It Is Not My First Time in the Rodeo

Here is my unwinning (unrunning-up, unplacing!) offering for this year's Toronto Star short story contest. They didn't like it, but maybe YOU will, or at least you will say you did, because who am I kidding, the only people who read my blog are related to me, or might as well be.
****

It Is Not My First Time in the Rodeo

Surender felt at ease in the witness box. The bench was at a good height; its seat had uncommonly decent padding. The microphone tilted toward him at a close but not intrusive distance. It had worked well all morning, with no feedback or irritating tappings on the grille, no testing-testing from the court clerk. The chamber itself was a manageable size, capable of seating perhaps forty people in four rows installed in a wide semi-circle around the central bench.

Not so many people had turned out: perhaps six or seven for the convicted man; for Surender, his wife and two young daughters. Two reporters and a couple of court staff chatted amiably at the back of the room. Surender felt that he should have a comfortable enough time of it and began to think about lamb and okra for supper.

The judge returned from recess. Everyone stood, and once the docket had been read out, she ordered the proceedings to commence. Surender was invited by the clerk to state his name and address for the record. He did so, making a point to not lean forward into the microphone like the novices always did. It was the leaning that caused the feedback, Surender had learned. Feedback was unpleasant and put everyone on edge.

“Surender Kumar, six-oh-nine Laurier Court, number four, Scarborough, Ontario.”

“And what is your occupation, Mr. Kumar?”

“I drive a taxicab.” Surender glanced at his wife and daughters. “Also, I am a doctor of clinical psychiatry.”

As he made his replies, Surender appreciated the formality and thoroughness of the questioning. He understood its design, to adduce the court’s objectivity in every element of the proceedings. Like diagnosing a sickness, Surender thought. You may assume that what looks like a head cold will turn out to be a head cold, and most often that is the case, but also you must keep your mind open to the possibility of an altogether different outcome. An allergy, perhaps, or the early manifestation of a rather more serious virus. Doctors and judges are much alike, Surender concluded. Each must bring his judgment to bear on the circumstances precisely at hand. Surender felt pleased to have discovered this parallel. He leaned into the seat back and nearly put his arms behind his head, but stopped as he realized the inappropriateness of such a posture.

The judge was cutting to the meat of the matter.

“Mr. Kumar, in light of the conviction of the accused, we are here to determine sentencing. There are many factors that I must consider in determining an appropriate sentence, including the nature of the crime, and how you as the victim have been affected by it. You have already testified as to the events of the night of January 13 and your description of those events has become part of the court’s record of fact leading to Mr. Logan’s conviction. Now we are interested in you, and how all of this has made you feel.” She said this with what Surender felt was a perfunctory smile. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, certainly.” Surender returned the perfunctory smile. “You may count on me to do my best, Your Honour.” He straightened somewhat in the box. He had readied a new piece of vernacular; here was the perfect occasion to try it out. “It is not my first time in the rodeo.”

“How so, Mr. Kumar?”

Surender was pleased to detect a note of amusement. He continued.

“This is my third time for being mugged. From which there have been three convictions, Your Honour,” he added. “As in the sports, I am three for three.”

“Indeed. So: the accused got into your cab and held a gun to your head. Tell us about that.”

“The gun was held to my neck, to be precise, Your Honour. It feels very cold. It makes you shiver a little bit.”

“I see. And what were your thoughts at that moment?”

“I was thinking, I must drive this fellow where he says, or he will shoot me in the neck.”

“And what was the demeanor – the behaviour, I should say – of the accused. How was he acting?”

Surender felt a slight irritation toward the judge, that she should feel the need to simplify her questions. He was a doctor, not a schoolboy.

“His demeanor, Your Honour, was aggressive. He seemed in a state of agitation. Indeed, my professional diagnosis,” (here he leaned on professional), “was that he was experiencing a dramatic delusional episode typical of an emergent BPD; that is, a borderline personality disorder.”

“Objection!” This came from the defense table. “Mr. Kumar is not an expert witness.”

“Not an expert! With a PhD in clinical psychiatry from…” Surender jumped in. But the judge cut him off with a hand.

“Sustained. Mr. Kumar, you will have to limit your replies to your personal experience on the night of. Okay?”

“Yes. Fine.” Surender gave a tiny shrug of annoyance. He leaned back in the box, finding the oak backrest now rather stiff.

“Now. After he put the gun to your neck, what did you do?”

“I continued to drive to the destination he requested; that is, Victoria Park. Also, I told him how much money I had in the taxicab, which was fifty-seven dollars only.”

“And did he take the money?”

“I gave it to him, yes.”

“And how did that happen? Did he hit you or threaten you further?”

“Oh, no, Your Honour. I assure you that I was sufficiently threatened to feel a gun on my neck. I reached into my jacket, took out the bills, and handed them to Mr. Logan.”

“I see. And what happened when you arrived at Victoria Park?”

“I pulled over and he got out.”

“And?”

“And he walked quite briskly away.”

“What did you do then?”

“I watched him leave. I then proceeded to the end of the street and turned onto the boulevard where I thought he could not see me. Then I telephoned the police from my mobile. But do not worry,” Surender added, “I pulled over first. I do not risk driving and talking at the same time.”

“Very good, Mr. Kumar. Now, how have things been since the incident?”

“Anita, my wife,” Surender nodded toward his family. “She wished me to take several days off. But I am telling her, who will pay the mortgage in that case? It does not, as Your Honour knows, pay itself.”

“So you kept working?”

“Yes, of course. I find I do not mind to do a double-shift, and the extra income is coming in handy.”

“Alright. And how do you feel, looking at the defendant now?”

“He is now the guilty party, is he not? Not the defendant.”

Surender winced inwardly to see the judge bristle somewhat at this comment.

“I use the term for convenience, Mr. Kumar. Would you kindly answer the question?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Honour. I only meant that having been convicted, the fellow can no longer defend. He is in that sense…” Surender felt a spark of inspiration. “…defenceless.” He smiled at the judge.

She did not smile back. “So you’ve not felt the need to take time off. And there were no reported injuries. What about loss of income?”

“As I said, Your Honour, it was fifty-seven dollars that was taken.”

“Any other losses or damage that the court should be aware of?”

“No, Your Honour.” Surender looked again toward his family. Anjali, his youngest daughter, appeared to have gone to sleep. Mira was also drowsing. But his wife was staring hard at him. She made a small movement with her hand.

Surender sighed. “Only Anita, my wife, is very upset. She would like me to stop the taxicab driving. She is worried that I will be killed. She would like me to be practicing as I did in Chennai.”

“As a psychiatrist, is it?”

“Yes. There I had an office with a nurse and many patients. It was a decent practice, and of course, much better hours. Less… road time.”

“And you have not been licensed to practice in Canada?”

“Incorrect, Your Honour. I passed the licensing exams two years ago.”

“So why do you not practice?”

Surender did not feel at all like answering the question. He shifted in his seat and hoped, vaguely, for a distraction. It didn’t come.

“Mr. Kumar?”

“I do not enjoy it. I find it frustrating and difficult, to listen all day to people who cannot or will not simply get on with it, people who are being complacent in their pains and sufferings. How can I help them? I can give them medications, make them take up yoga, or advise them to write letters to their dead parents, what have you.” Surender became aware that Anita was whispering something to the girls. She had gathered up their coats. He braced himself and carried on, even as Anita began leading the girls out of the chamber. He pressed on regardless. “But ultimately, people must help themselves. They must be prepared to take a risk. To take perhaps radical action if they want their lives to change.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

Surender took a breath, then smiled as he nodded toward the convicted man. “Only, of course it is preferable that they do not hold a gun to someone’s neck to do so.”

Surender was excused from the stand. Thanking the judge in pleasant tones, he stepped down from the box and claimed a seat in the middle row, in the spot still warm from its occupation by his sleeping daughter. He felt good about his time in the box, and his good feeling was not diminished in the least by the judge’s order of the minimum sentence for the guilty man. It seemed proper in the circumstances.

After the pronouncement, Surender made his way to the clerk’s office as instructed. He signed the proffered forms and was handed an envelope containing a cheque for court-ordered damages.

Surender walked out to the parking lot bearing the thought to appease his wife with the offer of dinner in a restaurant. Lamb and okra, costs not exceeding the fifty-seven dollars, of course.

Instead, she slapped him, full force, in the face.

“How does that make you feel, you cold fish? You could have been murdered! Left your girls without a father! And you act like it is nothing!”

She pulled her arm back for another swing. “I did not marry a taxicab driver! I married a doctor! A psychiatrist!” The arm hurled forward. Surender caught it before it made contact with his face.

“Calm yourself, Nita, for goodness sake. Think of the girls!”

Anita broke down in sobs. She stormed around the car and ripped open the passenger door, throwing herself into the seat. The girls had burrowed into the back of the car; they sat clutching each other. “What will I do? What will I do?” their mother moaned.

Surender gently opened his car door and got behind the wheel. He held out the envelope for Anita. He summoned his most soothing tones.

“You could, perhaps, put this in the bank.”

Anita snatched the envelope from his hand. She rooted violently about in her handbag and came out with a penknife. She pried it open, still sobbing, and sliced through the top crease of the envelope.

Surender started the car and began backing out of the space. As he spun the wheel, Anita grabbed his forearm.

“Take me there now,” she said. Her tone inspired alarm.

“What is it, Nita?” he asked her, idling the car, half out of the parking spot. She showed him the cheque. Fifty-seven thousand dollars.

“It is a mistake,” Surender said. “It is a clerical error. I must take it back.”

He put the car into forward gear.

“It is not a mistake! It is payment, just and fair payment, for damages. Three times you have been mugged. Three times these girls have nearly lost their father! You must take me to the bank.”

“Anita, I cannot. There has been a mistake, and if we cash this cheque, the government will surely take it back instantly. Give it to me.”

He held out his hand. Anita glared at him.

And then she lunged forward, spearing the penknife toward his neck. In a heartbeat she had its stainless steel point jammed precisely against the carotid artery.

It was cold. He gave an involuntary shiver. The girls wailed together in the backseat.

“Take me to the bank,” Anita said. Her hand steadied.

“Yes, alright. Here we go.” He put the car into reverse and backed slowly out.

As they exited the parking lot, Surender mastered his nerves and soon felt a sense of calm descend over the proceedings. The girls stopped crying. Anita’s grip appeared to relax.

Smoothly he merged into the drive-home traffic.

“After all,” he said aloud to no one in particular, “It is not my first time in the rodeo.”


***