SHORT STORIES

From Vices and Versas
From Plaintiffs and Pontiffs
DER PROZESS

I’m starting to have doubts about the attorney I hired. With my current finances, I didn’t have much money for a retainer—my mother said I wouldn’t get anything good for less than ten thousand—but I found this man at a very reasonable rate, and my hopes came back to me.
    He’s got a very refined aura, this attorney. You look at him and you think—“There’s a competent man. I’m not sure what he does, but clearly he does it well.” A reserved confidence fortifies his image—a blatant confidence is usually fake, but a reserved one must be well founded. That’s logic. And his hands always look like they know what they’re doing, which I find to be very impressive. There must be some connection between the certainty of his hands and the certainty with which he handles his business, reason dictates. All of these impressions and more entered my head as I gave him five thousand dollars, and have been leaving my head ever since.
    I wouldn’t mind so much, the subpar performance of a man legally on my behalf, if it weren’t such a serious case. I am being prosecuted by God, no less. When I complain about my disadvantaged circumstances, to anyone I feel might empathize, a lot of them admonish me about my fiscal responsibility. Truly responsible people can always afford a good attorney, they say. I remind them, though, that such virtues are difficult to attain when God clearly isn’t on my side. And then the topic usually changes from there, since no one likes to think about being on the wrong side of God. We’re not changing it now, though—nothing’s weighing on my mind more. And we’re at the trial, so it seems relevant.
    My confounded attorney—for instance, just ten minutes ago he did this. With God as his witness, he asked a very good question—“Do you, or rather do you not, forgive all sins, should they be confessed to?”
    It’s very possible that God simply lied under oath—he swore on the Bible, but does that morally bind the man who wrote it? Very unlikely. But he said, with apparent candor, “Of course I do.”
    I was excited—“Great tact, attorney!” I thought to myself. If God will truly forgive all sins, then surely he’ll forgive the ones that landed me here, and that’s the end of it. I just have to find some contrition in my heart, and the thing’s settled. My attorney was on a different tack, though—not tact at all.
    “That’s very good to hear, because my client told me—in strict confidence—that he’s an incorrigible fornicator. Could you forgive him for that?”
    God feigned surprise, as if he hadn’t seen it all. Then he spent a few moments in contemplation, slowly stroking his long beard, as if that particular question didn’t land within his realm of omniscience. “Is he sorry?” he finally asked. Then they both turned to face me.
    What the fuck? In confidence I disclosed that information, in confidence. It’s completely irrelevant, and furthermore my mother is sitting in the audience. Apparently we’ve found a way to go backwards in making our case that I don’t belong here. I was so mortified that the words wouldn’t form in my mouth. God smiled, he loves it when fleshy things are mortified. My attorney returned to my side, and asked me what the matter was. I said the only thing I could, the words repeating over and over in my mind—“What the fuck?”
    “If you don’t answer his question,” he replied, ignoring the expletive, “I’m afraid the jury might think less of you.” We both stole a glance at the jury—four angels, four demons, and Judas Iscariot rounding out the ninth.
    “Why is he here again?” I asked, distracted once more by the presence of Judas. It seems insane to me that a man so obviously deficient in good judgment would make it through the screening process. The angels are a lost cause—do I really want to ingratiate myself to demons and Judas? “Tell God I’m sorry,” I said.
    “He’s not going to believe it unless he hears it from you.”
    “Do you not represent me?”
    “Not in this. I wouldn’t want to, at least. Nothing worse than an incorrigible fornicator.”
    “Well, I don’t feel like saying it any louder,” I said.
    “Oh dear, that’s a bad move. I’d advise against it.”
    “Who made the bad move!?” I yelled, altogether too loudly. And I’d like to leave the rest of the incident there, blissfully in the past. The present’s not much better, though.
    My attorney has Jesus on the bench, and he’s doing a horrendous job of crucifying him.
    Once again he starts out strong, he says, “It is clear from the preceding testimony (omitted) that you, along with God and the Holy Spirit, are colluding against the defendant.” There we go—that’s one of the points I want driven deep. They’ve got a monopoly on goodness, this unholy trio, and it’s finally time for someone to break the trust—no longer in God.
    From such a salient point, though, the argument falters spectacularly—it devolves into a conversation about the unity of the trio, how they are really one. A theology that claims them to be separate individuals sounds like a form of Arianism, Jesus explains, which was already deemed as heretical at the Ecumenical First Council of Nicaea, all the way back in 325 A.D. The logical conclusion, therefore, is that collusion is not the correct accusation to make against the tripartite godhead.
    My attorney whispers to me, “Very sorry, I thought we had them there.”
    “Don’t we?” I ask. “They’re sitting over there, God and the Holy Spirit, whispering in each other’s ears. How is that not collusion?”
    “Weren’t you listening? The court has already determined that it’s not,” he replies. And that’s that?
    After Jesus is done taking an easy lap around the Stations, we’re let out on recess, and I couldn’t be more relieved. For hours they make you sit in chairs, for hours they make you listen to arguments about semantics, or about nothing at all, and somehow your fate depends on the final tally of every one. I’m not built for that. I don’t think anyone is—and yet, it’s a human institution. What have we done to ourselves?
    I’m amazed to find the sun outside, shining without a god holding it up. They’re all busy inside, coming up with their next attack on my character. The sun’s on its own. I wonder if the Romans would be heartbroken to know how wrong they were, about Apollo and all of that. Maybe they wouldn’t be heartbroken at all—it might be quite exhilarating, actually, to know that all the gods you thought you were letting down your whole life don’t actually exist. I’d give anything to experience that myself.
    I pull out my pack of cigarettes. Is that a sin too? God doesn’t have much to say about modern forms of sin—he’s said plenty about murder, adultery, stealing, all those eternal staples of immoral behavior. But what about smoking? What about texting while driving? Underage pornography? A few millennia ago, when the Bible was written, people didn’t live much past eighteen, and they certainly didn’t take pictures. In a few hundred years will we decide that people aren’t truly mature, and capable of making decisions about life in general and their body in particular, until they’re thirty? Forty? Fifty? Where does that end? It would be a shame to have pornography restricted to people over fifty.
    There’s an expansive veranda along the side of the courthouse, looking out on some trees and other nameless buildings. More importantly there’s a girl halfway down its length, leaning against a small barrier whose main purpose is to keep order in the court.
    Blissfully, she isn’t very attractive. She’s got nice legs, as far as those go, coming out of a short skirt, and hair with a pleasant nonchalance about it, but her other features are incongruous. I tend to avoid the attractive type, and it’s served me well. This girl doesn’t require avoiding. I light a cigarette and approach with casual disregard.
    I let out a carcinogenic cloud. My contribution to the world. I take in another. My cost of living. I’m only a few feet away from her, on an otherwise empty veranda. She looks at me with a hint of distaste—directed, no doubt, at my smoke. Or is it my hideous face? Regardless, all I need is the acknowledgment. With that, I’m in. “I’m trying to quit, you know,” I say, “or at least occasionally I’m trying. Every time I smoke it brings me a little closer to God, and that’s the last thing I want. You’d think I could just do what I want, but for some reason I can’t.” I take another breath. “Where’s my control?”
    “Well, what else do you want to do that you can’t?” she asks. She takes a few steps away, trying to be inconspicuous. But how could I not notice?
    “To just live my life, really. But I suppose it’s not just as simple as that. Through the course of my own life, I’ll have to impinge on others.” Did she really frown at ‘impinge’? It’s a word, damn it.
    “Isn’t that your case, in there?” she asks.
    I nod.
    “What are the charges?”
    “It’s all rather complicated. Truthfully, I don’t know myself. All I know is that I’m in the wrong, and it’ll be very hard to get out. That’s what my attorney tells me, at least. The terms are all complicated—that’s why I had to hire him—but I’ve been able to put that much together.”
    “Really tragic,” she says, and begins to dig passionately through her purse. For what? She has a very full purse, I notice. For lip gloss—her triumphant hand returns with lip gloss, and crosses the Rubicon. Immediately she starts applying it to her face, while Pompey flees the city.
    I must admit that I’m hopelessly in love, at this point. I’m not even sure why. There’s something perfectly effeminate about the application of lip gloss, I suppose, and my heart goes out to it. She brushes her hair back—always nonchalant—and applies again. Could I fall harder? She rubs her lips together, asserting the top first, then the bottom, three times.
    I’m bothered by the concept that we’re beautiful in some way. You hear that a lot—everyone’s beautiful. More often you hear it more with respect to the physically attractive ones of our species, all those wonderful prancing unicorns, but some people mean it about everyone. More importantly, about themselves. Often the statement is only implicit—every time you use eyeliner, for instance, you’re making a claim that your eyes deserve emphasis. Because otherwise, there’s no utility. Every time you adjust your hair because it’s not lying flat, there’s an assumption that it’s better that way. Every time you spend more than fifty cents on a T-shirt—I assume that’s all the raw materials really cost—the excess is spent on some sort of belief in beautification, in branding and in shininess and certain sartorial nuances that you feel emphasize your body correctly. I’m trying to move past that, to actively engage in ugliness. But it’s hard. We’re not built for it. It applies to behavior as well—a beautiful behavior is a personable one, charitable, agreeable, predictable. I really want to move past that.
    I say, “I just wrote a book, you know. Vices and Versas, it’s called. Just a collection of short stories—that’s all the attention span I have these days—but it’s still the size of a book, yeah?”
    “What’s it about?”
    Perhaps she misunderstood. Or maybe she thinks I’m operating under some kind of unified artistic vision, rather than the jumbled pile of nonsense and non sequiturs where I spend the majority of my time. A correction would sound condescending, so I make something up instead. “You know, vices. Versas aren’t real, but vices. Those unfortunate things we can’t help ourselves from doing. Like smoking—you’d agree to that, wouldn’t you?”
    She smiles, in a seemingly genuine way. I don’t hesitate—I close the distance between us, and attempt a kiss. She slaps me before I make contact. A slap? Seriously?
    “I’m afraid I made a mistake,” I say, my face throbbing.
    “You definitely have,” she says, and walks away.
    Before you judge me, hear me out. I strongly believe that anyone is capable of loving anyone—all that is required is the right exposure, under the right circumstances. Everyone you see, then, is a potential lover. So why not kiss them? What’s the difference, really? Knowing someone doesn’t change the sanitary value of the act. Because it’s a violation of their person? Yes, I suppose it’s that, but only if you want to look at it that way. Perhaps she was averse to my breath, and it was as simple as that—I really have to quit these cigarettes. I flick the stub and go back to the courtroom.
    And the process continues. We go through an exhaustive list of my friends, all of which denounce me to a receptive audience. We hear from my primary school teachers, and secondary, and professors from the university—they make it clear that they were never very approving of my conduct, I was never a particularly good student, and that it’s no surprise I’ve ended up here. Law enforcement officials testify about a certain number of parking and traffic violations that they have on record, a representative of the IRS gives a thorough presentation about itemizations and deductions that were done incorrectly for seven years’ worth of tax returns, waiters from various restaurants exhume carbon copies that prove with absolute certainty that I don’t tip sufficiently. They even bring out the remnants of a hibiscus that I killed from miswatering, some years before, and compel the audience to contemplate it in silence for no less than half an hour.
    My attorney starts using court catchphrases at random, since they seem to have a higher success rate that way. He objects a lot, he files motions to dismiss people as evidence. He calls most everything hearsay—and the jury nods every time he does, since they’re probably hearing it as ‘heresy’.
    It becomes clear that it’s too much to accomplish in one day. The judge is just about to adjourn us all, when God says in his booming voice, “Nonsense. The day is not over yet! Sun, stand still over Gibeon!” And stand still it does—or, presumably, the Earth stops revolving. It’s hard to say which. Regardless of astronomy, the important fact is that the judge agrees the slaughter can continue, like I’m just the sixth King of the Amorites.
    The next witness is, as it happens, myself.  I saw what I did. I am cross-examined by the Holy Attorney—just one of the Pope’s many titles. He’s got on all his regalia, his absurd hat and his white robe—is he more beautiful, dressed like that? It astounds me all over again that such people are setting so much time aside to beleaguer my existence. The Pope’s a generally busy man, and it’s Sunday—how are the Catholics doing their mass without him? And God’s sitting a table with his counsel—aren’t there famines somewhere, to attend to? If I’ve ever felt guilt, it would be now. Do they not feel the same compunction for their untended flock?
    The Pope asks me, translated from the Latin, “Do you believe entirely in the truth of the Bible and the Holy Word?”
    “As in, literally?” I ask.
    “There is no other way.”
    “Honestly, I don’t think that makes sense. Like, which translation? I don’t speak Hebrew. Latin? When Jerome translated the Vulgate, for instance, he incorrectly wrote that while Moses was descending Mount Sinai the second time he grew horns on his head. Must I take this mistake as a literal truth?” I learned that while researching for a book I tried to write about Michelangelo—his statue of Moses has actual horns, since that’s what they believed at the time.
    “He’s not answering, Your Honor,” the Pope appeals to the presiding judge.
    “Fine,” I say. “No, I don’t. There’s your unqualified answer.”
    A general murmuring in the audience. The Pope slowly nods his head, while my attorney mournfully shakes his own. A realization comes to me—I should have hired one of the Muslim Caliphs as my attorney. I’m not sure which one, since I believe there’s multiple sects, but any would do. Someone with the same kind of gravitas as the Pope—because what chance does an average civil litigation lawyer have against the Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church? Whenever they happen to stand next to each other, their striking contrast alone is enough to make the case seem settled. A Caliph would have compared better. They probably would have taken the case pro bono too, just for the opportunity to stick it to Jesus. Why do my best ideas always come too late?
    The Pope also enquires into my thoughts on abortion, then gay marriage, then universal democracy, then capitalism. We move from those broad categories to my specific failings in life. For weeks the trial goes on this way—my sins are numerous and complex—but finally we get to the closing statements. “Can I do my own?” I ask my attorney. This whole trial, my point has always been missed somehow. Even when I was talking, the Pope was always interrupting me with his Latin interjections. Whether it’s too late or not, I’d like to just get it out.
    My attorney has doubts about me. “You’re really not qualified for such things.”
    “It’s a demand, then. I’m going to do it.” He has to oblige me. When the time comes, I’m given the floor.
    My speech is improvised, but it’s drawn from misgivings that I’ve had my entire life. “I don’t think there’s such thing as meaning, in a metaphysical sense. Like when people say, ‘I want my life to have meaning,’ I think it’s a bunch of nonsense. Because what would that meaning really be? Define it for me. A better life for our progeny? But that assumes that their life is given meaning from an appreciation of what we’ve done, which doesn’t seem very true. They’d define it the same as we did—for the future! And in the end, when the universe implodes and we’re all gone, it’ll be the case that the last link in this long chain of paying it forward is—nothing? We did it to accomplish nothing. That’s what it comes back to.
    “Even with Heaven above us, hypothetically—the promise of eternal life—does that provide meaning? Does my life mean more if it’s longer? Conversely, would God be worshipped if he was finite, if he only lived for, say, five thousand years before dying and being replaced? Not as devoutly, I would imagine. People would pat him on the back every now and then and say, ‘Thanks for what you did, back then,’ but I think that would be the extent of it. Temporary things are much less impressive to us. We put so much value in eternity because we don’t understand it. We mysticize time, when it’s really the same as it always is—just time.
    Or perhaps you’ll say it’s Heaven that provides life value, because it represents the purest of our human aspects—but is it correct to anthropomorphize value? If a child was expressing an ego like that, we’d correct them, we’d say, “the world doesn’t revolve around you’. But as adults we make the universe revolve around ourselves, and call it good. That’s hypocrisy.
    “So ultimately I must be a nihilist—if I can’t find a meaning, if I can’t identify with the ones that are presented to me, I’m necessarily a nihilist. I’m trying to comprehend the consequences of that truth, but it’s hard for me. Must I be tried for it? Accused of perfidy? Does Jesus really only save the people that place all their faith unquestioningly in him? That doesn’t seem fair. But I’ve already called into doubt the value of being saved, so it’s an irrelevant lack of fairness.
    “So go on, make your judgment—you angels and you demons—but try to understand how meaningless it is, yeah?”
    The audience is silent. No one cheers for nothing. The Pope moves directly into his own closing remarks. “You’ve already seen… the faithlessness of the defendant. That much has been clear from the start. And now you have a direct admission of guilt. He says himself that he is a nihilist, which means he doesn’t believe in God—even though God is in the same room as him!” And everyone has a great laugh—genuine, disdainful laughter fills the court. Just like that the nuance of my argument is reduced to nothing—that’s how arguments go, after all. Mostly ignored, even by the Pope. The labels we give, they carry more weight than the rationales.
    “My suggestion,” he continues. In four hundred years they’ll issue a papal apology for whatever he’s going to say now—but that won’t stop him from saying it. They’ll apologize, but it’ll take a very long time. An eternity? For most of us. “I would excommunicate him, but he has already excommunicated himself. Jude the Apostate. He requires a more stringent punishment. Such heathens, we believe, deserve to be consigned to the flame.”
    To the flame. Fire, burning things, is like a purification rite. If they burn me, cauterize me out, the body of the Church might be saved. That’s the logic. These large institutions are subject to the same cancers and gangrenes that any person would be. And they’re even more afraid of them, because they know they’re weaker—their institutional organs often decide to strike off on their own path, when things look grim. I’ve been declared a cancer. Is that really what I am? So they want to burn me. At least they don’t use leeches anymore, I’d be more scared about that. God bless advances in modern medicine.
    The jury deliberates their verdict. It doesn’t take them long. “We find the defendant guilty of all charges, whatever they might be.” My heart implodes, while my mind doesn’t comprehend. “No burning, though.” A temporary relief. “As punishment, we suggest that he be assigned a therapist. They will monitor him, correct him when he fails, and bring his behavior to heel.”
    Not doing anything for my case, I shout, “Wie ein Hund! Wie ein Hund!” Nobody here speaks German. I adjust. “Like a dog! Like a dog!” I know I’ve said nothing matters, so my fate shouldn’t either, but in the face of my verdict I lose sight of my convictions. More than anything, I don’t want to be corrected.
    Maybe I can do better than Kafka. I reach all the way back to some classic philosophy—everybody loves that. “I suggest that, instead of being punished for my behavior, I should be rewarded.” There’s an apology for you. Philosophy at its finest. Maybe they’ll tolerate a gnat better than a cancer.
    We live in a world of pesticides, though. Judas says, simply, “No.”
    Judas—our name is only different in English. Can you really do this to yourself?