly not he or even him, as I did not examine him closely enough to be sure of the correct pronoun and he (you will pardon me, your honor, if I continue with said pronoun even though I cannot verify its veracity, which I think goes to prove my earlier point that I have a history of being mistaken, which leads to being duped, taken advantage of, and in danger of being gunned down in the Dallas Police basement for something I probably never did).
Also he never revealed himself to me, which, given the pronoun issue that I just recently raised, gives me a slight sense of relief.
But, yes, your pardon, to move this along, in fact his presence came as a bit of a surprise.
I love surprises, but I have to say that a surprise consisting in the profferment of an ungendered person to me of what I most sincerely believed were honestly obtained potent purple pills, a windfall that fell, so to speak, into my lap, and could be construed of as being offered candy by a stranger, well, you can see the possibilities for confusion.
The only other masculine pronoun-like thing in the vicinity was a garden gnome next door on my neighbor Dora’s (a she or her definitively, no question) snow-covered patio — which I suppose makes it a patio gnome, but try finding them under that name on Amazon — where I now noticed the snow was rapidly melting as a glorious sun peeked through the dissipating clouds. I stared at the sun like an old friend just returned from a vacation in the Bahamas with a fresh beard and a new sexual orientation.
Simile, your honor. Metaphors don’t use “like” or “as.” Wouldn’t make much sense to say an old friend was a fresh beard. Actually it might, if you’re thinking of a beard as a — I am quoting Wikipedia here — “person who is used, knowingly or unknowingly, as a date, romantic partner (boyfriend or girlfriend), or spouse either to conceal infidelity or to conceal one’s sexual orientation.”
Not that that is what I am doing. No. Hell no. But it could be construed that way. It’s not, of course.
Maybe I meant “bread,” returned from a vacation in the Bahamas with fresh BREAD and a new sexual orientation. That would work. And it sorta swings.
I dabble in poetry. Many have remarked on it.
Are the Bahamas famous for bread?
I’m getting to that, your honor. As I am sure your mother did also, if it is not too far above my humble station to imagine your saintly and virginal mother — well, not virginal, but we can’t, shouldn’t, won’t pardon her for that. Judge her, rather . . . Judge. Your honor.
My mother told me on more than one occasion not to look directly into the sun. So you can’t imagine my delight to discover that she’d been wrong all those years. Thank you for mentioning it, as it impacts directly on my testimony, not unlike a defensive knife wound into the soft underbelly of an aggressive attacker who is threatening you with a purple knife that turns out on further inspection to be a plastic baggie full of pills.
The construction of not-plus-unlike equals like, your honor. I was making a poetical, possibly political, and certainly legal point with a simile.
In short, I thought I would visit my mother and tell her all about it, the sun, I mean. I thought she would be thrilled to have that fake news she had been peddling like day-old fish corrected. Perhaps I was mistaken in this assumption. And there it is again, your honor, mistakes, obfuscation, possible prevarication. No wonder the prosecutor continues to impugn my testimony. You can tell the prosecutor for me to watch his behind if he doesn’t want to end up with a defensive knife wound in it. Do we even know if “he” is his REAL pronoun?
I apologize for these lengthy yet necessary digressions. In my defense, your honor, one side effect of the purple pill in question, in addition to the warm and toasty sense of well-being it imbues, is to increase one’s garrulousness. Or so I am told. It can also cause a bit of a nasty rash.
The sun had come out, warm and glorious, as I said, glorious and warm, like a freshly drawn bubble bath in the sky. I took off several layers of clothing I had been wearing, perhaps revealing more flesh than strictly required. Resultingly a car sped by but I couldn’t make out the shouts of the merrymakers inside. I didn’t mind, though. I enjoy giving other people pleasure.
There was a parking ticket tucked neatly beneath the passenger side windshield wiper on my car, but on further examination there was no notation of a fine, just a scribbled note saying “Have a Nice Day from Your Friends the Cops.” The envelope had a five-dollar bill tucked inside also. I am well-liked in my neighborhood.
There was no beeping when I opened the car door, no flashing lights on the dash. The mirrors were perfectly aligned. The engine started at once and purred contentedly like a, like a . . . it’ll come to me.
Your honor, I would like it to be noted for the record that I am not in the habit of driving recklessly or overly fast. Or stealing cars. I’m a very good driver, and I can produce a list of witnesses who will attest under oath that counseling has done me a power of good. But the fact is, and there’s no denying it, when I saw the heretofore unnoticed switch on my dash — in fact none of the controls were where I expected them to be — but when I pressed the mystery button — did I say switch? It was more of a button, not a dial, definitely not a dial of any kind — when I pulled, pressed the button I discovered that not only did my acceleration increase remarkably, but the sudden appearance of twin-mounted 80-caliber machine guns spitting 400 rounds a second had the salutary effect of rapidly clearing the road before me and making the journey to my mother’s that much more pleasant and expeditious.
To be fair, I can’t say that it was my fault when the three people at the crosswalk in front of me at Cooper and Limestone spontaneously combusted, turning them, several surrounding vehicles, and more than a few neighboring structures into raging infernos. Further investigation will no doubt confirm that the pedestrians had not done their due diligence and failed to understand that right of way goes to supercharged jalopies with blazing military armaments. Certainly the drivers will be proven to be attentionally negligent, texting or participating in some other vehicularly unacceptable behavior before they turned into flaming, albeit innocent, collateral damage.
The officer at the scene spoke soothing words that I cannot recall, rubbed my shoulders, and assured me I wasn’t to blame. I was about to ask for his pronoun when we were both distracted by the burning flames and the dash of arriving firefighters.
Yes, that’s correct, Cooper and Limestone. Upon leaving the scene of the accident I offered a ride to three sorority girls. I don’t recall. Alpha Buxom Thigh perhaps. My attorney has informed me that I needn’t testify about the ensuing activities as the girls in question have chosen not to press charges. In fact, they’re sitting by the door. Wave, your honor.
Accident? Incident? Misfortune. Not in my case, let me tell you. I had a marvelous time, your pardon. Your honor.
Mom was actually very nice about the whole thing when I finally reached the house. She’s over there. Hi, mom. Wave. She said, no, son, you were right and I was wrong — that business about looking into the sun. I said, no, you weren’t wrong, you were just — no, son, I was wrong, wrong, inexcusably and unforgivably wrong, and I am so sorry and I should be spanked, and so on, which was really quite gratifying, I have to say. We then went out back and stared at the sun together.
Then she made me a ham sandwich with the good Bahamian bread, and, while my clothes, damp from the prior accident — incident? — dried, changed my oil, reloaded the machine guns, and . . .
[End Section 2 of transcript]
Dudley Stone’s fiction has recently appeared online in foofaraw. Additionally, he is a produced playwright and his poetry is Pushcart Prize-nominated. Mr. Stone received his B.A. from the University of Kentucky and resides in Lexington, KY. More of his work can be found at dudleystone.com.