Profile: Ms. Burgess the Court Recorder

One more down, wrapped up and sealed away, she thought as she collected her belongings. The Weedgrass trial had seemed interminable and her hands were achy from constant typing. That woman never seemed to shut up.

She checked her watch. It was nearly 5 pm and she needed to get home before the rest of the family. It was rare that she ever got peace and quiet anymore. It seemed there was just enough time to transcribe the trial file and take her own copy home.

Ms. Burgess is a young woman, taking college classes in hopes of one day becoming a paralegal or with good fortune, a lawyer. "It's damn near insulting to have to be a court recorder when all the yuppies are making twice as much doing less work and they don't even know how difficult life really is," she often was heard muttering.

She took this job about six months ago. She started keeping her own copies of court proceedings two months in - to be in the know. She only wanted to learn things, after all.

As she exited the courthouse, Ms. Burgess glanced across the street and noticed the woman who had been wearing the hat in court. A sense of familiarity struck her. "I know that woman," she breathed.

Frustration and irritation seemed to flood over her senses as she watched the skirt and heels smoothly glide away from the courthouse. She wanted to follow her, check her out, but stood motionless with the shock of having seen her nemesis right here in her home town.

Gripping her files and recorder, she started for her car, hoping to follow her down the block. She had to know where she was going and why she was again in the picture.

It Happened - Mrs. Weedgrass is free

"Not Guilty."

It echoed inside the court room and collectively a segment of the audience sighed. She was free to live out the rest of her life.

Mrs. Weedgrass clutched her purse, running her fingers over the leather binding, feeling for the Bible she kept inside. Surely this was her redemption. She could retire now without guilt.



She watched as the now elderly, vindicated Mrs. Weedgrass slowly walked away from the court and into the lobby. Her sunglasses warm and likely leaving a mark on her disguised face. She would find no solace, no comfort here.

She walked outside into the sun. Checked both sides of the street, and moved forward.

Secrets

It is incredibly significant - the things we don't say - and the reasons for it.

It is much like all things intangible - love, passion, sadness, grief, strength, perserverence, and all things that can be deafeningly quiet on the surface.

But the reasons...they make us whole and remind us of what is genuinely important about the world in which we live and those who orbit around and inside us.

Begin with the roots, friend, and work your way up, outward, and back around again.

This is you.

This is life.

The thing about love is...

You never quite believe it. It seems too easy, too perfect, when everything else in the world is going to hell.

I mean, who can honestly see the future and tell if it isn't some mirage, some fantastic vision obstructing reality for a period of time.


The thing about love is...

You never get all the answers.



That's the only way you can know.

Tangent #8 - Jokes

"You ever hear that one about the priest and the painted lady?" he asked.

"Nope," the other responded.

The deadpan look stopped the punchline in place and what would have been some crass anecdote died right there in the kitchen.

"Look man, I warned you about this in the beginning."

The other nodded and stared back at his book without responding. It wasn't like him to just...not talk.

"Listen dude, it's not a big deal. Okay? I just didn't know what to say to you about it and then I forgot, and you know."

"Yeah."

Weight filled the room in some inexplicable way. The air felt tepid and full of cotton. Hangovers aside, something felt foreign to the body, like that ache that begins right before a hard flu season.

"Seriously man, you gotta get over stuff like this. I told you, it's not a big deal."

"I told you, I get it."

And it hit him. Not like a Mack truck or a brick, but the truth plummeted down from some transcendental place and a quiet note in his head whispered "It's never going to be okay after this."

And the first looked at his friend, sitting quietly reading a book, and felt for the first time, the gravity of cowardice. The season of casually hurting people was over.

Tangent #7: She runs into God again.

He is still wearing a very nice suit.
This time, he is drinking a cup of coffee. It looked like it was from Starbucks.

She wondered if it was a mocha, a cafe latte, or straight brew.
There isn't a bracelet saying "WWGD" (what would God drink).

"Good morning," He said.
"Hello."

"You seem very pleasant today, happy even. You enjoying this life?" he asked.

"I am," she responded, turning her head to look for the coffee shop from which he came.

"This is good news," he said.


She looked at his cup curiously.


He smiled.




"It's a daily brew. Grande. Sometimes it's the very simple things that make life seem harmoniously perfect, don't you agree?" He said lightly, smile radiating.

Tangent #6: Choosing Discord

"If I had to describe it, it's much like buying tampons or going for your annual exam. It's not that you loathe it or hate it so much, but the necessity of it is just uncomfortable enough to make you acutely aware whenever you gotta do it. It's well, vital discomfort."

"I don't know," she replied. "I really loathe the exam part."

"True, but you do it anyway. You lose a percentage of your health awareness if you don't go. Right?"

"I suppose," she replied.

"There comes a time when you have to define who's worth it anymore and who is ultimately worth fighting for. It's the decision that feels the worst, not the actions that follow. You gotta protect yourself or in time, you won't recognize what you're preserving anymore."