THE DEPUTY SHERIFF’S testimony over, I am all that is left on the schedule and then of course the closing statements. We are bumping up against the Fourth of July holiday so the judge has sent us home for the rest of the week. Barry tells me my time on the stand is to be minimal, his inquiries limited to the night when I allegedly shot an armed robber six times in self-defense. He doesn’t want to muddy the waters of the rest of my life with any personal testimony. It’s all there, plain as day for people to make of it what they will. I am ready for my testimony, but mostly because it’s not going to happen.
Giddy in anticipation of the trial’s climax, Barry has called me to his office ostensibly to talk strategy. The conference room is decked out in a mini-replica of the courtroom. I recognize a rehearsal space when I see one. Barry stands behind a lectern. “I just thought I’d run some ideas by you,” he says.
I sit down behind what I take to be the judge’s desk and run my hands over the smooth surface. “I’m all ears,” I say. Barry smiles and looks down at his notes, the only time he’ll do so for nearly an hour.
“Ladies and gentleman of the jury,” Barry says, “I want to tell you a story, a story of a man who was like any other, until he wasn’t. Imagine, if you will, getting everything you could ever want, but somehow everything is never enough.”
It’s not that the story is bad, just that it’s awfully familiar. There are times I have an urge to object, but that isn’t the judge’s job. My role here is to listen; composed, impartial. I nod occasionally to keep Barry going, but it isn’t necessary. He’s plenty wound up. My case must be the best thing that ever happened to him, everything he ever wanted, and I feel some pangs of guilt over the fact that he’ll never have a chance to deliver this story to its intended audience. We all want to be heard, but only some of us are pushy or needy or damaged enough to insist that someone else listen.
His telling of the story isn’t the same as my telling, but from the parts I pay attention to, it’s not wrong.
Barry watches me, eyes open and hoping and I realize he’s done. I pound my hands together until they hurt. Barry knuckles a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Really?” he says. “It was good?”
“I couldn’t imagine anything better,” I reply. I go to him and we hug and I thank him for everything, and tell him I’m sorry.
“For what?” he says.
“You’ll see,” I reply.
I FEEL AS though we take it for granted, but the Internet really is a miracle, and for my personal purposes, it has developed itself on a just-in-time basis. For example, if my stand-up career got underway once the video-sharing Web sites were ubiquitous, I can’t imagine anyone paying to see the thing. I would have done it once or twice, someone would have captured it on video, and there it would be, instantaneous worldwide distribution. Rather than an international touring sensation, I would’ve been a virtual flash in the pan, next to the guy with the bizarrely deep voice singing about “Chocolate Rain,” whatever the hell that is, or the baby who loves to tear paper into pieces. I got to control the content and people proved they would pay for it. Now, they say, content just wants to be free.
Well, we all want to be free, don’t we?
Conspiracy blogs that posit the existence and location of a special island where the famous and rich go for special treatments, combined with my own experiences and knowledge, and some work with satellite-mapping software allow me to make a better than reasonable guess as to its location. I can also procure a sturdy sailing vessel that is promised to be waiting for me at a certain time and location stocked with all of the necessary supplies. Thanks to the Internet I can learn how to sail without actually doing so. I can even check out a half-dozen sites that promise to offer foolproof steps to disabling a home-confinement monitoring device (though I will not need their advice).
I check Bonnie’s Wimbledon tournament results before they are shown tape-delayed on television, where I will savor every moment. She is in the semifinals without dropping a set. The commentators are calling her performance “inspired,” which is more on the nose than they know. She strikes the ball with a ferocious purpose. Her serves seem laser-guided. It is as close to perfection as possible.
My agent e-mails me to say that he’s successfully sold my book for more than we had figured, which is good news because that money is now spoken for. And now that I’m done with the book I can thank him in a return e-mail and attach the manuscript to the message and wish him Godspeed.