call them crazy. They’d pick us up, and even if I offered a map and directions, they’d ignore that and follow the interstate, fly right over the top of traffic, practically buzzing the cars. The pilots were aces when it came to flying a helicopter, but had no idea how to navigate the damn thing.
“There are quicker ways to go,” I’d say, folding up my map.
“Yeah,” the pilot would say, “but then I wouldn’t know where we were.”
One time, a pilot looks at me after I question his navigational choices and says, “You’re a military guy. I go by I.F.R. You know what that stands for, right?”
“Instrument Flight Rules.”
“Nope. I Fly Roads.”
I spend way more time in helicopters practicing law than I ever did in Vietnam.
This day, because of the obvious urgency, Shelby and I have no time to locate a helicopter, so we drive to Hazard. We arrive at the community center and go into the main meeting room, which we find packed with anxious and angry coal miners.
“What’s going on?” Shelby asks.
The miner we spoke to steps forward. “A couple miles down the road, at the coal tipple, a whole bunch of truckers has gathered up. They tossed about 30 tires into a pile in the middle of the road and set the pile on fire.”
“Wonderful,” I say.
“Now they’re shooting into the tires and they’re drinking.”
“It gets even better,” I say.
“They’re not moving. Say they’re staying put. Until we give them more money.”
“So, what, they’re on strike?” Shelby asks.
“At least,” I say.
“You’re our lawyers,” the spokesman says. “You represent us.”
Shelby and I look at each other. I grin at the spokesman.
“Well, yes,” I say, “but you guys seem to have this under control.”
“Listen,” the spokesman says, ignoring me. “I want you all to go down there and tell those truckers we’re not giving them any more damn money. Not a penny more. You go down there and tell them.”
“Let me get this straight,” Shelby says. “These truckers have set a pile of tires on fire, they’re blocking the road, they’re drinking, they’re shooting into burning tires, and you want us to tell them you’re not giving them any more money?”
“Yep.”
“Let’s go with Plan B.”
I don’t want to crack up in front of our agitated clients, but I can’t help myself. I smother my laugh with a fake coughing fit and a fist over my mouth.
“What’s Plan B?” the spokesman yells at our backs as Shelby steers me toward the door.
“Working on it,” Shelby says.
Shelby devises Plan B on the way back to the office. He drops me off and goes into Federal Court, where he gets an injunction against the truckers because they are blocking the highway. Highway Patrol shows up, waves the court document, and eventually, the truckers move off the road.
I didn’t put this in the Bulleit Points, but I should have.
Always have a Plan B.
Especially when Plan A involves a raging fire, firearms, and alcohol.
5 My Old Soldier
I SIT IN THE far corner of Dudley’s Restaurant, facing the front door so I’ll be able to see her walk in. I chose this place because it’s clubby, convenient, classy, and quiet. They serve excellent food and pour generous, tasty cocktails. I’ve heard they have a good wine list, too, but I’ll take any Kentucky bourbon over even a high-end Napa red any day. Nothing against Napa or red wine. Just not my style, not my taste. I’m a whiskey drinker and remain a bourbon distiller dreamer. Yes, still carrying that with me. I’ve recently turned 43 and have not acted on that dream. Yet.
I crane my neck, peer through the dining room’s hazy atmospheric light, making sure I haven’t missed her entrance. I’m early. I’m always early. That’s another of the Bulleit Points I live by, but this one I consider a command, not a suggestion. Be on time. Which to me means arrive at least 10 minutes early. Being late is both rude and disrespectful. Speaks volumes about a person’s character. Or lack of it.
So, I’m early. Twelve minutes by my Rolex, to be exact. My Rolex is both distinctive and an extravagance, to be sure, but in my current state of mind—confused—and in the current state of my life—tumultuous—I need something I can rely on, a reminder that life can be ordered, simple, and beautiful to look at, even during the most disordered, complex, and unpleasant times. Thus, my Rolex. (Thirty-two years later, I still have it, still wear it.)
I sigh, absently adjust the silverware and cloth napkins, more to occupy my hands than out of any sort of compulsive disorder that impels me to be continually arranging and rearranging things. But I do like things in their proper place, and in their correct order. And I do believe that appearance matters. Consider my choice of attire for tonight.
I have on a single-breasted grey suit from Brooks Brothers, shading more to light grey than edging toward black, the top two buttons clasped. Some may think I’m overdressed for a first date, but I would respectfully disagree. A suit equals credibility, and I’ve noticed that women prefer men in a suit. An observation. I’ve also been told that women find a man in a suit sexy. I would call that anecdotal evidence at the moment, having done no actual research in the field to back that up. I haven’t been on a date since Stephanie and I became a couple 17 years ago. With our divorce order pending, the state of our union can no longer be considered a union, of any sort, by any stretch of the imagination.
We’ve separated, our marriage collapsing due to five years of escalating incompatibility and a legal pad full of other reasons, all boiling down to one—we can no longer be married to one another. At present, we remain frustratingly deadlocked over the custody of Hollis, who lives with me. Hollis turned 13 a few months ago and has shown brilliance in the classroom and superior ability as a competitive swimmer, setting state records, all while displaying the typical irreverence of a preteen. Make no mistake, I will fight for custody, normally a long shot for the dad. But I believe Hollis should live with me and I’m willing to go to court if I have to.
I take another look toward the door of the restaurant, then check my watch again, confirming I’m officially 10 minutes early, or as I say, right on time. I sigh softly and consider the rest of my outfit. A soft blue Brooks Brother’s shirt, no tie. Too formal, too rigid, a turnoff. Again, that’s based on hearsay, not experience. For about 10 seconds, I toyed with wearing a turtleneck, but I didn’t want to look like an egghead, a folk singer, or a phony. Now, shoes. Black wingtips. Comfortable, classy, shined to a high gloss, the color a perfect contrast to the dark grey suit. Final touch. Cufflinks. I couldn’t decide between
