MARC LEVY

SMALL CLAIMS

The pink pills made him feel warm.

“No sunglasses are allowed, Sir. You’ll have to take them off,” the court clerk stated. He pursed his lips. Thick gold chevrons covered his sleeves. A pointy silver badge twinkled above his right breast pocket. Beneath it his name etched in black plastic lay perfectly flat.

Steven looked up, turned his head mechanically. The beribboned medals spangled across his sports jacket clinked softly. Like shooting stars, he thought.

“I can’t,” he said. “The lights too strong. It hurts my eyes.”

He blinked. A woman sitting nearby coughed. Several male voices whispered crisp obscenities. The overhead fluorescent bulbs glared and flickered. Steven watched a thin second hand sweep time from a wall mounted clock. Filigreed roman numerals fell to the floor. The iridescent lenses made the world look strange. He felt comfortable inside them.

“No problem, sir,” the clerk said. “No problem at all.”

Crossing his legs Steven thumbed at manila folders braced on his lap, each labeled with small white sticker. VA; Hospital Summary; Raymond. Several photographs lay trapped in plastic. Lieutenant Gill stared into the camera, the ominous weapon held at his hip. Steven’s pistol lay in the background. On a bunker which no longer existed. He liked the photograph. The lieutenant was dead.

He opened the VA folder.  ‘An evaluation of 100% is assigned if the attitudes of all contacts except the most intimate are so adversely affected as to result in a virtual isolation in the community. Totally incapacitating psychoneurotic symptoms such as fantasy, confusion, panic, and explosions of aggressive energy with disturbed thought or behavioral process border on gross repudiation of reality resulting in profound retreat from mature behavior.’

Raymond’s letter brought ironic confidence. He read the last paragraph under his breath.

Here’s the bad news: When a tenant vacates w/o probable cause the landlord keeps the security deposit. However: There’s nothing in the lease that merits his counter suit. Your best bet is to act like a nut who wants to let bygones be bygones. Bring your pile of paper, by all means; show it to anyone, including the judge, the arbitrator, the landlord’s lawyer, it doesn’t matter.  No one wants to litigate with Travis Bickle.

The Lieutenant smiled, handsome and happy.

“Ladies and Gentleman, court will commence in approximately ten minutes,” said the court clerk.

Steven adjusted his sunglasses, pressing his index finger to the bridge of his nose. “Your Honor,” he would say, “I have a short statement I would like to read.” Afterwards the landlords attorney would shout, “Objection. Claimant presents a false and frivolous interpretation of circumstances.” The black gowned judge would lean forward. “Denied. Case dismissed.”

“All rise,” said a stout, red faced bailiff. “The Honorable W. R. Lasker presiding.”

A middle-aged woman entered the room from a side door Steven had not seen. The bailiff waited as she settled into a large oak chair. Her black robe hissed like smoke grenades. Or white phosphorous.

“You may be seated,” the bailiff said to the small crowd packed in the sweltering room divided in half by twelve wood benches.  

Uncrossing his legs Steven stared at Beck. Shocked out and unshaven the sturdy sergeant stood arms akimbo on a well used trail. Beneath his clumsy steel helmet deep hollow circles ringed both eyes. A filthy gauze pad covered a flesh wound. They were marching back to base. “If it gets infected you’ll be living in a world of hurt,” Steven had said. “Try to keep it clean.”

The clerk stepped forward. “State ‘By the court’ if you wish to see the Judge. State ‘Ready’ to have your case arbitrated.”  

He locked his arms behind his back and stepped aside.

“R. Keller vs. M. Riess,” the bailiff called out.   

“By the court,” a firm voice answered. “By the court,” came the reply.

Steven followed the speeding clock hands’ relentless midnight curves; the grim clerk stood at parade rest. His pistol belt sparkled. Steven felt the dream fall the wounded always made.

“By the Court,” he heard himself mutter.

A frail voice forced itself around the meticulous phrase.

“By the Court,” it said.

Steven looked across the aisle, settling his gaze on Lawrence Haber. The star-shaped medals clinked at each step. Leaning over the long wood bench he touched the old man’s arm.

“Can I have a moment with you?’ he said, surprised at his own sincerity.

Haber had aged. Grown large and weary he appeared to sag inward as though caught in a puddle of himself. Painfully, he shifted around.

“Branford vs. Stone,” the bailiff continued.

If no one answered he crossed out the names.

“What do want?”

“Listen, I’d like to....”  

He felt foolish. Haber resembled his father.

“What?”  

“I’ve reconsidered. I’d like to drop the case.”

Haber winced. “ Why? You broke the lease, Steven. Now you drag me here...Now you want out?”

“Grandsen vs. Carver.”

“Can we talk outside, Lawrence? There are things I need to explain.”

“Look at me. I’m seventy eight years old. I don’t need this. What are you trying to prove?”

Steven repeated himself. Haber grimaced, then pushed off the seat with the palms of both hands.

Outside the court the hallway lay silent---dulled by a thousand footfalls. Steven leaned his elbow against a window sill. Haber pressed his rheumy back against a thick marble wall. The medals hung between them like a hangman’s noose. Steven imagined his homoncular self reflected in the sunglass lenses.  

Haber spoke quickly.

“What’s to talk? What? Speak with my lawyer. Talk with him.” he said.

“Lawrence, I’m not here to argue.”

Steven felt humble. Let bygones be bygones. Like father to son.

“I treated you like family. Why are you fighting me? Why?”

“You’re right, Lawrence. You’re right.  I don’t have a case. Why don’t we drop it?”

“What’s this?” The old man fingered the ribbons’ shiny fabric. “You were in service?”

“Listen to me, Lawrence. I don’t work. The VA pays the bills, the government pays the rent. Don’t you get it? That’s what I’ll tell the judge. War stress. She’ll toss the case.”

“Sure. It’s that simple. Just like that. It took me three hours it took me to get here. Three hours.”

A trim, well dressed middle aged man strode down the silent hall; his firm steps echoed like outgoing shells; his teeth beamed a professional smile.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Haber. Have they started?”

The handsome man adjusted his tie.

“Not yet. This is Mr. Ryan,” said Haber, nodding to Steven.

“Jeffery Jameson,” said the attorney, “How do you do?”

“You never returned my calls,” said Steven. He felt the man’s cold gaze sweep over his body.

“Well, you know...” He spoke easily, spur-of-the-moment, matter of fact. “You should have kept calling.”

Haber gestured to the courtroom. “Can’t you see we’re talking?”

“Pleasure meeting you,” said Jameson.

Immediately Haber poked his finger against the shiny stone wall.

“You got some nerve, Steven...some nerve.”

Oh, for Christ sake, he thought. I’m the one with problems. Not you. Or didn’t you know war is not pleasant. Steven kicked his right foot against his left. The wall swayed. Monsoon. He braced himself, then shut down.

“All right. The judge will judge settle it.” He held the folders to Haber’s face. “I’ll show her my records. Psych reports, battle wounds. I lost count of how many pills I take.”

“Who cares? You can’t just go anytime you like. You broke the lease.”

He was impossible. “You don’t have a counter suit Lawrence and you know it.”

The old man frowned. “That’s enough. The answer is no.”

Once seated in the courtroom Haber cupped a frail hand to Jameson’s ear.  They conferred for hours.

“Psssst...”

Steven watched Haber’s bony wrist beckon him forward. Its trigger finger swung left, right, left.

“All right. C’mon. Let’s talk.”

When Steven stood up the room spun out of control. Where was he? He fumbled three pills to his mouth then crawled forward.

“You see him up there?” said Haber.

Jameson spoke in ricochets. The Judge smiled.

“Give him something,” said Haber. “You got to give him something.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

The court clerk placed his index finger over his mouth. Haber tugged Steven’s jacket sleeve, pulling him down.

“Gimme a hundred, we’ll drop it. C’mon. Isn’t that what you want?”

Steven watched Haber’s eyebrows sprout and wither, his forehead wrinkles open and shut. He felt sorry for Haber. He felt blood rush to his face.

“Can’t do it, Lawrence. Can’t do it.”

He began walking away.

“All right. It’s done. See? He’s filling out the papers. All this trouble, Steven. All this goddamn trouble. Here. Have a seat.”

Haber draped his arm across Steven’s shoulder. The room went still.

“You don’t get it, Lawrence. Do you? You just don’t.”

Steven flourished the photograph: low slung rifle slung, grenades hugging his hips, steel helmet turned backwards, a dead man’s machete tied to his pack, the empty stare filling his face. Now do you understand?

Haber inched closer, glanced at the frightening image, then made room for Jameson who flourished official papers.

“Sign where it says Claimant,” he said.

“You see?” said Haber. “I’m not such a bad guy.”

Steven returned the signed form. “Here, he said. “I want to show you something.”

“No,” said Jameson. “Don’t. I understand.”

“Were you there?”

The lawyer appeared uncomfortable.

“That’s not you?” said Haber.

“Yes,” said Steven, fanning out his past. “This is my lieutenant. This is my squad leader. This is...”

“I was Coast Guard,” Haber interrupted. “It was no picnic. Believe me. No picnic at all.”

Jameson tapped Haber’s leg.

“I have other appointments. We really should be going.”

“Well,” said Haber, pointing to Steven’s signature. “My contribution to the war effort.”

Jameson stood up. “This is your copy,” he said.

Steven put the crisp flat sheet into the folder marked Raymond.

“Good luck to you,” said the handsome man.

At the touch of their palms their eyes briefly locked.

“My contribution to the war effort,” Haber proclaimed.

Alone in the hallway former Sergeant First Class Steven R. Deane knelt and slowly unpinned the silvery badge, gallant pentacles and earthen stars; plucked them like so many feathers one by one. “Like Travis Bickle,” he said.

He removed his sunglasses, tucked in his shirt, and wept.

 

Marc Levy served with the First Cavalry Division as an infantry medic in Vietnam and Cambodia in 1970. He has studied writing with Larry Heinemann, Tim O’Brien, and Stratis Haviaras at the William Joiner Center. His work has appeared in: Slant, Peregrine, Masquerade Books, nycBigCityLit, Slowtrains, Cleansheets, Rattapallax, Viet Nam War Generation Journal, Skidrow Penthouse, and PLACES magazine. His work appears in the anthologies Stories From the Infirmary, Will Work for Peace and Best American Erotica 2000 and is forth coming in The Mammoth Book of Erotica, and Off the Cuffs (ed. by Jackie Sheeler). He was accepted to attend an ACA residence with Spalding Gray. A video of his war related prose and photographs, The Real Deal, is distributed by The Cinema Guild.

You can read more of Marc's work on Poetz 2000.