Welcome to Harvard. This cozy part of the campus is the law department. Many of American's greatest leaders have been branded here. Lesser folk, too, also have. Lesser...but not necessarily useless...
This is a classroom. Aaron Callahan, a federal attorney, teaches classes here. Many of his students have gone on to become federal officials...or state officials, or simply lawyers otherwise. As old as he is, he probably has better business retiring. But then, of course, the world that he's a part of is always going to need mentors. And most people who need a mentor, it seems, are more likely to feel secure relying on an older person, than on someone who could be their brother or son.
On his desk, there are boxes. This one, in particular, has a plaque pasted to the front edge of it. It reads, APPLICATIONS FOR INTERSHIP.
Day by day throughout the day, students drop in their own applications. Many wear skirts. More than that many wear nail polish. They might not know it yet...and hopefully, they'll never learn why...but they'd be better off tossing their applications down a rathole.
By and by, a male student walks up to the box. He hesitates. He reviews his application one last time, before making his "deposit." The name at the top of the application...and written in some of the best penmanship his hometown has ever known, if many might add...is "David Kidney."
David smiles, subtly crosses his fingers, and makes his deposit. Now all he can do is wait. The Professor will have a list, on the wall outside his office, of chosen interns before too long. There'll be four of them...and they'll all be in the service of his federal law firm by the time the next month begins. David has high hopes for himself; he and Callahan have bonded much since his first class with him. The Professor has even managed to disclose to him, in such short time, that he's both gay and Jewish.
Over the campus, night has fallen. A lot of the professors work late...and not necessarily because they're cheating on their spouses with their TAs.
The lights in Callahan's office, it seems, are still on... Not for much longer, though; in the last quarter of the 22:00 hour (24-hour system), his lights go off.
The front door to the office complex opens. From it, Callahan emerges. Nearby, his black Caddy awaits. It'll bear him to his queer lodgings; lodgings which most who didn't know him would expect to be more manly...potentially with wall antlers, bearskin rugs, and even nano-reactors to spare...
Commotion, from nearby, alas, distracts the Professor, as he attempts to make his nightly exit from the campus. He turns his head, and watches...
It's Kidney, one of his students. He stands before a clique of women. To straight men, they'd be attractive...and likely are to Kidney, considering the bids he attempts to make to them. Alas, the Professor is gay; he wouldn't know a beauty from a hag, when it comes to women. He thinks he has a clue, though; when he was younger, a lot of all-girls cliques would allow him to tag along. They'd talk, and he'd eavesdrop. Older though he is now, these girls, who his protegee attempts to court, do, in fact, remind him of the all-girls cliques, of his own youth, who were considered popular. They're not as glossy as Callahan could imagine, but... This is Harvard Law; and the women who come here, rumor has it, are more likely to take after Jackie (Kennedy) than they are after Marilyn (Monroe)... Also, Callahan sometimes talks to one of his other students, Warner Huntington III; he often says the same thing. Not only that, but he keeps saying that he once left a Marilyn for a Jackie just to conform to the "Ivy League image" that has infected Warner's patriline for many generations. This, Callahan heeds; he's met many Huntingtons in his time, and very few of them have been caught, by him, outside of legal attire...
Alas, Kidney seems to be failing, in his bid. He attempts to court him, but they keep rejecting him. They seem to think he's a loser. He attempts to tell them that he's de-wormed orphans in the Somali States... Not only do they find this idea revolting, but most of them can't even spell "Somalia," let alone point it out on a globe, let alone know that it's the name of a country, and not the name of some stripper...or the name of the very worm that Kidney would de-worm from an orphan.
The Professor pities his protegee. He takes steps forward, and raises his arm, as if to intervene...
Alas, he hesitates. Plus, there's a girl among the girls who Kidney attempts to court. She wasn't there before. Her hair is black and short. Her attire is Goth.
With narrowed eyes, the girl looks the Professor's way. She holds up a finger, shakes her head...grins, nods, and winks.
Callahan sighs, sadly smiles, and salutes her, as if he knows what she's trying to tell him. He reluctantly walks back to his Caddy, mounts it, lights the lights, backs out of the lot, and makes the commute back to his estate. Kidney will just have to tough this one out for himself...if he even has a prayer at all.
Kidney still attempts to court the girls. They keep rejecting him and making fun of him. Among them, the Goth tomboy, from before, has vanished...if she was ever actually there at all.
Into the light of a nearby lamppost, another girl appears. She's blonde...and clad in pink. She's Elle Woods, the Class of 2003's least likely student. She's getting back from a girls' night out with Paulette Bonafonté and several other of the mostly-female patrons from Paulette's beauty parlor in Cambridge. (One of them is a gay man.) The girls' night also had a strange guest; Elspeth Stromwell, one of Elle's professors here at the university. Elle was surprised to see her, at first. And frankly, Stromwell was a bit paranoid about being there, at first... Either way, she managed to drink twenty-three boilermakers that night and was in more than good spirits by the time it ended...even if she did require a stretcher, a cop, and a designated driver to get home.
Elle sees David. She sees him floundering in his own love-seeking failures. She can't bear what she's watching; hence, her first impulse is to run back to her dorm, and...
Alas, she hesitates. Into a nearby shaded window, she sees her own reflection. She's a beautiful blonde. Hence, she could probably enhance her classmate's chances, somehow, by potentially becoming the ace of hearts in his deck, if one will... This is a long shot...but it just might work...
Nearby, Kidney still flounders. It's a mystery, as to how the girls haven't moved on from him yet... But then, there's probably more to be harvested here than what meets the eye...or the hope, in fact...
Elle storms up to him. She spontaneously cuts in, winds her left hand back, and gives it to him right across the face. In shock, he backs away, brooding over his hurt face with his hand.
"You jerk," Elle feigns distress. "How could you possibly take me out on one of the best nights of my life, leave me at home afterwards, and never call me again?!"
David's confused. He literally has no clue what to say in response.
"What," Elle continues the charade, "do you have to say for yourself?!"
"Uh..." He's still confused...but otherwise does a great job of staying in-character. "Sorry?"
She heaves a sigh and points a trembling finger at him. "One day, I'm going to have you simplified! And I swear to god, if there is one: YOU WILL HATE IT SO MUCH, THAT IN THE END, ONLY YOUR KIDNEYS WILL MOURN YOU!"
Leaving David stunned and confused, Elle pretends to storm away...and hides behind a nearby monument, eavesdropping on what could possibly happen next...
"So," one of the girls flaps her hair. "When did you say," she seems a lot more amorous than she was before, "you wanted to go out?" Near her, the other girls now seem just as amorous.
Still behind the monument, Elle giggles to herself; her trick, it seems, has worked...
"Uh..." David is still confused but otherwise pleased with his sudden turn of fortune. "How do you girls feel about opi? You see, there's this great composer named Glenn Holland..."
This is Callahan Manor. The landscaping is nothing memorable...as isn't the architecture. But then, it helps the estate fit in with its neighbors.
The lights of the Professor's study are still on. Hence, while he might not still be working at his job, home, for him, is clearly no refuge from his job. But then, being neither married nor childed has its advantages.
He reviews internship applications. One of them is a girl's. She's dotted a lot of her "I"s with hearts...and left a lot of smiley faces and friendly messages in the spare space of her application.
At this, at first, the Professor smiles... Alas, his eyes drift up, towards a poster he keeps on a wall of his study...
This caption, the poster relays: IF YOU ARE GAY...THEN PRETENDING TO BE STRAIGHT...NEVER...FORKING...WORKS!
Heeding this philosophy...and understanding that his past efforts to include younger women in his life have never gone expectedly...the Professor sadly takes a rubber stamp and brands the application with a REJECTED mark. (She need not worry; she won't actually get this application back. She won't need it back; if she doesn't see her name on a paper that the Professor leaves on the wall just outside his office, she'll know, based on that, that she's been politely passed up.)
Several other ladies' applications, Callahan rejects. Ones of two of his male students, he ends up stamping with an ACCEPTED mark...
And now, the dreaded moment; the one where Callahan reviews Kidney's application. It's well-filled-out; that, Callahan must acknowledge. And again, he secretly sees Kidney as a son/younger brother; they agree on a lot of issues, and he's pretty sure it's not just because he's grading Kidney's papers.
As Callahan thinks, his mind zones out. As it does, he has a brief dream...
In a court, and dressed as a Jewish theocrat, Callahan sits on a throne. A blindfold, he wears around his eyes. A scepter, too, he holds; its top contains a set of scales; the scales always remain balanced, no matter which way the scepter is turned...
Spontaneously, a worm attacks his heart. He gasps, stands, and falls over, at the foot of his own throne. The crown falls off his head, and rolls across the floor...
At a man's feet, the crown stops...and falls over, spinning in circles, and gradually leveling itself out, like a coin that's been dropped on the floor that lands on its side. The man bends over and collects the crown.
The man, it seems, is Kidney. He smiles, places the crown on his head, and looks at himself into a nearby mirror...within a monolith that's placed so conveniently near him. He admires himself in it. He might as well; during the rest of this fantasy, he will be blindfolded...like his predecessor.
Speaking of whom, he's been placed in a body bag. The bag now lies across the stretcher. Palace staffers take up the stretcher, and begin to take their leave...
Nearby, clad in royal attire...including the blindfold and the scales-scepter...Kidney places a bag of coins in one of the staffer's hands, and pats him on the shoulder. "I will attend his funeral momentarily," he promises him. "Just allow me to attend to a few post-coronation prelims."
Maintaining perfect balance...as if there were a book sitting atop his head, in lieu of a crown...Kidney approaches his throne... He stops, and turns his head around, as if he senses he's being watched... By and by, alas, he continues his approach to the throne...
From behind a pillar, Ernst Stavro Blofeld (Waltz, specifically) emerges. With a Luger pistol, he takes aim at the new Jewish king from behind...
Spontaneously, Kidney whirls, produces a semiautomatic pistol of his own, and empties its magazine into Blofeld. This takes a hilariously long time; only in a dream, it seems, would Blofeld be able to remain standing while taking in such an interminable amount of 9mm pistol ammo... His one good eye interminably gawks, as this happens...
As Kidney takes his shots, the ammo cartridges eject themselves from the pistol. The pistol smokes, too. One by one, the cartridges land on the alabaster floor, near Kidney's feet...
At long last, the pistol is empty...and still hot. Blofeld only stays frozen in agony, with multiple bullet holes in his chest, for a little longer...and falls over on the floor, to soon breathe his last breath. Neither Boromir nor Achilles, it seems, could've done better. (Those were arrows, I know. Even so, chests tend to take ammo better while their owner is wearing a vest.)
Smiling, Kidney blows off the smoking bore of his own pistol, re-conceals it, turns, and continues his ascent. He's done his nation a great service; maybe even two, in case Waltz was trying to double as the Jew Hunter from Inglorious Basterds...
Elsewhere in the court, a sculpture of Aristotle stands. The sculpture suddenly becomes animated. He smiles, produces a golden goblet from his robes, and throws it to the new Jewish theocrat...
Kidney catches it and holds it upright in his hand. He watches, as it fills itself with royal red wine... He smiles, and sips it... He's earned it, after all...and hopefully, it isn't poisoned.
At the feet of Aristotle's sculpture, on the side of the plaque atop which he stands, there's an inscription on a plate. The inscription bears one of Aristotle's famous philosophies; "the Law is Reason Free from Passion."
At long last, he takes up his rightful seat on Callahan's ex-throne. He sits, and waits for his predecessor's next job to attend court...
In this case, it's a distraught ex-wife, whose husband has claimed everything and left her with nothing. She's a blonde bombshell; alas, if only Kidney could see this... She comes to the steps before his throne and sits on her knees within the red carpet.
A pair of ruby red slippers, it seems, this blonde bombshell wears... It's only a coincidence. Or, is it?
Within the court, a golden sculpture of a lion sits, poised and roaring. The sculpture is of Leo, the MGM lion.
"Your Jewish Majesty?" The blonde bombshell quivers, as she implores for her Jewish monarch's aid. "I need a lawyer. I must speak with King Aaron."
Kidney smiles happily. "I am the late King Aaron's heir. I am King David." He frowns, and gestures towards another statue in the court. "Not THAT one."
It's a sculpture of Michaelangelo's David; the one of David, son of Jesse, king of Israel and patrilineal ancestor of Jesus Christ, in the buff.
"King David" beams and continues to attend to his predecessor's latest client. "What can I do you for?"
Callahan wakes. He likes what he's dreamt...despite the part at the beginning where he dies. Even so, the Professor has faith in what he's just dreamt. Hence, he pounds the ACCEPTED sticker into its rightfully-colored ink, and prepares to lay down his gavel...if one will...
"An extreme way to stick out your evil rokurokubi neck, just to preserve your legally gilded legacy," a strange voice says to the Professor, "don't you think?"
On a high pedestal in the corner of Callahan's study, an angel sits perched. Aside from her wings and current attire, she looks exactly like that short-haired Goth girl who the Professor had seen standing with the popular girls who Kidney was trying to court, right before he left the campus earlier in the night. But then, she is the same girl. Her name is Azarael. Full-time, she's the Angel of Death. Part-time, she attends to those who she'd dare consider a friend...which, it seems, would include Professor Callahan.
"Rae-Rae!" Callahan raises a Jewish wine glass to her. "Long time, no see!"
She giggles. "We both know that's not true, Aaron. We also both know that this is the second time tonight we've met over a matter that's involved David."
He sighs. "Very well." He studies her. "But is it truly so alien that I'm trying to invest in my legacy? A lot of people hate me because I'm Jewish and gay. A lot of them will probably come to my funeral just to urinate on my grave...or whatever it is that the youth does these days."
Azrael yawns. "Allow me, then, to teach you a basic lesson in psychology; one that you're surely never going to read in the Torah...if you haven't memorized it by now. Or rather, let me start by giving you a clue."
"I'm listening."
"In the last decade of FDR's life, FDR often blamed himself for the scores of otherwise-blameless American lives who lost their lives in WWII. And yet, after he died in office on that dreary day in 1945...that time he was having his portrait painted, and he had a stroke...almost the entire country...the entire country who was on the home front, and neither stationed on the front lines in Europe or the Pacific...attended his funeral." She smiles and arches her brows. "Do you, Master Lawyer, happen to notice the imbalance in that equation...or might you, perhaps, have been a lawyer for so long, that you've literally forgotten everything you once learned in law school?"
Callahan heaves a sigh. "You don't have to explain it to me. I know exactly what you're trying to tell me. I should have faith that my legacy will make itself, both before and after I die...and not spend my last years trying to plant seeds wherever they're just as likely to become saplings before dying as they are to not sprout at all, before construction equipment comes, tills up all of the soil around them, and ruins their chances."
Azrael smiles and nods. "Good boy... See? There's still a sage in you yet! You're also doing the right thing, not hiring any of your female students. The rumors of your over-feminization of them are a lot more infectious than you might think." She winks. "You didn't hear that from me, BTW."
"I believe you. Thank you, Rae-Rae. You may resume your pilates with Cerberus...or whatever it is you do in your spare time."
She scoffs. "I've sumo-wrestled with Cerberus before... Alas, neither one of us is a 'pilates' kind of girl. I'm more into ballet, myself."
He arches his brows. "Oh? And I suppose that Odile is one of your signature roles?"
She scoffs. "She would be...in the versions of Swan Lake where she didn't have to spend most of the performance impersonating Odette."
The phone rings. Callahan blinks and answers it. Alas, it's a dial tone; they've already hung up. Confused, the Professor hangs up the phone, and...
Azrael, it seems, has vanished. Smiling sadly, Callahan honors her efforts to council him...by reluctantly taking up the REJECTED stamp, stamping it into the right kind of ink...and politely passing his protégée up, in favor of someone who, at his law firm, he can afford to have an objective relationship with.
The next application within the stack is that of Aaron Mitchell; the Princeton prince whose fourth-grade paper was allegedly once looted by Stephen Hawking. Having slightly amorous thoughts about Mitchell (and hardly just because they've the same first name), Callahan grins, inks the ACCEPTED stamp, and lays the ole gavel down...
The list of chosen interns now hangs from outside the Professor's office. Four names are on it; those of three males, and that of one female. (Callahan, BTW, does not have an over-feminine opinion of this student. Plus, he's got to do something to dodge any suspicions of sexism...)
David arrives and surveys the list of chosen interns...and heaves a sigh, once he sees he didn't make the cut. He scoffs, too, a bit, when he sees that both Warner and Aaron made the cut...
He shakes his head and moves on. As much as he hates to admit...he might just find himself dead and at the bottom of the Gulf of Maine, before the month ends...
This is Cape Cod. It's where the Mayflower once scuttled, that one time its pilgrims settled the locality. A lot has changed since. One almost wouldn't know it, if not for the long-time absence of the Wampanoag nation...who would've lived here long before the Mayflower's pilgrims ever settled the Cape and much of the rest of their now-long-ex-territory... And also potentially if not for the absence of whales' songs, just off the Cape coast... (That's more of a Rhode Islander heritage fad; even so, New England in general has a long-term whaling chapter in its heritage's history books...)
This is a lighthouse. It stands atop a rocky island not too far from the Cape. It's not as big as the one in Portland (Maine)... Even so, David would have no doubt that it serves local maritime traffic part of the time. Either that, or it's just a landmark... Funny thing, though; if it is a landmark, David can't help but wonder why more people aren't here more often...even if whaling is a relic...
This is a signals buoy. A tower of scaffolding is a part of its rigging. This scaffolding, among a few other amenities, bears a light. David's also almost sure that it once bore a bell... Since then, though, it seems that the bell has been retired. He's pretty sure, though, that it's not in a shop getting fixed; otherwise, the Liberty Bell would've gotten fixed ages ago.
Aboard the buoy, David sits. He's brought along a six-pack of Miller, and another six-pack of Pabst. A cooler of Coors, too, he's brought. As things are, he hasn't had very many. But then, he's only just gotten here. He plans to finish all of his stashes by the time he's ready to return to the Cape.
The sun has set; David's watched it do so. Now the moon rises. This, of course, is likely to make David rather looney...
All around the buoy, the sea is vast. Part of the Cape stretches across a part of the horizon... For now, David's only glad to be nowhere near it.
From beneath the surface, a fish's dorsal fin penetrates. It looks like a shark's...and is, to half an extent. Slicing the surface as she goes, its owner swims right up to the buoy... Poor David doesn't seem to stand a chance, as he seems oblivious to its presence...
The fin's owner rises and rests her arms across part of the buoy's deck. The fin's owner is half-human, it seems. She's a sharkwoman. She pays heed to poor David. As she does, her stomach growls... A shark-like malice stirs within her black-eyed gaze...
Alas, she much belch. She does so...and promptly re-submerges herself, just beneath the side of the buoy...
David looks around, confused... He looks the sharkwoman's way...and sees her dorsal fin, still, treading water just off the gunnel...in a world where it's more common for sharks to not stop swimming.
David scoffs and studies the beer bottle in his hand. It's still more than half-full...and hence, less than half-empty. "I haven't had enough of these," he murmurs. "And yet, I'm already seeing pink elephants... Or in this case, neon blue cutlasses..."
Overboard, the sharkwoman hides long enough to where she senses that her quarry no longer watches her. She surfaces again, and re-rests her bare arms where they were before. As her appetite roars, she rubs her own tummy...and decides how best to claim her latest recently-acquired target...
Alas, something stirs...and it's certainly not a pot of stew. Alas, it just might be akin to one. Either way, the sharkwoman must be sure...so she gently places her half-human hand into the sea, just beneath the surface...
All sharks can detect nths of electricity within the water; this is their sixth sense. The sharkwoman uses her own to detect a sinister-yet-potentially-edible presence; that of the Mexican Bass Run. The Mexican Bass Run is a migrating shoal of telepathic terrorist sea basses. And, based on what this sharkwoman's electric probing tells her, they're poising to attack the crew of a luxury yacht somewhere off the Jersey Shore... If the sharkwoman plays her cards right, and leaves this buoy promptly, she just might be able to eat some of them...
She sighs and beholds her now-ex-quarry from behind. "Enjoy your beers while you can, human." She deviously pickpockets one of the Pabst beers. "I just might come back. And if you're here when I do...your claspers just might become the olives in my next shaken vodka martini!"
She surveys the label of the beer she's just looted. It says, "PBR for PMS," and bears a photo of Fabio's bare chest just beneath it. She scoffs, pops the top, takes in a huge gulp, submerges, and rushes off to ambush the Mexican Bass Run, before they telepathically dupe and cast a bunch of Guido brothers overboard. (And frankly, the sharkwoman hopes that the seabasses in the Mexican Bass Run taste like chili con carne...)
In her absence, poor David continues to linger. He takes another sip and looks around...
"This seems like a very fragile existence," a woman's voice from above him says. "One would think you could do better."
With bloodshot eyes getting more bloodshot with every sip of beer, David looks up, and acknowledges the presence of a friend, just above him. It's Azrael. It seems that she's friends with David, too... She's in a black bikini...and hanging from the buoy's scaffolding by her knees, upside-down.
David smiles, and nods. "Hey, Rae-Rae. What's the matter? Ferries to the afterlife not exciting enough...for once?"
She giggles. "I can still have just as much vodka aboard one of them as I'd like, thanks. As things are, though, I'm more concerned about you. Don't get me wrong; I love most of these beers just as much as a Virga Prega would, if they weren't all pregnant. But seriously; you had some hot dates with some hot chicks the other night. And it's actually kind of ironic...seeing as you seem to have done to them what Elle Woods only pretended like you'd done to her, nights before that. Are the Legally Blonde's services to you truly worth nothing?"
"I'm not trying to ghost them. I'm just...not so sure I'm ready to move up to the next level. Plus, in case you haven't heard, Professor Callahan's chosen his interns for this time around...and my name's not on the list." He takes another swig of beer. "It looks as if I'm NOT going to be the next FDR, after all..."
Silence follows. Azrael is struggling, of course, to not tell David that she had to do with the reason why Callahan didn't choose him to be an intern... Her boobs, within her black bikini top, get bigger, as this happens... For her, this is revolutionary; as the Angel of Death, she's a founding member of the IBTC (i.e. the Itty Bitty Titty Committee).
"I've come to give you a tip," she finally speaks again. "Next Monday...you might consider paying a visit to Callahan's federal law firm in Boston."
Confused, David looks up at her, again. He swallows the beer that's in his mouth. "Monday?!" He wipes his mouth. "But...that'll be the first day the interns get to work! Why would I want to be there? Isn't it embarrassing enough that he didn't pick me?"
"It's not what you think. If you don't like the girls who Elle helped you bag..."
"I don't not like them. I'm just... I'm not sure about them; that's all." He sips more of his beer.
Azrael shrugs. "Very well; if you say so. If you're not sure about the girls who Elle helped you bag, I think I might know where you can go fishing for the ideal runner-up. Callahan's about to take up a federal client. She'll be at the law firm on Monday, about lunch break. Be there...or be in an empty bed for your entire college experience."
"I wouldn't want that."
"Good. Then you'll go get 'em, Ocean Star." She surveys his beer stash... Using telekinesis, she pirates one of the cold Coorses. She cracks it open and takes a long sip.
A part of her beer spills into poor David's face. David wipes his face and looks back up...only to see that Azrael has vanished.
He scoffs and starts to collect his beers. As he does so, he vainly rehearses for his geriatric years, when he tells everyone about his experiences at Harvard. "Hey guys," he mutters. "Throughout my education at Harvard, all of the hot chicks went with me to the tailgate parties...just so they could loot my beer! How's that for a college experience..."
Right on cue, David rummages through the six-pack of Pabst beers he's brought. He misses the PBR for PMS...all while still, even now, ignorant of the fact that the specific Pabst he's missing was, in fact, a PBR for PMS; otherwise, he wouldn't have brought it. But then, unbeknownst to him, the sharkwoman, it seems, did him a favor...
He's still confused. Nonetheless, he prepares to go overboard...
"Oh, and by the way, David..."
Azrael's back...if only for a brief moment. She's still where she was before; hanging upside-down, by her legs, from the buoy's scaffolding.
"By the way, David...as the Angel of Death, I can promise you that if you leave within the next thirty minutes, and get to shore within fair time, you will not get eaten by the local sharkfolk."
At the thought of this, David shudders. Either way, he doesn't dare dawdle. He climbs the ladder down into the water, and with the beers slung to him, begins swimming towards the Cape...
From far away, a clock bell rings. Many times, it bongs. David hears parts of it...but is often mostly too submerged to hear all of it. It's a shame; it's a great way to close the night...even if he has to risk getting eaten by sharkfolk to get back to the Cape...
This is the great city of Boston, incorporated in 1822. (Monroe was president at the time.) The air is rich with the aromas of baked beans and clam chowder; its cauldrons are seldom ever empty, although they do require washing every now and then.
Within some of the parked SUVs, Boston terriers less-than-patiently await their masters' re-mounting of their vehicles. Every now and then, they bark...wagging their stub tails while doing so. The cars' slightly rolled-down windows hardly muffle their cute barking.
This is the facade of the Federal Reserve Bank in Boston. Besides it, there are eleven others. This is one of the dozen institutions that regulates Uncle Sam's currency and has done so since 1913. (Wilson, an Ivy League legend, was president at the time.)
Callahan's law offices aren't too far from the Boston Fed. They're within a plaza. Boston, it seems, has many of those... Hell, they might've invented the New England version of the plaza... David knows very well, though, that the Spanish beat everyone to it...to the word, if not to the invention.
Across the street, in a Bones Coffee parking lot, David sits in his car...and constantly ponders whether he should go, at the right time, and take the very risk Azrael has dared him to...as if any advice from the Angel of Death was worth taking...or simply lament, and start driving back to Cambridge with his dignity still intact...intact, and yet forever second-guessing his choice. Either way, it seems like a lose-lose situation. On one hand, David could merit a lot of confused looks from a bunch of classmates...and not to mention a professor...who all know just as well as him that he's not supposed to be there if he doesn't need a lawyer. On the other, he could go back to Cambridge, call some of those girls back up, and risk getting rejected...only this time for the same reason that Elle only pretended to reject him to help him win their hearts, that one night. It's either the frying pan or the fire...and David honestly can't tell which is which...less than fifteen minutes before the iron gets hot. ("The iron" might not necessarily be the frying pan in the first metaphor... And neither would the iron's heat source be the fire...)
As the stakeout continues, David observes the parking lot of Callahan's business from afar. It's mostly empty...and inactive. This makes sense; most of Callahan's clients, David's been told, are elitists. Hence, it makes sense that they'd often have better things to do than have tailgate parties in Callahan's parking lot. Plus, paralegal work doesn't do itself.
As lunch hour nears, some of the interns come outside. They mount a few cars (some of them carpool) and head off to somewhere where they'd rather have lunch. David scoffs, as he's very sure there are no "cooks" working in Callahan's law offices; he only hired one girl to be his intern, and based on what David's heard about her, she's neither a Betty Crocker, nor a Martha Stewart, nor a Sofia Vergara, nor anyone in any of the above's matriline.
This is David's chance. He doesn't see Callahan's black Caddy anywhere in the parking lot. But then, of course, that doesn't necessarily mean that Callahan isn't there. For all David knows, Callahan takes his own version of Air Force One to work every day, whenever he works at his law offices... David would just hate to imagine where he'd have it landed, if that was the case... If he expects to make a smooth landing atop the roof of the plaza that his offices are inside, his math is way off...
David's not sure why...but he alights his vehicle. He crosses the medium and stands within the sidewalk. For moments afterwards, cars pass. One of them is a city cops' SUV...
David closes his eyes and tries to keep himself calm. By and by, he opens them again. He looks both ways. Most of the traffic is way too far away to panic about.
David shrugs, puts his best foot forward, and starts crossing the street, one step at a time. Before him, a blue jay lands in the street, and forages. David can't tell what he's foraging for; there's nothing there. Plus, David's feet come way too close to pancaking the poor bird; the bird doesn't move, and nor does he peck at David's feet.
At last, David makes it across. He looks around; the blue jay, from before, is gone. David wonders if the bird was ever really there...
On the sidewalk, a cop passes David. She barely acknowledges him, while passing him. Either way, David initially tenses up; he half-expects her to arrest him for jaywalking. No one ever gets arrested for jaywalking, these days; even so, it's still a crime in most jurisdictions.
Now, David's in the parking lot. Now, like a braveheart that's completely out of his mind, he approaches the front door of his professor's business...expecting to be judged for being in an awkward place at an awkward time...
Emmett Richmond, Callahan's full-time paralegal, works at the front desk. He greets David, as the latter comes in. Thankfully, Emmett doesn't recognize David.
"I was here, a few days ago," David lies. "One of the..." He starts over. "One of Callahan's partners saw me, and took me to one of the offices. I think... I think I might've left my credit card, before leaving. If I could just go in there, and look around..."
"Not to worry," Emmett says. "I'll take you back there myself..."
The phone rings. Emmett answers it. "Yes?" David only hears Emmett's half of the conversation, of course. He seems disappointed. "Really?! Again?! Yeah, I know I should, but..." He sighs, and nods sadly. "Okay, I'll do it. But you're lucky I'm not demanding overtime for this! Okay fine, see you later." He hangs up, and sighs. "Take a seat and wait. I've got something to do next door. I'll be right back. If anyone asks, tell them you're waiting for me."
David nods. In a hurry, Emmett takes his leave. With luck, he'll be a while. With even more luck, he'll be forever. James Bond, alas, has surely won more at poker tables...including the heart of Sylvia Trench. He might've been too late to win her virginity...but with women like her, it's hard to tell. David might not know it yet, but he's about to meet his own Sylvia Trench.
David looks around. This is his chance. He'd better not get caught...by the Professor, or anyone else...
At the end of the hall, there's a conference room. Callahan and his partners often come in here to meet with clients. In general, the meetings go well. But then, at least Callahan's sex life has seldom ever become relevant.
Quietly, David creeps into this room. It's quiet, and the lights are off. He circles the room. This, he knows, is where he'd get to have a lot of meetings, if only he was one of Callahan's interns. O well; at least Warner and Aaron, at least, are having a ball having situational use for this space...and getting to sit at Professor Callahan's right hand, while doing so...
There's a glass wall. It's shaded. As David passes them, he stops, peels some of the shades apart with his fingers, and peers through them...
From here, David can see a golf course. Within it, there's a lake. He almost snickers, at the thought of a gopher undermining the golf course, like in the Caddyshack movies... David doesn't know it yet...but he's about to become a gopher of sorts...
In the hallway, there are restrooms...an amenity for both employees and clients. The employees have their own restrooms within another hall, within the office space. These rooms, though, are for the clients. One of them is occupied...but otherwise perfectly capable of accommodating for at least five guests...with varying needs. There's so much, it seems, that Callahan doesn't know about women... But then, of course, being a gay male has its own way of being helplessly ignorant of many philogynist customs...
From the ladies' room, a fine sight emerges. She wears much pink...and is a blonde. She's Callahan's latest client.
Ms. Luketic sighs and looks around...as if she can't remember her purpose. She eyes the door into the conference room at the end of the hall...
On the floor of the conference room, a stray pen lies. David almost steps on it, as he continues to orbit the table in the conference room...
With a foot still next to the pen, David stops. He turns his head, and looks down...
He sees the pen. He's not sure what it means. There's something familiar about it, though... He can't quite figure out what...
Aloft, within the ceiling, there's a vent cover. The air, within the HVAC, starts running. As this happens, a soft, sultry breeze blows through the ducts. It comes through the vent cover... As this happens, David has a surreal experience.
All around David, the conference room gets a thousand times bigger...as he becomes a thousand times smaller. Near him, the pen gets bigger, too. He's soon like a speck at what would be its head...if only the head were retracted.
A transformation, too, David seems to have undergone. He's a lot younger than before. His hair is shorter...but not too much so. He's perspiring a bit more than what he's used to. He's breathing a lot more, too...and not necessarily because he's more scared than before. His clothes have mostly vanished; only a pair of bichrome blue-grey and white drawers are what remains of his day's wardrobe.
"Shit," David whispers. "I think I might need a bucket..."
The door to the conference room opens. The light is turned on. Across the shaded underside of the table, tiny David can see a pair of pink heels...and the bare lower female legs whose feet are in them.
"Hello?!" She's a woman, alright. She...also seems a bit confused. David would be more inspired...if he wasn't so scared. In thundering heels, she starts to wander in a circle around the conference room...much like David only moments before, back when he was still about her size...
About now, David inspects his new drawers. He sees that they're of the same bicolor as the Somali Ocean Stars; the national soccer team of the Somali States. One of the butt cheeks, of his new drawers, bears the team's logo. The other bears the big white star in the midst of Somalia's flag.
At this, David scoffs. "I'm never going to get past the 'deworming orphans in Somalia' thing, am I?"
The fashion of David's new clothes, though, becomes a minute concern...as the blonde giantess, clad in pink, appears before David...near one end of the conference room table. She's still looking around, with a blank stare. Every now and then, she yells for someone; to tiny David, her voice echoes.
Near David, the now-huge pen still lies. This pen, it seems, is a part of Master Yogurt's famed Spaceballs "moychandising" series; this particular item is Spaceballs the Writing Pen...
Near the head of the pen, David hiccups. "Shit," he whimpers.
With thundering feet, and the mind of a dumb blonde, Ms. Luketic approaches. Soon, one of her hot pink pumps is right next to the pen...and hence, David. David considers hiding beside the pen... He's...not sure if this is in order...
High above, Ms. Luketic blinks, and looks around. She turns her head, just as David from before. She sees the pen on the floor, just as David from before...
A tense moment passes. She's looking right in David's direction...and David is indecent. This...is not how David hoped the afternoon would go... And yet, he'd be lying, if he said he wasn't having fun...
Into the conference room, Aaron Mitchell, one of the Harvard interns, arrives. He sees Ms. Luketic...moments before she bends over to pick up the pen...
"Oh, Ms. Luketic!" He rushes forth, to greet her... "We've been wondering where you've been..."
Spontaneously, Ms. Luketic stands upright...inadvertently demonstrating the "bend & snap" tactic of catching a man's eye. Alas, while performing this maneuver, she commits an epic boo-boo; because Mitchell was trying to bend over her while she was bent over...and because she stood upright so suddenly...she has sent poor Mitchell flying into a nearby column. He's hit his face...and also his head. And he now lies unconscious, at the base of the column...
Ms. Luketic looks around, confused. She thinks she's heard a commotion...but she's not sure...
From the pen...to which David now clings, as it hangs from Ms. Luketic's pink-polished grip...David cowers. He considers himself lucky that Aaron didn't see/recognize him... He's still getting used to being so small, then; Aaron wouldn't have seen him anyway. Ms. Luketic, still unbeknownst to David, still hasn't.
Still stumped, Ms. Luketic not-so-deviously drops the pen in her purse...and along with it, David. She straightens her hair, and continues to wander throughout the law offices, shouting for someone's attention...or for Callahan's, otherwise...
Going into her purse, David still needs to hurl... Once inside of it, though, he becomes distracted by all of the soaps, perfumes, and cosmetics that Ms. Luketic keeps in here... A fashionista, it seems she is...not too unlike Elle. Elle, though, only looks like a dumb blonde; Ms. Luketic, OTOH, is more like the stock character. She's no Harvard law grad; otherwise, she'd be more likely to be a lawyer, than to need one. She also has a federal issue that needs dealing with; otherwise, she'd be nowhere near Callahan's operation...unless she was lost. (She is lost; but that's beside the point.)
Even now, David's fortunes are still in peril. But at least Professor Stromwell would be proud of him, if she knew what he was up to now...once though, for her, he's already demonstrated his half-hearted bravery. Alas, David will soon have to demonstrate his wholehearted bravery to Ms. Luketic...that is, assuming that she's the "ideal runner-up," and the "bigger catch" that Azrael allegedly sent him here to court, that one time when he was drinking beer on the buoy in the Gulf of Maine... O, what he'd give, to be back on that buoy, about now...far from this beautiful dumb blonde's purse though that'd still be...
