Julien
I tug the ends of my topcoat together to ward against the chill of the empty courtroom. There are no additional bundled up bodies to add warmth. This centuries old building must have a centuries' old heating system. The unadorned windows which take up an entire wall overlooking the street, allow for an unimpeded view of the swiftly falling snow. Gusts of wind scramble the delicate flakes in their flight towards earth. They are like so many human beings colliding when universes intersect.
I find myself distractedly gazing at the quiet beauty outside. Perhaps there is a chance; the equivalent of catching one single snowflake and holding it in my hand, of finding the answer I seek.
Kurt, my constant, ever patient companion places his hand on my shoulder.
"Does this place give ya the heebies jeebies like church?"
He is referring to the inexplicable dread I have of stepping foot into any church, despite my being somewhat religious. I could recite by heart every prayer in the book Kurt found in my pocket the day we met.
"If anyone should get the shakes from either church, or court, that person oughta be your's truly."
Kurt's laugh is one of the things I treasure most about my new existence. The easy way he shares his delight represents his genuine and unabashed nature.
"Why?"
I wait for his answer while he paces the wood floor, sliding his fingers over dusty tables as he goes.
"Why? Let's just say I sometimes have a problem with authority," he flashes his sunny smile. "But, not intentionally, it's completely unconscious on my part."
For the thousandth time in nine months, I wonder if my meeting Kurt was intentional. Each time I consider this, I move closer to the certainty that this slow speaking, lanky, musician with unusually long and princely golden hair and sleepy blue eyes is an angel sent to me. Of course, the supposition would cause Kurt to laugh himself to expiration!
"It is true I believe I experienced a terrible event in a church. But, I feel equally strongly that the resolution must be found here."
"Here, as in a court of law."
"Yes."
"Look Jude,"
I am confused and tickled that Kurt has taken to addressing me by the name of one of his favorite songs.
"You got my help with this whole Gordian knot thing, but..."
He scratches near the band of the ponytail holding back his voluptuous hair. Is he the biblical Samson? Who would Kurt surrender his power to?
I ask instead,
"What do you doubt?"
"It's not that I doubt, more like I'm tryin' to grasp your game plan."
"Game plan," I repeat the latest phrase. "Is this like set list you explain when playing music?"
He grabs for the pack of cigarettes tucked snugly in the back pocket of his jeans.
"MMM, no," he shakes out a single cigarette. "A set list is the songs I plan on performing during a particular show."
Kurt strikes a match. The quick rising of the orange flame and Kurt's deep inhale recall lovers kissing.
"But a game plane, well," he examines the glowing tip, "that's more like...well, like a battle plan."
"You view my situation a battle?"
"Hell Jude, I can't name what star ya fell from, but, you are tortured by somethin' I can't get a handle on."
A great exhaustion crushes my bones. This room with its wood panels, tables and chairs, the enclosed box seat to the front of the room and the ominous looking raised leather chair behind a high desk cause an intense desperation in me. I must learn something. I must do one specific thing!
"Did I not explain to you as best I can?"
I'm unaware that I've backed Kurt into a corner. He is studying a wall length painting of ancient Greece. The characters in the picture appear to be goddesses holding staffs and heavy books while the men look upon these powerful women with anguished and pleading eyes.
"Right, ya said you gotta find justice for someone. That's right clear eno-"
When Kurt attempts to turn around, he's crashing into me.
"Damn Jude!" the cigarette dangles preciously close to Kurt's bare arm. "I would ask a man can ya find it in yourself to please standback."
"I am sorry."
I take a step back. It pains me to be a burden.
"No, I'm not talkin' about you," Kurt crushes the cigarette into an ashtray on the low table. "I mean ya can't be so wound up all the time. As far as I understand, there ain't no clock running on you."
He continues undeterred by my silence.
"It's like I told ya about book learning. The important life lessons are gained through living, most times through hard fought livin' at that."
"This why so many people follow your songs? Did you fight hard in living?"
Kurt has not opened up to me about any significant episodes in his life, yet they are written in ink on his pale skin. If only I could understand the colorful symbols.
"I don't know 'bout that." Kurt shrugs. "I just want to make the folks happy. Everyone deserves a time out from their worries, even if it's only the stretch of a few hours."
I nod. I have had the pleasure to attend several of Kurt's performances. The gathering could be as many as two-hundred people, or twenty, the atmosphere is the same; one of deep affection and great joy between musician and audience.
I attempt to follow his logic.
"I need a time out?"
"Yeah," Kurt smacks a hand down on the table as if it were a judge's gavel. "I'm sayin' you gotta kick back a little and enjoy the stuff about being here now, Ram Dass. Who know's?" Kurt eyes the elaborate painting. "You might be pissing off some higher power at this very moment by farting away your chance."
"But, what if my time is limited, and I must return to the place I came from before I locate the answer?"
"Then I'll grab hold of your feet and pull ya back to earth!"
I have absolutely no doubt that Kurt possess this ability. It gives me the strength and desire to leave the empty, sad room and walk in the snow.
"Does snow fall in your Georgia?"
"Not unless cows laid eggs."
I throw his leather jacket at his chest.
"Why then do we fart away in here?"
"Nice game plan, Jude."
