Justice is Served

 

I know you've missed him. Well miss no longer. Today is the third installment of The Ben Nutty Stories.

In case you missed the first two stories, Ben Nutty Goes Shopping and Ben Nutty's Comeback, why simply click on the links and enjoy.

And now I give you:

Justice is Served

Ben Nutty pulled up at the local courthouse. He’d recently accepted a part-time gig that required his rubbing elbows with the great unwashed in the county records department. But times could hardly be called robust since he’d been canned from his corporate communications job, and the phone had not exactly been ringing off the hook with freelance offers.  

Predisposed to frugality, Ben bypasses the available metered parking directly in front of the records department, circling the adjacent parking lot in his rattling Toyota in search of a vacant, gratuitous, space. Passing through, and exiting the far end of the parking lot, he finds an empty spot on a side street, and maneuvers his sputtering heap between to colossal SUV’s, the resulting dings to their chrome bumpers barely discernible even in direct sunlight.

Ben slings his computer laden backpack over his shoulders and begins trudging the 200-yards back to the records bureau. He enters the building to discover the usual long line of “customers,” the disheveled and potentially dangerous, waiting to speak to a clerk of the court. Ben excuses his way toward the back of the 8x10 room, claiming the only available piece of countertop, and wedges himself between the heating vent and a sizable, well-suited, but rather pungent gentleman, reviewing a court file.

“Good-morning,” Ben says, with forced joviality, tipping his Target® fedora.

“If you say so, pal,” the large man replies, shifting his body to give Ben the full view and scent of his nether regions. “Nice hat.”

Ben frowns and removes his hat. He goes about setting up his computer and searching the plastic box on the opposite counter for the day’s civil complaints.

“Why is it so much trouble to keep files in numerical order?” Ben says to himself and the room at large, feigning disgust in hopes that the culprit is still present. He pulls the necessary files and stacks them next to his computer and begins the dreary task of recording the necessary facts, names and dates.

“Ho, ho,” Ben chuckles, trying to draw the interest of his gargantuan counter-mate, “The things one sees in these employment sexual harassment lawsuits.”

Getting no response, he continues.

“Wow.  I’ve never even heard of that, and I’ve been to college. Aren’t physical relations, coupled with dwarfism, considered an unnatural and illegal act in these parts? If I were the plaintiff attorney, I’d pursue both civil and criminal complaints, while tossing in a writ of habeas corpus for good measure.”

The man next to him turns and moves his considerable bulk into Ben’s personal space.

“Hey, Perry Mason, do you mind? I’m trying to work over here.”

“The name’s Ben Nutty, actually.”

“Well put a lid on it, Ben, and save your two-bit legalese for the dolls.”

With that, the man gathers up his file and moves down the counter. Ben watches his retreating girth with dismay, and turns his attention back to the heap of files.

An hour later he has a stack of complaints ready to be copied. There are only two clerks working and a line of people stretches out the door. With a sigh, Ben gathers up his files and takes his place at the end of the line, resigning himself to a long wait.

“This is ridiculous,” says a flabby, heavily pierced woman several heads ahead of Ben in the queue. Her face brings to mind visions of Ben’s mama’s pincushion. “Fifteen people in line and only two windows open.”

“And both clerks are moving at a glacial pace,” responds an elderly gentleman.

“Typical civil service operation,” adds an emaciated, scarecrow of a woman. “Chock-full of inefficiencies.”

“Seriously,” says the elderly man. “They see all of us standing here. Why don’t they open another window?”

“Not only that,” says pincushion. “Why do they need all these files? This is all public record. It should be available on-line for anyone to see. We should be able to print records from home.”

“Just another way for Uncle Sam to squeeze a dollar out of us,” says a goateed young tweeker behind Ben. Ben figures him to be fresh from the pen and,touching a hand to the wallet in his back pocket, he hugs his files to his chest and inches further ahead in the line.

“Oh, look. They’re opening a third window,” says scarecrow. But no sooner has the third window opened then one of the other windows begins to close.

“It’s my lunch time,” says the woman behind the counter. And with that they are back to only two open windows. Grumbles ripple through the crowd.

“Ridiculous,” says pincushion again.

Ben clears his throat and puffs himself up. “You know, there is a ‘COMMENT” box in the corner there,” he says, pointing to what appeared to be a wooden ballot box with a padlock on it. “Maybe we should write a complaint letter.”

“Not that it would do any good,” says the elderly man. “But at least we could voice our complaints. It’s not like we have anything else to do.”

“Exactly,” says Ben, seizing the moment and taking an 8x11 notebook from his backpack.  “You’re lucky that I’m here. Communications is my ball of wax.”

The crowd stares at him slack-jawed, but Ben gives no notice, so caught up is he in the opportunity to take charge. Ben opens his notebook to a fresh page.

“OK, I think we should start with a zinger, something like ‘Dear Tyrant of the Court,’” Ben says and begins scribbling.

“Don’t be absurd,” says pincushion. “And your handwriting is atrocious. No one will be able to read your chicken scratch. Let me write it,” she says, pulling the notebook from Ben’s hand.

“Hey! I’m the writer here!”

But the corpulent woman has the notebook in her pudgy grip and has already produced a pen from behind a crusty, studded ear.

“OK,” she says addressing her queue mates. “What do we want to say?”

“Well, we certainly want to indicate our displeasure with the long wait,” says the elderly man. “And perhaps express our confusion as to why there are only two windows open when clearly there are more people working back there that could be assisting.”

“Good. That’s good,” says pincushion bending to the notebook.

“What was it you said about ‘public records?’” says scarecrow. “Something about how we should be able to print the records ourselves?”

“Right. Right,” says pincushion. “These are public records. There’s no reason we should have to stand in line for an hour for something we should be able to access on-line from home.”

Ben dances around the circle of backs trying to see the letter and inject his linguistic expertise.

“Make sure to use the word ‘Nazi,’” Ben says from outside the circle of contributors. “It’s a strong word and shows we mean business.”

 “I certainly think that charging $1.00 per copied page is outrageous,” says the goateed tweeker. “As I said, it’s just another way for Uncle Sam to bleed us.”

“Good point,” says the elderly man. “Did you get that?”

“Yup, I got it,” says pincushion.

“Did you use ‘Nazi’ yet?” adds Ben.

“OK,” says pincushion. “Take a look and see what you think.” The others bend over the notebook and begin reading. Ben cannot see.

“Wait just a minute here. Communications is my ball of wax, and that’s MY notebook,” Ben says, forcing his way into the circle and making a grab for the notebook. The last thing he sees is a large, dimpled elbow rocketing towards him.

When his vision begins to clear Ben finds himself lying partway under a table, looking up at the microfiche machines. The room is empty and his notebook lies on his chest. The files he’d been holding are scattered about the floor. He sits up slowly, shaking the cobwebs from his head. On hands and knees he begins gathering his files, which still need to be copied. As he stands up, a woman sitting at the only open window looks out at him and then up at the clock on the wall.

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the day.” Ben sees his battered reflection appear in the glass as the window slams shut.

Comments

[Pambasilea]

I love this, Joe. We alternate between "poor Ben" and "shut up, Ben!' and that pretty much sums up Ben's life, doesn't it. What a great character. Thanks for
keeping him on life support.