t was late afternoon. I was puzzling through life as an unemployed person. I swam for an hour and felt good. Is this what life could be like? I was uncertain about that and both giddy and apprehensive. Jon-without-an-H texted me while I was working on a pro-bono project that had me quite animated.

“You going to be at Willow?” I read on the Android.

“C U 2nite” I poked back.

I had no idea it was possible to be so busy while not doing anything particularly relevant to wealth creation, and that was how I found myself spending money I was not completely sure I could replace. It was unsettling to think that I was at the high water mark, and everything from here was going to result in taking things out of the rainy day fund.

Considering the amount of rain we have had this month, that may not bode well.

The feeling gave the Happy Hour White at the Willow Bar a little extra zing.

“It’s Ramadan in the morning,” I said. “Better drink up. Taliban might be watching, and who knows whether Arlington County is going to start observing Sharia Law.”

“No shit,” responded Jon-without. Actually, we may not have to differentiate any longer, since John-with-an-H got so famously outraged with Old Jim that he decamped the Willow bar, possibly never to return.

At the time, Jim shrugged. Perhaps we should have noted the sundering of the bar-room social fabric at the time. Perhaps it doesn’t mean anything, but I liked John-with, and still do, even if I don’t see him again.

“Did you watch any of the Zimmerman trial?” asked Jon-without.

“I just sampled it. The Prosecution didn’t seem to have much punch in their closing statement. They must be playing for manslaughter since they won’t get Murder 2.”

“I am sick of the whole thing,” I said. “This is not about justice or the law. It is a microcosm of everything else going on. The crisis in the lower middle class, for example. If shmucks like Zimmerman could move away, they would have and this never would have happened. They are stuck in a social situation that the cops can’t control, and besides, that isn’t their job anyway.”

“Well, what is their job?”
“Protecting themselves and cleaning up after something happens. Remember that saying? ‘When seconds count the police are only minutes away.’”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t know. I guess it will depend on how the jury takes the defense summation. There seems to be plenty of room for uncertainty, and the State has to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“That means they can’t get Murder Two>”

“Absolutely. But then they threw the option to convict for manslaughter, which the jury might see as a compromise. The judge could still throw the book at the Z-man. Thirty years, maybe. Which is sort of awkward if he was defending himself.”

“Do you think they know just how divisive this has all been?”

“Despite the sequestration of the jury, you would have had to have been on the moon not to know how worked up people have been over the racial issue.”

“The media sure seems to have worked overtime to get everyone stirred up over this.”

“They sure have. There is a ton of violence in every city, though the numbers are down. It is still horrific, but it doesn’t fit the agreed narrative.” I lowered the level of wine in my glass. “Part of it is regional. The media reports things based on where they live. Most places in the Northeast have laws that say your legal obligation is to retreat when threatened, so that seems logical to them and they report the story that way.”

“Is that the whole stand-your-ground thing?”

I nodded as Tex the big ex-Marine came down the bar to see how we were doing. “Precisely,” he said, firmly. “In states like Florida, you have no obligation to retreat when confronted by some who is going to possibly deadly force against you. You can defend yourself anywhere.”

“That is sort of crazy,” mused Jon-without. “I mean, it seems like the only one to tell the story is the person who shot first.”

“I think it is pretty clear that if you discharge a firearm in public, you are going to get arrested. But I would rather be judged by twelve than carried by six,” I said, taking a modest sip of wine. “Virginia is a stand-your-ground state, but they have not implemented the statute. I have to learn to drink slower, given my reduced circumstances.”

“I sympathize with your position. Let me buy you a drink. I don’t think I am going to get laid off until next week.”

“You might learn to like it,” I said. But of course, you are not an ancient old fart like me.”

Tex took care of us, and upgraded us to hi-test for the one for the ditch. “Travel safely gentlemen,” he said gravely.

“It is the only way to go, Tex.”

Jon-without raised his balloon glass filled halfway up with dark brown liquid. “L’Chayim,” he said, as we clinked glasses.

“Ins’hallah,” I said.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com