Small Town

I got a call yesterday from the State Attorney's Office.  They have finally charged the two people who sold my cameras to the photo store.  Wow!  What was that, two years?  The fellow on the phone explained to me the charges against the fellow.  

"All told, if he got the maximum sentences, he'd get 45 years in prison."

I knew that wasn't going to happen.  

"He'll probably get one," he said.  

The girl has not been charged in the robbery, only trying to sell stolen goods and for something else that I can't remember.  

On the restitution thing, he said I had three options.  One was to get a judgment against him.  Then it would be up to me to collect.  Another was that he could be sentenced to parole after prison until he paid me the full amount.  

"One other option would be to make a deal so that if he paid you, he wouldn't go to prison."  

I want the fuckers to go to jail, but I want my money back more.  I will be subpoenaed to testify in court, maybe in December.  

"But there is likely to be a continuance, so it may not happen this year."

I had been contemplating calling the state's office this week to find out what was happening.  Huh.  

I didn't feel well all day, but I decided to take a walk, a bath, a shower, and meet the gymroids for dinner and a beer.  We were meeting in the beer garden outside, but I walked in through the bar.  When I sat down, a fellow from inside came up to the table.  

"Hey. . . I'm sitting with a group of attorney's inside.  We were calling your name, but you didn't hear us.  Remember me?  I'm __________."  

I didn't.  Then I thought he might have been my divorce attorney.

"Oh. . . yea. . . you worked with ___________."  ______________ is my Yosemite mountain buddy's brother.  He worked for a big law firm downtown.  

"Tony. . . yea, we worked on a couple things together.  You used to date Mary __________, right?"

I thought a minute.  I didn't recognize the name.  

"No."

"Are you sure?"  He repeated the name.  Maybe she was someone I knew who got married and changed her last name.

"I don't recognize the name," I said.  "I was married to Emily."

We were both ten degrees of confused at this point.  After a few pleasantries, he went back inside.  I explained what I thought just happened to the table.  Then another fellow came walking up.  

"Hey, we have a bet inside.  You're Tom Nowicki, right?"

Ohhhhhh.  This keeps happening to me.  

"No, no. . . I know Tom, but I'm not him.  But this has been happening a lot lately."

Tom is on the Apple series called "Bad Monkey."  He has long hair and a beard, so. . . . 

The fellow turned out to be the son of a woman I used to know long ago when I dated the daughter of the extremely wealthy family.  She owned a big real estate firm, and I had actually gone to her second or third wedding.  I knew her daughter, too.  It was really a small town then.  

Tennessee, it turns out, had bought the woman's house down on the big lake from a person who bought it from the realtor.  

"I have a trunk in the attic that belonged to your mother," he told the attorney.  It had been there for years.  It was full of letters from Europe and little trinkets.

"I was born in Germany," her son said.  "That could be my stuff."

"Sorry for interrupting," he said.  "I'll go back inside and tell ____________ he owes us all drinks."

When he left, a retired judge we all know walked up.  He was a bit famous for being the judge on a made for t.v. trial you would all recognize.  I told him what had just happened.  

"Oh, _______________.  Yea, I know him.  He heads up the largest law firm in the country.  I've had plenty of nights out on the town with him."

The night wore on.  They all wanted to go to the Irish pub across the street, but I was done.  I had a hard time getting away from Tennessee, though.  

"I don't feel well," I said.  "I'm out."

A few minutes later, I got this. 

"She's asking about you."

Then I got a FaceTime call from the pub.  It was the girl.  She is a waitress there.  

"Where are YOU!"

I could hear the boys laughing in the background.  We chatted for a minute.  Funny girl.  She'd put up with all of it because it was nothing but the gratuities would be wonderful.  The waitresses love to see the Billionaire Boys coming.  

I still feel like shit today.  I think it might be diverticulitis.  I've had it before.  I'm going to try to wait it out, but when you get old, all you really do is wait for the bad news.  

Selavy.