13 March 2008
Contempt
I read that Ms. Kristen Dupré, 22, was worried about how she would pay her rent since the man she was living with had walked out on her. She said it was because she had discovered he had fathered two children, and that must have sparked some sort of discussion.
I am not sure how that might have worked, except that he is gone and she is left with the physical possession of the apartment. Perhaps he has gone some place where the noise is not so loud. The experts say that men’s hearing is problematic in the upper registers.
Kristen said she was considering getting a job, perhaps waitressing in the City. Once the lease is up she may move back to Jersey and live with her Mom, who is 46.
She said she needs to relax.
I find myself this morning having a lot in common with Kristen. For one thing, we both do things we normally wouldn’t do in exchange for money. We both use stage names. Dupré is not her real family name, nor is Kristen her first.
I have a confession for you: my name is not Vic. It is actually Norm Socotra, and like Kristen, I went to the courthouse to change it. I thought it made me sound more rugged and no-nonsense. “Norm” sounds like the fat guy at the end of the bar.
Kristen and I share something else. We are both parties to legal actions. Hers is more interesting than mine, and likely will be for a long time, since she will be forever linked with the powerful man and a scandal. The Governor of New York is the best-known man in her life, though of course his resignation is effective on Monday, and the shelf life of his fame will fade over time.
My little thing is a continuing controversy over how much of my current paycheck I give to a woman who lives in a house I used to own out in the County. The dispute has been going on for a long time, seven years by rough count, and it is always with me, trailing like a cloud.
That was one of the things I mentioned to the Judge about at the bar last night. He is still on his first marriage, and retired now. It is his considered opinion that at some level, namely the one of the Emperor’s Club escort service, the flesh trade ceased to be exploitive of women and became more of a level playing field.
I had to disagree. It is my opinion that hooking is demeaning, regardless of the compensation or the venue, and giving up the most intimate and private part of you for money has a profound and lasting consequence. But opinions are like assholes, and everyone has one.
The Judge doesn’t agree, but he is an attorney after all, and he has seen more of real life than I have. My interpretation makes prostitution a much more universal phenomenon, and not limited in consequence to the stronger sex.
We agreed to disagree on that, and worked steadily through a couple boutique lagers and most of the problems of the world. It was just coming on darkness when we parted on the concrete in front of the Capital City Brewery. I bet him that we would be sitting outside when we met next in April, and the leaves would be coming out and people would have shed their bulky coats.
He demurred. He said it was a cruel month, and often betrayed its promise. “May,” he said. “That is when we will be outside again.”
I’m an optimist. I put the top down on the Hubrismobile on the way home, and let the last warmth of day blow through my gray hair. I got the mail out of the stately row of boxes in Big Pink’s lobby, and chatted up Amari the Ethiopian at the desk before taking the elevator upstairs.
I am working on a few phrases in Ethiopian, a talent that comes in handy around town.
He is working two jobs to try to make ends meet, the evening shift at the concierge desk coming after a full day out in the world. He is unfailingly cheerful though sometimes he looks tired. There apparently was a failing of his hearing in the upper registers that resulted in a need for more money.
I’m sympathetic, of course.
Walking along the long corridor I noted with disapproval that some unscrupulous delivery persons had abused their privilege of admission by placing advertising part way under each of the doors.
One was for a maid service, which claimed to be bonded, insured and licensed, and the other was for Vocelli Pizza, operating out of their North Arlington storefront on Pershing Drive. They offered me a free medium cheese pie with the order of Grande, with two or more toppings.
Normally, we are not troubled by the trash in the corridors. Keeping out the riff-raff is just one of the reasons we have security and cameras at all the doors in Big Pink, and that is only going to become more urgent with all the new people that will be coming to the neighborhood.
As I turned the corner at the end of the west tower, I saw that there was a little pile of flyers in front of my door. Priscilla across the hall had not picked hers up, and I got a double dose. I put down my briefcase to scoop them up for the trash, and saw that there was another flyer.
This one was taped to my door, just above the lock. I took it down, peeling the tape back carefully so that none of the words would be lost. It did not offer to clean anything up, or to provide a complementary pizza.
Instead, it offered me an opportunity to appear before the Bench at 11:30 the day after tomorrow and show cause why the County Court should not hold me in contempt.
I wondered if it was legal, this form of delivery, which appeared less reliable than that accorded a Vocelli pie. The notes on the document indicated it had been filed in January, and acted upon with Judicial diligence in early February. Maybe that was the point. Suppose I had been out of town?
I realized again that I had wasted my time in government. I had been chasing the wrong terrorists. The ones who really matter have been right here all along. I made a note to change my calendar around for Friday to accomodate the other Judge. It is only fair, after all, since the contempt I feel is completely mutual, and well established.
I feel for Kristen Dupré, I really do. We both need to relax. Of course, there is a difference. She can always move home when her lease is up.
Copyright 2008 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com