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January 25, 2008

Subpoenaed?!

I was in the kitchen, stirring a batch of homemade butterscotch candies for the preteens who scurry home along Moorpark from the elementary school nearby. Oftentimes, I find myself sitting on the balcony, enjoying a sunny afternoon, just watching the children laugh and play and touch one another. On occasion, Margo accuses me of leering and makes me come inside. It’s a little running joke we have. I thought making them some candy would give them a little thrill, and I could watch with satisfaction as they drop those little hard things onto their wet tongues. Slowly, after about five or ten minutes of intense sucking, the candies would soften, spraying the back of their throats with an extra burst of delicious flavor.

Margo sat on the couch with a clipboard and some looseleaf paper, making notes for her next issue of Happy Kitten Express, formerly known as Slut-Wrench. Renal sat on the floor, pressed up to the coffee table, doing the chemistry homework Margo had assigned earlier. Her hair was all done up in pigtails. My daughter looked adorable as her face wrinkled with consternation.

We heard a fierce pounding on the door.

“I’ll get it,” I said with a pleasing, musical lilt to my voice. Margo smiled at me like she used to when she took illegal Quaalades on a semi-regular basis. Mixing bowl in hand, I continued stirring as I crossed the tiny dining area to the front door.

A tall, silver-haired man stood in the hallway when I opened the doorway. He had the cheap suit and stroke-victim sneer of a federal agent. “You Phillips?” he demanded in a voice both gravelly and high-pitched.

“What of it?” I asked defensively.

He tried to smile but it looked ghoulish. Maybe that was the goal. “Have a nice day,” he said, tossing a thin manila envelope onto my bowl. He walked away before I could berate him with obscenities. I set down the bowl and looked at the envelope. No return address—just a plain manila envelope, lined like the kind used for interoffice mail.

I shrugged and ripped open the envelope. Inside, I found several sheets of paper stapled together. On top:

Click image for a larger view

“Shit,” I said softly. Then I looked at the dates and said, “Thanks for the fucking short notice, you goddamn cocksuckers.”

“Girthy, what’s wrong?”

“The Senate has subpoenaed me. I have to testify tomorrow, or…send a lot of documents I don’t have.”

“Like what?”

“Monthly financial statements for Sweet Treasures, something resembling a business model or mission statement. They’re trying to censor me, man. They’re just using the charity as an excuse.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Girth,” Margo said. I noticed she hadn’t made anything resembling an effort to stand up. She just sat, looking over her usual pile of paper with her old-lady half-glasses.

Renal stared at me, slackjawed.

“Fuck you!” I screamed at both of them. They swapped uncomfortable glances. “I need to book a goddamn flight.”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on January 25, 2008 5:08 PM
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