Date: Thu, 1 Sep 2011 19:26:01 -0700
From: uncutbloke@live.com
Subject: The Young Lawyer: Chapter 1

This story is fiction.  I like getting email and if you'd
like to contact me you can at uncutbloke@live.com

CHAPTER I

Andrew Fairbanks was a man who liked the sound of leather-soled shoes
echoing down the hall.  He preferred men's shoes.  It wasn't that he had
anything against women, or their shoes for that matter, but men's shoes
sounded pleasant and authoritative as opposed to the harsh click of six
inch French heels.

What may be more striking about Andrew, is that he was actually the type of
man who would take time to consider the difference between the sound of
men's and women's shoes as they walked down the hall by his office.
Perhaps he did simply because he had the time.  He was a new attorney --
a recent graduate of the University Of South Carolina School Of Law --
and this could explain his lack of a client base.  However, the more likely
cause of his boredom was simply that in 1962, in Laurens, South Carolina,
there simply weren't that many things people called upon lawyers to do.
There was the occasional will, maybe even a property dispute, but this
small, sleepy town certainly wasn't aflush with legal conflicts.

So, there Andrew sat in his nicely furnished office, just off the Square.
He sat and admired his door -- a magnificent walnut door with opaque
glass through which he could read in reverse from the inside, "ANDREW
T. FAIRBANKS, ATTORNEY AT LAW."  This was perhaps the most pleasing door
Andrew had ever seen in his life.  Not because it was particularly pleasing
architecturally, but because those black painted letters shadowed with gold
leaf signified a life's goal accomplished.  But as that very thought
entered his mind, it lead to the next thought, one more frightening and,
frankly, depressing.  "What's next?"

Get off the farm and go to college: done.  Graduate college with honors:
done.  Go to law school: done.  Return home and start a practice: done.
Get a nice office with a swanky door: done.

It was sobering.  Andrew Fairbanks might have begun weeping at his desk had
his door not opened at that very moment.  He heard the authoritative, the
immensely authoritative, crack of men's boots come through his office door.
It was the sound of billiard balls being softly broken again and again.
And this sound fascinated Andrew so much that his eyes were drawn toward
the floor and feet of the man who had entered.  Square-toed, weathered, but
fastidiously shined boots.  Size 13.  Andrew's eyes rose to see freshly
laundered blue jeans, a freshly starched white oxford, and finally the
striking face of Will Simpson.

Andrew hadn't seen him in years...they had gone to high school with each
other.  His features had definitely improved.  As had his build.  In high
school, Will hadn't exactly been the thing fantasies are made of.  He
wasn't ever ugly, he was just lanky.  As Andrew thought back on it, he
remembered that Will always had good skin...it must have been the hours
working outside.  The Simpsons owned Palmetto Dairy and provided milk to
most of town.

The new Will Simpson was tall.  Andrew guessed he was about 6'4.  He had
muscles to spare, but not so large that you would be afraid to meet him the
dark.  Will had raven hair that was longer and a bit tussled -- but
combed with pomade.  He was dressed to impress, at least to the extent he
could with the means that he had.  The question was then, who did he mean
to impress?  Then a silent jubilation swept over Andrew at the thought that
Will, so virile and rugged, had put on his very best to see him.

"Andy, I don't suppose you remember me, do you?"

"Well, Will, come on in, of course I remember you.  It sure as hell is
great to see you!  God, it must have been, what...1955...when I saw you
last?"

"I believe that's right.  How've you been, how's your folks?"

Will had to pause a moment in answering this question.  The thought that
popped in his mind was, "well, my mother is a saint, but my father is still
known as `the meanest white son-of-a-bitch in Laurens County."  What he
actually said was, "Oh, they're fine.  Nothing much changes around our
place -- not even them!"

This obligatory exchange continued for a few more minutes and the two
traded random recollections of high school.  They both expressed their
remorse that the old Central High School building had burned down.  It
didn't seem to occur to the town that a school with the oiled wood floors,
piles of pencil shavings that collected in the corners, and the teachers
who were far too casual about flicking their cigarette ashes during class,
might be slightly dangerous.  The building couldn't have been more
flammable had it been constructed of fatwood logs.  Regardless, it was a
tragedy in the community and both these alums felt the need to mention it.
Obligatory banter.

"Have a seat."

"Well, Will, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?  Is there
something I can help you with, or are you just making the rounds catching
up with old buddies?"

This last phrase seemed something of a stretch.  The two had been little
more than cordial in earlier years and Andrew certainly wouldn't have
called him "buddy" in front of anyone else in high school.  Will was
gracious enough to overlook the comment, but a dour look seemed to overcome
him.  He sank back into the chair in which he was seated.

"Andy.  I don't know any way to say this other than to just come right out
and say it.  I need you to help me get a divorce."

"Divorce?"

Divorces were about as common in Laurens in 1962 as dogs that walked on
their hind legs.

He simply squinted his eyes, looked up at Andrew, and nodded his head.

"Will, you know, I haven't been back to long, and I wasn't around too much
when I went away to school.  Hell, I didn't even know you were married!
Who're you married to?  How long have y'all been together?"

	Will, rubbed his face with both hands, ran his hands back through
his hair, breathed in deeply and slowly sighed.

	"It was a rush rob.  Drucy Penland.  She told me I had gotten her
pregnant, and you know how folks would be in town about that, so, I figured
I had to marry her.  We had only been going out for about...two months I
guess."

	"So you have a baby too?"

	"No.  I don't know that I have any way of showing it, but I really
don't think there ever was one.  I mean, I don't think she was knocked up
when we got married."

	"Good God," said Andrew.  "Do you love her?"

	"Would I be here if I did?"

	"Alright, we'll see what we can do for you."  This was another
inaccuracy on Andrew's part.  There was no "we."  He had no staff or
secretary.  He didn't even have a law library.  He had to walk across the
street to the Courthouse to do his research there -- in the event he had
research to do, which hadn't really been much of an issue.

	The two continued to talk about what would happen in filing for
divorce, and as they did, Andrew noticed something.  But that was just it,
it was a something.  It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, but the
conversation and Will himself were different somehow in a way that was
comforting and uncomfortable all at once.

	Then it happened.

	"I just don't think I'm the marrying-type," said Will, and as he
did a flash of a smile and a look from his eyes cut deep into Andrew's
mind.

	Of course, taken in context, the comment merely meant that he
wouldn't have married Drucy had she not mislead him.  In fact, he just the
kind of guy who would get married -- he was the wholesome type of
farm-boy that mothers told their daughters to marry.  But the "something"
feeling that Andrew had been having, coupled with that glance, brought to
mind a thousand questions.  The first of which for Andrew was, "what do I
say to that?"

	A golden opportunity must be seized.

	"Well, I guess that makes two of us."

	It was the best he could do with such short notice.  It was
slightly humorous enough to give both men the excuse to laugh, nervously.

	As the two of them continued to talk, they realized that all the
pertinent questions had been asked regarding the case, at least for now.
There was no real reason for Will to stay, and yet he lingered.  The
silences between questions and answers grew longer, and Andrew noticed
himself focusing intensely on Will's every facial expression.

	With the realization that Will might also have the same desires as
Andrew had, the terrifying thought that he might not startled him.  If the
rumor, or even the shadow of a rumor like that was spread about town, he
would be ruined.  His family would disown him.  He would never have another
client set foot through the door.  No judge would never even entertain the
notion of ruling in his favor.  It would be social death.  And those rumors
do not die outside the limits of a county line.  His ability to practice
law in South Carolina, or the South for that matter, would be over.

	So, Andrew straightened himself in his chair, uncrossed his legs,
and unknowingly lowered his voice.

	"I think that about does it.  I think I have all I need for now.  I
guess I can call you if I need anything else."

	"I have a party line and my neighbor, Ms. Mary Compton, she's a bit
nosey."

Will seemed a bit surprised by the abrupt end to the conversation, and
seemed to be trying to calm any ruffled feathers.

	"Well then, I'll call you and just have you come in sometime."


"Ok, ok, that's fine, that's fine. . . Or you can come on by the place if
you like."

The smile which had been on Will's face since his comment about not being
the marrying type vanished, and in its place came a placid, yet intense
gaze into Andrew's eyes.  He paused this way for just a moment, and then
got up from his chair.  He tucked the back of his oxford back in his blue
jeans and headed toward the door.  Andrew rose from his chair and moved to
see Will out of his office.

"I do appreciate this," said Will.  He grabbed Andrew's hand and shook it
vigorously.  And then as if to say, "I know what you're worried about, and
it's fine," Will took his and gently stroked the back of Andrew's hand as
he shook it.

Relief.  Fear.  Confusion.  Unfettered excitement.  Lust.

Andrew was speechless.

"Now, you call me if you need anything else from me at all...I'd be happy
to answer any questions you might have.  But, be careful with Ms. Compton,
she might be on the line when you call.  Yarborough-3659."

And with that he was gone, save the echo of his boots down the hall.

Andrew had to clear his head.  Actually, he needed a drink.  He turned on
the radio in his office and pulled out the bottle of bourbon in his
credenza.

	"...this is WFBC-FM, Greenville, South Carolina.  Tonight, for your
listening pleasure, we bring you the mellow tones of..."

	He had Coke, but not ice.  He knew the insurance agent's office
down the hall had a refrigerator, so he ran to get some.  The agent had
none, but did trade his warm Coke for one of their ice-cold ones.

	"...Ms. Marilyn Monroe...I wanna be loved by you, just you, and
nobody else but you, I wanna be loved by you alone, boo boo be doo..."

	Goddammit.  Here Andrew was, enveloped in a fog of lust unlike any
other feelings he had had before, and Marilyn was on the radio singing
probably the hottest song he could think of...at least at the moment.  He
rubbed the coke bottle on his forehead.  Despite how well-appointed his
office was, he couldn't afford a window unit air-conditioner, and it
happened to be a remarkably sweltering day for June...or any month for that
matter.

	"...I wanna be kissed by you, just you, and nobody else but you, I
wanna be kissed by you, and you alone..."

	That's was it.  One new client for the day was enough.  He looked
around for his briefcase and to collect any papers he needed.  There were
no papers he needed though...he barely had any clients...so he got his
coat, cinched his tie, and headed out the door.  Wait.  The bourbon and the
radio.  Andrew spun on his heels, switched off the set, gulped down the
last of his drink and went home.