Eight

Only about a dozen of us bothered showing up to the meeting Brian organized. Maybe less. I don’t even know why I went. To go through the motions of caring? No, that would have required too much effort. Entertainment? Yeah, that sounds about right.

         We were all sitting in a brightly lit, windowless conference room at Aberdeen Canyon’s new rec center. It smelled like new carpet and coffee. Jerry and I sat next to each other, idlly making small talk. I half-listened, my attention focused instead on my neighbors. The single mom and her two kids; the patriarch of the requisite Mexican family; the guy with the mail-order bride and and his obnoxious, undisciplined dirtbag five-year old; people I’d thought moved away long ago and the local conspiracy theorist/psycho, Darrell. I didn’t know any of them, but that didn’t keep me from judging them. What sort of person chooses to raise her young boys in a shithole trailer park? How many Mexicans can you cram into a single-wide? What kind of  desperate fuck-up orders a bride from Russia? Was Darrell…well, what kind of psycho was the he? Hopefully not violent. On second thought, it’d be kind of cool if he was.

        I wonder if he’s got a gun in his briefcase.        

        Thank God I’m sitting by the door.

        I’m mentally going through the order in which psycho would start capping us when Brain lumbers into the room with a guy that reeks of attorney. What idle conversation is still ocurring immediately stops as Brian makes an exagerrated attempt to clear his throat.

         ”Good evening and thank you all for coming,” he says. “I know we all have better things to do with our time, so we’ll get started.”

         Like what? Watch Springer?

         ”Has everyone had a chance to read their letter?”

         Nods.

        ”Okay then, my attorney will answer any questions you may have.”

        And probably because the concept of raising a hand was too complex to grasp, the room was immediately filled with noise.

        ”People,” the lawyer shouts, then softens his voice, ”one at a time please.”        

        ”When do we have to be out.”

        ”January 1st.”

        ”What if we want to stay later than that?”

        ”You can stay no later than January 1st.”

        ”What about January 2nd?”

         ”It is clearly stated in you eviction notices that all residents must vacate the premisis by January 1st.”

         ”But what if we can’t move by then?”

         I’m sure the lawyer wants to shake his head in frustration and curse these dumbfucks for being the stupidest pieces of trash on the planet. I bet he wants to tell them that no one gives a shit about them. I know that’s what I want to do. Instead, he takes a deep breath and calmly answers the same question for the fourth time.

         ”January 1st affords you all six months to make preparations.”

         ”Five months and twenty-five days.”

         The lawyer looks to the man who asked the question and upon seeing him, does what no one who knows Darrell would ever do.

         ”Right, thank you for the clarification,” he says. “Now if…”

         But Darrell interrupts him. “You cain’t just kick us out, you know.”

         The lawyer smiles and rolls his eyes. I notice a few people fidget nervously in their chairs.

        ”Actually, he can,” says the lawyer.

         Everyone’s eyes cut back to Darrell. I jump when I hear the latches on his briefcase open. But to my dissapointment, instead of pulling out a gun, he pulls out a stack of papers.

         ”The law says that in order to evict residents…”

        But now it’s the lawyers turn to interrupt.

        ”I know what the law says. I helped write it. Now if there are any other questions…”

        ”I wasn’t done, fucker.”

        The lawyer’s arrogance vanished. “Pardon me?”

        ”You heard me.”

        But the lawyer isn’t about to be bullied by some redneck hick.

        ”Actually, I don’t think I did.” he says.

         ”I said, I wasn’t done talking, fucker.”

        In retrospect, the lawyer probably wishes he could take back what he said next. ”You watch your Goddamn mouth.” 

        What happened next was summarized nicely in the subsequent police report and talked about for the next six months.

        ”I never seen no one get hit that hard.”

        ”Did you know you shit when you got knocked out.”

        ”Ain’t never seen no normal person shit.”

        ”We should try knocking each other out.”

        ”I bet you’d shit.”

        After that, the meeting was pretty uneventful.