The People vs Ricky Bernstein’s Playboy
‘You’ve been accused of being cantankerous and unendurable. How do you plead?’
The judge, although young, had a seasoned way about him.
‘I plead not guilty!’
‘All right then, we’ll proceed to trial.’
The judge adjusted his seat on the cardboard box filled with ancient sports magazines. The basement courtroom was dank and dark, a sputtering incandescent bulb its sole light source.
The prosecution was brutal.
‘Your honor, this newcomer is malevolent agitator—a bona-fide miscreant. He looks funny, he’s fat, and has no coordination.’
The judge grimaced through imaginary bifocals.
‘He can’t play football, although he claims he was the mascot of the Mount St. Michael High School football team. He makes weird noises, and the faces alone scared my little brother.’
‘Hmm,’ the judge breathed… looking down from his dusty perch.
‘Not good.’
I stood there shuffling, waiting to tell my side of the story—the discarded bicycles, broken steamer trunks, and outdated salesmen’s samples my only willing witnesses—all of us marooned in sediment so thick, so fine, every move stirred up a dust storm worthy of the lunar landing.
A water bug crawling along an asbestos-covered pipe, scanned the scene, and moved on.
I was screwed.
‘Anything else, Mr. prosecutor?’
The prosecution looked up, scouring his brain for more offenses.
‘Oh, and he’s bigger than most of the kids around here.’
I looked at the jury for sympathy but found none.
‘Is that it?’ The judge seemed disappointed—he’d been expecting a second salvo of made-up infractions.
‘The defense rests.’
The judge vigorously twisted one of his twiggy brows—like he was trying to start a fire.
‘The court finds you guilty as charged. I sentence you to death.’
The prosecutor smiled smugly. He was a year and a half older than me, but still picked his nose.
In lieu of a gavel, the hanging judge banged a rock on an adjacent hot water pipe.
‘But I…can’t I defend myself? What about the jury?’
‘Oh right, do you have anything to say?’ He was losing patience.
‘I’m not fat, I’m just…big-boned! And I was the mascot! Ask my mom!’
Why did I consent to this?
‘Enough! Jury, how do you find the accused?’
All three jurors stood up.
It was then George Beader dashed into the room.
‘Hey guys! Ricky Bernstein has the new Playboy! They show pubes!’
The courtroom emptied like a goose at a Metamucil convention.
I stood alone amid a moonscape of perfect, hasty dust tornadoes.
Give me an American flag to plant.
Justice for the new kid on the block would have to wait.
About the artist
Patrick Carella writes fiction and creative nonfiction about family, memory, advertising, obsession, and the strange dignity of American life. He is an MFA candidate at the University of Texas at El Paso. His work has appeared in Wicked Shadow Press, CafeLit, Gorko Gazette, and is forthcoming in BULL, Hobart, The Eunoia Review, and The Hooghly Review. He lives in Cornwall-on-Hudson, New York, with his wife and their pit bulls, who remain unimpressed by literary publication.
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Image: Col·legi Episcopal.jpg
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