The Myth of Wile E

A Plague of Lawyers

After the news story aired, I found myself pestered by a plague of lawyers, who descended on me with their nearly identical haircuts and business cards. A lot of them offered to help me "take the mogul to the cleaners." I told them that the mogul had impeccable clothes and probably had "people" to do his errands for him anyway.

"Exactly!" the lawyers would tell me. "The guy's loaded! Let's get you some of that money!"

I kept telling them I didn't need any more money; I had my house back and that was good enough for me, and I just wanted to enjoy some peace before the stump-removal resumed and the mall construction began all around me.

"Okay, but remember, you owe nothing unless we win the case!" they'd tell me as they foisted their business cards on me, which I slipped one after another into my jeans pocket. In exchange, I'd give each of them a poem, which I gathered from their reactions was not the usual way of things.

Then one afternoon a pair of the mogul's lawyers showed up, wearing nearly identical suits (and hats!) and carrying nearly identical briefcases. They looked like they belonged in some kind of top-secret international agency. When I opened the door, they both tipped their hats at almost the same time and made the same approximation of a smile. Before they could introduce themselves I said, "Wow, you guys are sure like zucchini today."

"Excuse me?" the first one said. I'll call him Tweedledee.

"I've seen a lot of lawyers!"

"Have you," said the second guy warily. (Let's call him Tweedledee Two, unless something better comes to mind.)

"Yeah, on account of the—"

"—Accident?" said Dee One.

"No . . . they used a lot of terms, but none of them were 'accident.'"

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" said Dee Two.

"Like what?" I said.

"Listen, our client would like to avoid going to court."

"Oh, me too." After all, I probably didn't have the right clothes for court, or the bus fare to get there.

"Then we're on the same page," said Dee One.

"Are we?" I didn't even know what book we were in.

"Our client is prepared to make a settlement," said Dee Two.

A settlement? Like a colony of houses? What would I want with that?

Tweedledee slipped me a small folded piece of paper, as if someone might be eavesdropping. "How does that look to you?" he whispered.

I opened the note. "Well, it looks like a number."

"Yes."

"I'm really more of a sentence person, I guess."

"Sentence? So you'd see our client behind bars?" Dee Two said. "Look, our client is prepared to offer you that figure as compensation for your inconvenience."

He was offering a piece of paper with a number on it? Strange. (And not even an interesting number, like pi.)

"It is certainly more than the appraisal value of your land and your house before the, uh, unfortunate mishap," Dee Two went on. "Our client feels this is more than fair."

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"You could buy yourself one of those nice new condos downtown, free and clear," Dee One said.

"But what about . . . here?"

"Here . . . ? Oh, you mean this little mess? It'll be taken care of, don't you worry. Our client will take this burdensome landlocked plot right off your hands and take responsibility for all demolition and removal expenses."

"Huh. Seems to me that works out pretty nice for the mogul."

"Hmm?" said Dee Two.

"I mean, all this time he's wanted this land and here I was, in the way. And then there's this 'happy accident,' and I'm not in the way anymore?" I rolled up the piece of paper the Tweedles had given me, trying to resist the urge to peer through it like a pirate through a tiny spyglass and say "Aarrgh."

The Tweedles shifted uncomfortably. Tweedledee Two cleared his throat and said, "We assure you it was merely an unfortunate accident. The heaviness of the rain was quite unexpected. One could say, it was an act of God—"

"Oh, yeah, I hear you. I'm just saying, it might look to some like he did it on purpose, is all."

"Some? Like . . . a group of a dozen people? Is that it? Is that what you're saying?"

"A dozen people? Well, sure . . . I guess so."

The Tweedles looked at each other again.

"Like we said, our client would really like to keep this out of court," said Tweedledee Two.

"Okay . . . like I said, so would I."

"Then what do you have in mind?" said Dee One.

"Umm . . . do I have to write it down like you guys did?"

"It would be best, so we can be certain there's no misunderstanding."

"I'm pretty much out of paper."

"You can use that one."

"Oh, I'm going to need a bigger piece than this."

The lawyers' eyebrows raised.

Tweedledee Two snapped open his briefcase and passed me a piece of thick, creamy paper with a watermark and a fancy letterhead. It must have come from a very proud and beautiful tree. On the creamy paper I wrote not numbers, but words. Just a few sentences, as clearly as I could, in big neat letters.

I passed it back. This felt like passing notes in school.

They read the note. "Surely you can't be serious," they said.

"I can too be serious," I said. Though in their defense, I couldn't help adding, "And don't call me Shirley."

But I guess the lawyers hadn't seen that movie. They just straightened their ties (at the same time) and said, "We'll be in touch."