Text copyright © Andrew Kaufman, 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any method, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Kaufman, Andrew, 1968-, author
Small claims / Andrew Kaufman.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-926743-90-5 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-926743-95-0 (EPUB)
I. Title.
PS8571.A892S63 2017 C813’.6 C2017-901241-X
C2017-901242-8
Edited by Stephanie Domet
Cover and interior design by Megan Fildes
Invisible Publishing | Halifax & Picton
www.invisiblepublishing.com
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.
For Marlo
No one can flatter himself that he is immune to the spirit of his own epoch, or even that he possesses a full understanding of it.
— Carl Jung
Three cans of water provokes me.
— Sloan
Part one
Defendants & Plaintiffs
01. The Bicycle Incident
It is difficult to tell whether this trial has just finished or will soon begin. The defendant, Mac, is a tall man with a barrel chest who leans against a long wooden table on the left, gigantic and alone. To his right, behind an identical wooden table, is the plaintiff, Ted, who wears a bright red golf shirt that seems wholly inappropriate. He sits beside his lawyer, who types on a Blackberry with both of her thumbs. Up on the dais, the justice and the court reporter talk in whispers. The windowless courtroom is overlit by eighteen fluorescent tubes, and there’s a clock mounted high on the east wall. Both the clock and the lights hum.
“Listen, why don’t I just call my lawyer again?” Mac keeps his wall-like mass still as he tentatively lifts his massive hands toward the fluorescent lighting. He seems unfamiliar with embarrassment, unsure what body language will most effectively express it. The light bounces off his head, which is bald except for two tufts of salt-and-pepper hair that stick out at the sides like a bull’s horns.
The court reporter swivels in his chair. He looks up at Justice Olivetti, who nods her head.
“What’s his number?”
“Four one six…” Mac says. There are twelve other people watching this trial, but I’m the only one who’s amazed that Mac can recite his lawyer’s phone number from memory.
I am here in courtroom 313 for two reasons: I got lost on the way to getting my street parking permit renewed, and this morning I found myself running down the middle of Shaw, chasing a bicyclist, wanting to kill him. The moments immediately preceding my chasing of the bicyclist were extremely peaceful. I was walking my kids to school, which is the only significant act in life that I perform with daily repetition. It is the closest thing I have to a ritual. Jack is nine. Jenny is seven. The three of us leave the house together shortly after 8:35. About half a block later Jack takes off, runs as fast as he can, and rounds the corner long before Jenny and I get there. This is how he declares his independence.
The next four or five seconds are the most important in my day. It is during this time that Jenny is most likely to take my hand. She has recently begun expressing her independence as well, and her method of displaying self-sufficiency is refusing to hold her father’s hand. If I try to hold hers, she’ll pull it away. Jenny only takes my hand when she forgets she isn’t doing that anymore, and the most likely time for this to happen is just after Jack has rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
Jenny didn’t reach for my hand this morning, but I was okay with that. I’m grateful for the mornings she does. I know the number of times she will take my hand is now finite, that at some point in the next handful of years she’ll stop doing it altogether, or at least so infrequently that it will feel surprising when she does. I know that in her late twenties she’ll start holding my hand again, but by then it’ll be different: she’ll be holding my hand to give me support, not to gain it from me.
“I’d like to go swimming,” she told me, her empty hands dangling at the ends of her sleeves.
“Swimming? That could be arranged. Maybe on the weekend.”
“No, today. Instead of school. Jack wants to, too. We talked about it.”
“It’s a school day. We have to get to school!”
It is these simple requests that overwhelm me. Why is my response to always say no, to disagree, to shut things down? How badly do I need to feel more powerful than an eight-year-old? Why don’t I just take them swimming? Certainly a day, or even just the morning spent in the pool, would develop their bodies and their minds more effectively than sitting at a desk, paying moderate attention to their teachers. I feel like I would be a much better person if I could become the kind of dad who throws homework on the fire and takes the kids to some fabulous thing instead, to be the kind of dad who teaches them how to get the most out of life. But I never do, and trying to figure out why I don’t was preoccupying me as we rounded the corner at Shaw, the only busy street we have to cross to get to their school. I looked up just in time to see my son step into the road without looking, while a thin, fashionable twentysomething on a vintage bicycle barrelled through the stop sign toward him.
“It’s going straight to voice mail,” the court reporter says.
Mac shrugs his shoulders, which makes the skin at the back of his neck wrinkle into three distinct lines. He looks over his shoulder. He raises his arms and lowers them again. None of this succeeds in producing his attorney. Justice Olivetti exhales. Her breath ripples the bangs of her silver hair. She doesn’t try to hide her frustration. This session is part four of a trial that began in August. Today is Monday, September 10. The conflict in question originated three years ago.
“This is what we’re going to do.” Justice Olivetti shakes open her glasses and puts them on her nose. “The trial will continue sir, with or without your lawyer. We are going to finish the proceedings today. So, I will ask you—and I will ask you to respect me and this court with a truthful answer—do you have any more testimony?”
Mac pulls in a large breath, filling his lungs in the manner of a swimmer about to attempt a long underwater swim. He’s about to speak when Justice Olivetti gives him a look that is both maternal and hostile.
“Any relevant testimony?”
The clock hums. The plaintiff looks up from his professionally manicured fingernails. His lawyer’s thumbs fall still. Justice Olivetti stares her stony stare, and Mac allows the lungful of air to escape.
“No. I guess not. That’s pretty much all that happened.”
“You’ll have to take the stand so your cross-examination can begin.”
Mac nods, takes the stand, and gets sworn in. There is no chair on the stand, so Mac is forced to remain standing. He makes fists of his meaty hands, rests them on top of the witness stand’s railing, and leans forward. Pushing shallow breaths through his nose, Mac tilts back his head until his chin is pointing directly at Ted the plaintiff. He continues staring at Ted with angry eyes, and it becomes easy to imagine a large golden ring through Mac’s nose and cartoon bursts of steam coming out of his nostrils—Mac the Minotaur.
After being sworn in, Mac remains silent, allowing his posture to speak for him. The angl
e of his shoulders, the slits of his eyes, the tight grip of his fingers around the wooden railing of the witness stand—all these mannerisms work together, expressing with undeniable clarity that Mac thinks this trial is squandering precious moments of his precious life, that simply being here is a slight unto his noble nature. Mac’s arrogance and put-upon impatience reminds me of someone. It takes several moments before I realize that someone is me.
Jack didn’t know what to do. He froze. I froze, too. They were too far away from me to do anything. The bicyclist sped directly toward my son. The sole concession he made was to steer slightly to the right, allowing him to carve out a space, roughly the shape and size of a canoe, around my son.
This is where a blank spot starts, about six seconds that my subconscious has redacted, the time between realizing that the bicyclist wasn’t going to stop and hearing my dress shoes smack against the asphalt as I ran down the middle of Shaw Street, screaming after him. I do not know what happened to me during these moments, what thoughts and decisions were conducted in my head that the rest of my mind doesn’t want me to remember. But I do know this—as I came to, when the thick black marker of self-censorship was lifted, I wasn’t running after the bicyclist simply because he’d endangered my son, or from the fear that I’d already held Jack’s hand for the last time, but because I envied his confidence, his cavalier attitude, the degree to which he was so certain that life was going to work out for him.
These qualities made me despise the bicyclist, kept me running after him like the archetypal angry farm dog on the lonely side road of middle age, long after it became obvious that I wasn’t going to catch him. I ran for another three or four seconds. I became winded. I stopped in the middle of the street, hands on my knees, desperately trying to get my breath back. Eventually, I walked back to my children, who stared at me, amazed but disturbed, realizing for the very first time that they actually had no idea who their father really is.
We walked to school. No one talked. Jenny did not hold my hand. Then, I went to work, which I do in a small, well-lit room at the back of our house. I write industrial manuals for a living. If you’ve ever bought anything from the Howlstein Corporation, including their subsidiaries Wanton Electronics and Quizz Appliances, you’ve read my work. I wrote until noon. I didn’t get a lot done, and it didn’t feel like I was going to, so I drove to the City of Toronto Municipal and Judicial Building at 47 Sheppard Avenue East. I needed to get my street-parking pass renewed, and the deadline to do it through the Internet had passed. Now, the only way I could get a properly dated sticker and avoid nightly parking tickets was to go all the way to North York, pay twenty dollars to park, then stand in line at the permits office located on the third floor, room 389. This infuriates me. Why make it so difficult? Why have only one office that the entire city of Toronto has to bottleneck through between the hours of noon and four, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday? I know that much of my anger is misdirected, that I’m really mad at myself for missing the deadline: that, once again, my lack of organization has put me at a disadvantage. I am a wet dog shaking myself dry, flinging not water but anger into the world. I find myself shouting profanities at other drivers from behind the wheel of my car, struggling not to scream when people in front of me insist on using exact change, or when mechanical voices on the telephone ask me to hold.
There was a time, not that long ago, when I would have done nothing but hug Jack after the bicycle incident, been overjoyed that he was unscathed. I would have cut the bicyclist some slack, understood that he was rushing, wasn’t thinking, just a kid. I would have remembered the numerous times I’ve been that bicyclist myself. I would have been able to leave it at that. Sometime during the last two or three years, my generally optimistic perspective slowly devolved, and I’ve become a cranky, bitter curmudgeon. I have reached a state of empathy fatigue. My optimism has been drained, a car battery forced to keep the headlights illuminated with the engine off and the radio on, as my id and superego grope like teenagers in the back seat, oblivious to the damage their negligence is causing.
But within me there’s a strong desire to recapture my empathetic nature. And that desire resonated, practically pushed me inside the room, when I happened past the open door of courtroom 313. The triptych of plaintiff, defendant, adjudicator, all with their own well-defined roles to play, all three working within a structure that promised a clear outcome, a straightforward determinate resolution, was irresistible. I sat down on an uncomfortable wooden bench amongst the future plaintiffs and defendants, and once I began watching the proceedings, I couldn’t look away. What I saw was an entire branch of our juridical system working so hard for such tiny stakes. I may have come into courtroom 313 because I’d failed to navigate this minotaur’s domain of hallways and strangely non-sequential room numbers, but I stayed because I need to believe I’m redeemable, that we’re all redeemable. I continued sitting there in the hopes of witnessing something noble enough to smash the cynicism that time and failure and sadness have encased around my heart.
Mac’s lawyer still has not arrived. Ted’s golf shirt continues to shine its red glare of disrespect. His counsel, Sandra, a thin young woman in a grey pantsuit and sensibly high heels, puts the unpainted nails of her thumb and index finger to the bridge of her nose and squeezes. It’s easy to see Sandra as a sapling, young and green. Her hair is two weeks in need of a cut. Her right leg only ceases bouncing as she stands up. But there is a hushed confidence, a mostly masked, self-assured authority revealed by the confidence in her fingers as she opens one of the six binders stacked neatly to her right, flips pages, and looks up at Mac.
“So. Mr. Minto. You’re very experienced in sourcing products from China for Canadians?”
“Yes.”
“Salad bowls? Cellphones?”
“More so on the electronics, yes.”
“You have a strong relationship with China? With Chinese manufacturers?”
“Yes?” Mac tilts his head slightly to the right. You can almost hear him evaluating Sandra’s worth, wondering if she’s more powerful than she appears, if her questions are, perhaps, leading him into some kind of trap, a labyrinth constructed of facts. But Mac’s doubt is not as strong as his arrogance, and he pushes these thoughts away. For the next fifteen minutes, Sandra asks a series of questions that appear to establish nothing but facts. She gets Mac to agree that in September of 2009 he was hired by Ted’s company, Waffles! Waffles! Waffles! as a subcontractor. That Mac agreed to travel to China, where he would design and source a waffle maker that met specific technical requirements needed by the Waffles! Waffles! Waffles! franchise. That once the prototype was approved, he would oversee production of 220 units. That he was given a lot of money to accomplish this: $50,125.
“You were paid $3,000 for consulting, $4,500 for costs, $6,000 for travel to China. As well, a $10,000 deposit to a factory in China.” Sandra doesn’t ask this as a question, but she remains silent long enough that Mac treats it as one.
“That’s all right. Correct,” he says.
“That leaves $26,625 unaccounted for. Where are these funds, Mr. Minto?”
“I don’t have the funds.”
“Where are they?”
“In China.”
“Where in China?”
“The factory!”
“Did you submit documentation to this effect?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you provide documents to the court today?”
“It’s in Chinese. Can you read Chinese?”
“Is it at your lawyer’s office? Your lawyer who isn’t here?”
“I haven’t provided any documentation.”
“So you never told the court about it?”
“I was never asked to do so.”
“You never told?”
“I was never asked!”
“You misplaced the documentation?”
“I have no documents.”
“None at all?”
“That’s not h
ow they do things over there.”
“No packing slips? No tracking numbers? No emails?”
“I have nothing here.”
“So there is something somewhere? Some documentation? A paper trail of some kind?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Where is it?”
“In China!” Mac stares at Sandra and huffs, his blunt thoughts about her easy to read.
“I’m going to ask you straight, Mr. Minto. There never was a prototype, was there?”
Mac corrects his posture, stands up straight, take a breath. He tilts back his head and looks down defiantly at Sandra, at all of us, at the very idea that this court has any right to cast judgment upon him. Mac has failed to convince even his own lawyer to show up, he’s presented a shockingly small amount of evidence to prove his innocence, while Sandra has done an excellent job of establishing his guilt—yet he continues projecting outrage at being suspect.
What I want to see is Mac throw up his hands and yell at the top of his lungs that he took the money. I would also accept him claiming to have spent the missing $26,625 bribing Chinese officials. Even a rant, apologetic or otherwise, about the woman he met in a bar and the favours he bought from her, would redeem Mac in my eyes. Any of these responses would fundamentally alter how I see Mac and, I suspect, how he sees himself. As he stands there, silent, motionless, trying to decide how to answer Sandra’s question, there is something in Mac’s expression, a sadness, maybe even shame, that speaks of the potential for nobility. Some part of Mac is aware that this moment is an opportunity, the kind life rarely presents, to wipe the slate clean, to start again, to become the man he’s always suspected lives deep inside him. But it’s not to be.
“That’s not correct!” Mr. Minto says.
“Really? Are you sure about that?” Sandra flips a tab in her binder, her fingers finding a passage like a butcher sharpening a knife. Mac’s upper body slumps forward, his meaty hands grip the sides of the witness stand. His eyes turn from slits to ovals as he realizes what he’s done, that he’s lost his only way out, that now he’s trapped inside the labyrinth forever.