Tuesday, May 07, 2002

Scene: Your fav Nancy/me/post-insurance b.s. & litigious-minded me and youngish attorney in his cluttered office, above both of our heads the hum and noxious output from a bank of flourescent lights. We look like corpses. Corpses with overly-caffeinated faces. Behind his head is a wall of snazzily-framed credentials. Your fav Nancy feels like any moment she might burst into song/tears/uproarious laughter.

Attorney: Well, looking over all this paperwork I think it's a good case. We'll get replacement of your damaged equipment, reimbursement for your out-of-pocket expenses.

(NO! let me begin at the most wondrous thing he said)

Attorney: You can tell by how the cop wrote up the accident report that he didn't believe her (the other driver's) story.

Me: (ever untrusting) How?

Attorney: He wrote her up as Driver 1, that's the person that caused the accident. And he writes that she said she ran a yellow light but he wrote that she ran a red light. (apparently spending most of his time in Accident Land he's a pro on secret signs of cops... as well as doctorly and injury matters)

Me: (mulling, wandering in attention) Did you go to UB?
(then I grill him on his credentials and learn that he's a partner at the firm. I stop cross-examination)

Attorney: Most attorneys take 1/3 of the settlement no matter what. If you're reimbursed only I won't take any of that.

Me: Then try to get more from their insurance company so you get something. (thinking: contingency, a wacky thing)

After I give him my social security number and sign some pieces of paper saying that he's the legal boss the attorney calls in a twiggy paralegal who copies all of my accident documents and then I am free to roam the rainy streets again, camera bag on wrong shoulder.

Upon returning home I am greeted by a neighbor kid on rollerblades who feigns no involvement in the dismemberment of a Sanford and Son car in the yard next door. The new SPIN, sitting in the mailbox, features Cover Boy Moby with foil stars licked all over his head and some crappy photos of obnoxious-yet-talented Courtney Love inside. The love of Andrew WK meanders through my thoughts and the record store boy has called to say The Hawksley Workman you ordered is in. So I can hand that over to Laura as hers was lost in the big C.
Over and Out, on to deadline trenches of happiness.

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