If All Men Were Angels
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Christmas Stories by John Davis Collins The Hall of Mirrors by J.D. Collins, 2001 and ©1999-2000 by J.F. Clennan, Adapted for a short story from If All Men Were Angels - Published by Denlingers - www.the bookden.com.
Hall of Mirrors, according to the author is his genre of my anti-Christmas Carols. A word on the adaptation. The short story form is very different from a novel. The theme from the novel is preserved through some variance from the novel's lines, here by adding a new character to make the point.
The Hall of Mirrors
by John Davis Collins @1997 All Rights Reserved By John F. Clennan, Esq.
New Years Eve, the last dreadful day of the pit of the recession in 1982, I was looking out the window of a seven story tinted, plate glass structure in Bob Bonbonelli’s office building.
There was chattering all around me. Men in crisp suits spoke in crisp tones, shop talk lawyer talk.
Outtakes from IF ALL MEN WERE ANGELS were published by the legendary Bill Loepkey's Inditer Dot Com of Canada.
Against advancing illness and frustration which the legal system imposed, Bill Loepkey promoted literature and culture on the internet. It is no small recognition that his countrymen have hono[u]red Bill in their Bibliotek Nationale. In many respects Angels complimented Mr Loepkey's complex situation: a fascination with the new electronic against the onslaught of an illness induced by the marvels of technology.The central message of IF ALL MEN WERE ANGELS twisting the themes of hope and dispair agianst the background of the Third Industrial Revolution might have been met a receptive audience at
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I looked away. I felt out of place among this elegance in my ill-fitting second hand suit freshly purchased in a surplus store. My rough cut appearance didn't blend well with this sumptuous feast at Bob Bonbonelli’s stately office in a glistening six story glass and steel monument overlooking Franklin Avenue and the western edge of the County Courts Complex.
Unlike visibly successful Bonbonelli and his friends, I only had my song, a somber tune which carried me through my dreary work with state prisoners ensconced in an old warehouse.
I had only spied Bonbonelli briefly. Bonbonelli, whose massive frame nicely complemented the slogan emblazoned in fancy script on the oaken door “Nothing Succeeds Like Excess” had come to his own opulent table for only a second. Topped by a red Santa's cap and with a girl on each arm, Bonbonelli cried out, "hope my little digs doesn't put the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles to shame ...."
One of Bobonelli's elves whispered in his ear. Suppressing a chuckle Bonbonelli added, "Oh, Ben, You must help us eat some of this up."
"You’re sharing?” I questioned sarcastically, “I thought you made a little snack for yourself."
Turning to the girl next to him Bob rejoined, "Don't mind Ben. Ben knew me before the palace when I was half the man I am today." The whole room broke into a cheer.
I glanced at the window. Bonbonelli’s image was refracted into a monster of demonic proportions; the girls on his shoulders distorted into fiery imps. I pushed my drink away, “Enough of That!”
I was uneasy. Here this was `Real Law;’ everything was lavish: a library well stocked with books, fine furnishings, a bountiful table. People, normal people were chattering about normal things.
After my work in a dusty factory building in an improvised hatchet court, did I know how to talk to normal people? How could I ever build a clientele out of normal people, if I felt so uncomfortable on social occasions?
"I'm a newcomer. Abe Harridan, fresh out of St. Simon's Law School in Jamaica." Tall, golden blond haired Harridan pumped Ben's hand firmly, "I've crashed in a cubicle here, picking up chump change while I'm waiting to be admitted."
I caught Harridan’s spectre in the window where it was mutated into a canine figure, a jackal.
Stunned by the fractured vision in the mirror, I decided that I had really overstayed my welcome. It was time to say some polite words and be gone.
"I'll guess Bob Bonbonelli keeps you plenty busy." I exclaimed.
Harriman blinked. His jaw tightened and the muscles in his neck strained around his neatly knotted tie. The creases in Harriman's new blue suit squeaked. Did the mirror image seem to snarl?
Who was uneasy here? Had I said something offensive?
An older gentleman, short and chubby, not particularly impressive, broke the moment of embarrassment. “Waiting on Bonbonelli.” The man held a drink in his hand. “Bob is smoking pot in his little office with some of the ladies from the court.”
That’s all I needed to hear. I thought I really must bolt for the door. “Bob has the inside connection to God!” I muttered to myself. “What does he need me here for?”
The older gentleman chuckled. The image in the magic mirror of the window was cloudy. I was intrigued enough to remain.
I turned to look down Franklin Avenue where new architectural statements lined the road at even intervals like sentries. In the distance at the edge of town down by the railroad tracks there was a billboard with an elegant lady in a cocktail dress saluting with her drink the slogan “POVERTY SUCKS.”
I might have yet slinked away but just then I heard the melody come over the radio blaring in the background: Give me a song
a bright melody
Play me a tune,
in harmony.
Somebody standing nearby guzzling the trappings of the lavishly set table yelled out, “pretty down beat for a New Year’s celebration. Get Bonbonelli out here to change the station.”
The older gentleman held up a hand. “I think our guest would like to hear it.” Strum with a flair
Every one tries,
Fill thin air
with sweet little lies.
To my surprise, I could feel disgruntlement but no one dared voice an objection.
The gentleman smiled deliciously. “I must catch myself,” he thought aloud, “after midnight tonight…”
“I’ve been there.” I thought of my work before a court fashioned out of plywood odds and ends, “I already turned into a troll.” Give me a song
Be ever so kind
Magic of words
You be my friend.
I returned to look out the window down elegant Franklin Avenue in the distance to the old factory buildings on the edge of town. In a warehouse like one of those old brick factories, I plied my daily trade. Was it law or just a game?
The gentleman with a wave of the hand said, “Weren’t so long ago….The County Court was held in that small utility building; jail was in the basement. If it overcrowded, we told some folks to go home and come back when we had room…. Or if the prisoner was unreliable, we locked him up in a barn somewhere.”
I thought of my work at the warehouse turned prison and replied. “You might be surprised how little has changed.”
“But heck,” the older gentleman reflected aloud, “law was more entertainment then… From harvest to planting, there was little for the average person to do besides drink, get into trouble…”
The older man recounted some of the deeds of the legendary bad guys of yore and said, “Do you think them evil enough to merit attention from the system today?”
“Dunno if the old time bad guys measure up,” I replied, “most people I ain’t done nothing special. The clients I represent end up back in jail from losing a flat in gentrification of a run-down neighborhood or losing a job in lay-offs. Few have even raised a fist in anger.”
The song continued in the background. Deliver my prayer
a bright hearty surprise
Cover the moon
in sweet alibis.Thunder my plea
emotions untamed
Fortunes fickle chuckles
burning inflamed.
An image looming in the magic mirror warned that the jackal had returned. Abe Harridan’s smile was reordered in the window as the salivating jaws of a scavenging mongrel. “A word,” Harridan imperiously said. As I was about to excuse myself politely, Harridan restated his request as one to speak with me, not my companion.
Called over to the far corner of the library, I waited for Harridan to speak. In the pause I could hear The Song: Words left unsaid
rattles my brain...
To dispel the uneven pause, I complemented Harridan on the fine office, but asked why the books in the library were in no kind of order. "It would be easier to use the books, if maintained properly."
"Oh the books,” Harridan waived at the tomes, “I didn’t call you over to discuss.” A scowl came over Harridan’s face, “collection.” In a brighter tone, Harridan added, “I meant to save you from the Judge. Poor old fellow lives in the past.”
I looked to my companion staring out the window at the avenue below. Now I knew I must flee. “Bonbonelli gets a judge to visit his New Years Eve Party.” I certainly was impressed but also horrified that the law books would be in disarray for such an occasion. “You would think that Bonbonelli would put you to work placing the volumes in order before a Judge visited.”
“Tomes!” Harridan shrieked, “Do you expect to find Sacred Texts on our shelves?” Harridan nodded toward the Judge standing over by the window. “You talk like the old boy I rescued you from.”
“The tools of our trade,” I replied in horror.
Harridan pulled a volume out and compared it to another before he added, “we picked these cast-off books cheap out of trash cans and yard sales. I doubt we have a full set. We have duplicates of many volumes and we're missing others. They're just window dressing for the clients who come in here and don't know the difference."
There was a pause. The song peeled:
Give me a song
Just out of key
Rhythm and rhyme
Staccotic symphony.
I am afraid to say how my image may have been recorded in the magic mirror. I’m sure I inanely stared at Harridan in disbelief.
"I thought,” Harridan gulped down his drink, “Bob was bonkers when he brought up the last eighteen months of an old lease... But Bob was right. You want to believe..."
I'm sure I gasped.
Poking me in the shoulder, Harriman added, "Too bad, we need someone or something to jump-start this operation. This mausoleum, -- Bonbonelli's Tomb--" Harriman held his hands out, "never worked on someone with money."
Harridan studied me carefully and looked toward the Judge. “Why don’t you join the Judge? After tomorrow the judge won’t even have you for an audience.”
When I stood firm more in astonishment than determination, Harridan prodded me to end the embarrassing conversation, "You don't see this is all an illusion, a shell game in the set of a Hall of Mirrors?"
I stumbled back to the judge with The Song in the background: Bright cheery chimes
Fade quickly away
The meter clicks time
with nothing to say.
“Can you imagine what it was like,” the judge told me, “to have been a lawyer here in a less frantic, less showier time-----sit on a stool alongside the road on a hot summer afternoon and watch life go by.”
I smiled. “Yes Judge.”
The Judge looked at his watch. “Judge, no more. My term’s expired. I’m just another guy now, but I do thank you for quiet company away from the blow bags in garish hall of melodramatic pretenses and fun house mirrors. The last long line
unwinds at the end
Song lingers on air
We part as friends
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