I enter the magistrate's office, prostrate as usual. I have been here many times before, sometimes for legal reasons, sometimes for personal ones. Last week I borrowed her computer to print out journal entries. I have stood before her in court on ministerial matters that involved no discussion of the fact that I am married to her daughter. I have felled branches in her backyard. I have vacationed with her. Years ago, she was a city prosecutor against my public defender father. Today, my project is to display myself before her, to preen as any son-in-law should.
"Your honor, may I interrupt for a moment?" She is at her desk, concentrating.
"Mr. Bloomsday, good morning! How can I help you?" She is lovely.
"Actually, I just wanted to inform you of an epiphany."
"Shall we prepare a feast for this epiphany?" She jokes.
"No, no. This is more of a wardrobe epiphany, which is far less important than more trans-substantial ones. I wanted to tell you that I have been suiting up for court for the last ten years as a public defender, as my father did before me, and in that time, I've worn a lot of crappy clothing, but, at last, I have found my favorite shirt of all time."
She now realizes that I'm completely unserious. "Really?"
"Yes," I affirm. "This shirt," I remove my suit coat to reveal a blue dress shirt, hemmed with fine linens, complimented by a brown tie with fluorescent polka dots and a pair of burgundy suspenders. My magistrate-in-law, who will, someday, be the grandmother of my son, has purchased it for me for Christmas. "Thank you," I say.
"It does look professional."
"Yes. I'd also like to remind you that my father adored you back in the day, and that, in some freakish twist of fate, I am now married to your daughter. There is no further need to shower me with unnecessary -but profoundly appreciated gifts. It poses a conflict of interest, you see."
"I understand," she smiles. "No more gifts for you, Mr. Bloomsday."
"Thank you, your honor." I disappear from her doorway and move on to the chaos of a nearby courtroom.
"Your honor, may I interrupt for a moment?" She is at her desk, concentrating.
"Mr. Bloomsday, good morning! How can I help you?" She is lovely.
"Actually, I just wanted to inform you of an epiphany."
"Shall we prepare a feast for this epiphany?" She jokes.
"No, no. This is more of a wardrobe epiphany, which is far less important than more trans-substantial ones. I wanted to tell you that I have been suiting up for court for the last ten years as a public defender, as my father did before me, and in that time, I've worn a lot of crappy clothing, but, at last, I have found my favorite shirt of all time."
She now realizes that I'm completely unserious. "Really?"
"Yes," I affirm. "This shirt," I remove my suit coat to reveal a blue dress shirt, hemmed with fine linens, complimented by a brown tie with fluorescent polka dots and a pair of burgundy suspenders. My magistrate-in-law, who will, someday, be the grandmother of my son, has purchased it for me for Christmas. "Thank you," I say.
"It does look professional."
"Yes. I'd also like to remind you that my father adored you back in the day, and that, in some freakish twist of fate, I am now married to your daughter. There is no further need to shower me with unnecessary -but profoundly appreciated gifts. It poses a conflict of interest, you see."
"I understand," she smiles. "No more gifts for you, Mr. Bloomsday."
"Thank you, your honor." I disappear from her doorway and move on to the chaos of a nearby courtroom.