This excerpt, “Smokey the Bear Has the Matches,” is from Idiot Men by Scott Gould. Copyright © 2021 by Springer Mountain Press. Used by permission of Springer Mountain Press.
“Smokey the Bear Has the Matches”
The judge floated in like he was flying, flew right into his chair, his black coat trailing wings behind him. He started in on me.
“So you, young man, are telling this court that you indeed deliberately set these fires, that you wantonly and maliciously burned up half my county?”
He stopped, and I kept my mouth closed.
“Don’t let me put words into your mouth, son. Truth be told, what you are saying is absolutely nothing. Is that correct? You aren’t saying you did, but you aren’t saying you didn’t either.”
The judge mixed his eyebrows together with his fingers. The whole room was the brown color of weak chocolate and almost empty. No TJ. Of course, no Treecie. A couple of old people, who didn’t seem as lonely here as they would out on the street, sat on the back row. One of them had a sandwich in a plastic bag.
“Mr. Lawrence?” The judge spoke to the table across from me, where a man sat with a bored expression that fit him better than his suit.
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“Let me tell you what we got. Since you are the only lawyer here, I’ll talk to you. This human over here isn’t talking.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“What I have here, Mr. Lawrence, as you may or may not be well aware, is that this young man is accused of setting the fire. Arson. He isn’t talking, though. There is no evidence he set the fire other than the fact that he was in a pickup at some point near the scene of the conflagration. He is not denying his complicity in the crime. I have a woman who swears on the graves of her unborn children that this mute set the fire. This woman, who upon first examination seems quite upstanding, may in fact be of dubious character and wishes to remain anonymous because she was actually at the scene throwing off sparks of her own with another gentleman, who is the pickup’s owner. In a separate affidavit, this gentleman swears on the graves of his paramour’s unborn progeny that this young man did not—I repeat, did not—set any fire of any kind. This gentleman is quite willing to appear in front of me and testify to this fact. Whereas the woman, hoping to keep her spouse from discovering her nocturnal dalliances, is doing everything possible to keep out of a public venue. Have I got this correct so far, Mr. Lawrence? Am I telling you anything you do not already know?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I mean, no, Your Honor.” Mr. Lawrence shuffled around inside his suit. It was so big on him, the cloth didn’t move.
“To continue—and don’t you go eating in my courtroom, you hear me, Gladys?”
The woman in the back had that sandwich out. Egg salad, I think it looked like, smeared across the side of her mouth. I made a little motion with my hand, a little signal to tell her she had something hanging onto her face, and she smiled back at me. She saw me and wiped with the back of her hand. Then she shoved that sandwich into the bag and mumbled something at the judge he couldn’t hear.
“Now, Mr. Lawrence, I have a dilemma. I personally think that side of the river where the fire occurred needed a good burning to clear out the underbrush and make the quail hunting a little better next fall. But what I think doesn’t amount to a hill of legal beans. You, sir, have no physical evidence. Your circumstantial evidence is about as thin as the smoke from this fire we’re talking about. I can’t really put much faith in the testimony of your witnesses. What am I to do, Mr. Lawrence?”
The way he worked those eyebrows with his fingers, it was a wonder he had any hair left in them. I wasn’t sure where I stood, but I knew the judge was having trouble coming to a decision. I wanted to open my mouth, but TJ had told me not to say anything unless I absolutely had to. And cry if you can, he told me.
“Your Honor?”
“Yes, Mr. Lawrence?”
“The county would be quite happy with some sort of community service arrangement that would—”
“Mr. Lawrence, sir, you are a mind reader. A medium. Just what I was thinking myself. You could have a career telling fortunes long after the law is done with you.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Here’s what I propose. I have a brother-in-law who works for the state, an employment decision that succinctly illustrates his mental powers. He is a forester. A tree hugger. In addition to his many useless duties, he is in charge of the Smokey the Bear costume, and, as I well know, he searches constantly for people to assume the identity and character of Smokey for various public functions, such as visits to schools, holiday parades, and the like. That, my amateur Prometheus…” The judge cut his eyes to me. “That is your debt to be paid in full to society. You will be Smokey the Bear for the period of one year for any and all occasions that the great Bear’s appearance is needed. Should you ever refuse to put on the fur and hat, I shall toss you into the county jail for a term up to, but not exceeding, twelve calendar months, and jail is a place where no good mother’s son should ever set foot, where men are stacked like pasteurized cheese slices. You shall report to my brother-in-law Monday morning bright and early, and, sir, there is no hibernation period for Smokey the Bear. He works the year ‘round. Gladys, let’s break for lunch, okay dear?”
