Sedona Law 2 Page 7

  I awoke with a start, relieved to be asleep in my own bed. Then I stumbled out into the living room to find Vicki curled up on the couch in sweatpants and a tank top watching TV. I looked at the screen.

  “Don’t tell me that’s what I think it is … ” I trailed off and smiled at her.

  “Phoenix’s movie,” she finished with a nod. “I found it in your car.”

  I curled up on the couch with her and tossed a throw blanket across our legs. Then I put my arm around her and watched my little brother on the screen.

  The concept was a little unfocused, but I had to admit it was good. It was a mockumentary on the topic of drug legalization. Phoenix and a couple of other kids went around asking people about drugs, drug laws, and then their own drug use. The satirical interviews were clearly scripted, as each of the subjects were foiled by their own ridiculous answers.

  Then the reporters went to a legislative meeting in a Congressional chamber that looked suspiciously like our high school gymnasium. Donald Trump was there, as well as several other key government leaders where the topic was supposed to be debated.

  The Congressional debate started out well, and then somehow it just descended into madness. Hillary Clinton was there and started making out with Condoleezza Rice, while Anthony Weiner tried to hit on Katy Perry. Then Seth Rogen showed up with Tony Blair and Saddam Hussein, and they all handed out drugs and everyone got high. Oh, and there was something about Johnny Depp and Pablo Escobar and … some papier-mâché hippos?

  I got the gist. The point was how could the government tell people not to do drugs when it was full of such rampant hypocrisy itself? If the global powers that be wanted to legislate morality, so to speak, they needed to start by cleaning up their own act. It was a decent point, although the logic was a little screwy, founded on a basic ad hominem fallacy. If I were cross examining, I would point out you can be incorrect on one issue but correct on another, but nonetheless it made its point.

  The pop culture references went back to the idea that the media was actually a tool of government propaganda to get people to use drugs, and therefore pour money into the coffers of the drug trade that ultimately ended up in government’s own pockets.

  The disconnected nature of the ending, I decided, was purposeful in that it felt a bit like a drug trip. So, the point would be, we are all on a global drug trip, watching these figures in this absurd political theatre telling us not to do drugs. Not bad. The credits ran, and I turned to Vicki.

  “Well, I don’t know about ‘comic genius,’” I said, “but it’s got some merit.”

  She laughed. “Well, considering his budget, I thought it was great.”

  I checked the time. It was getting late. As we started getting ready for the dinner at my parents’ house, I oddly thought about the film and my dream. The film was about government corruption. Wasn’t that on some level what we were dealing with here in Sedona? The city council, the film festival, and the arts league seemed to be all linked together in whatever happened to Clifton. Abraham Lincoln said it wasn’t John Wilkes Booth but the government that killed him. Was my subconscious trying to tell me I already knew who the killer was? Was I ignoring my instincts?

  “Are you ready?” Vicki cut through my thoughts.

  She looked beautiful in a green form fitting dress with a tie-over in front. The skirt reached down to her mid thigh, and her toned legs were long, creamy, and shapely. She wore matching green heels, and her long dark hair was curled around her shoulders in waves. She also smelled of perfume and left a tantalizing scent with every move she made.

  I had just chosen blindly from my work wardrobe, black slacks, and a slim cut blue button down. It was only my family after all.

  “Darling, you look wonderful tonight,” I said with a smile.

  “Did you just quote Eric Clapton?” she teased as we walked out the door.

  “I think I did,” I chuckled. “Should I get my guitar?”

  “You play guitar?” she asked as she raised an eyebrow.

  “Very poorly.” I clicked the disarm button on my keys, and my car beeped.

  “I think you owe him royalties,” she said. “He could sue.”

  “But I didn’t even strum the guitar.” I laughed and opened the car door.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said with a grin. “Used the same five words. That’s way more than three chords.”

  “I know a really great lawyer who could take on that case,” I said.

  “I’ll bet you do,” she laughed coyly as she settled into the passenger seat.

  We arrived at the Irving place at around seven that night. I pulled up to the driveway and groaned.

  “Shit!” I said.

  It was full of cars. When my mom said it was a family dinner, apparently she didn’t just mean the nuclear Irvings. She meant everyone. Maybe I would have known that if I had actually spoken to her about it instead of avoiding her texts.

  “What?” Vicki asked.

  “This is going to be a circus,” I sighed. “We can still make a break for it.” I put my palm on the wheel, and my other hand hovered tentatively around the seat belt release.

  “Not a chance.” She smiled.

  We exited the vehicle. It was a small home, similar in style to many of the other homes we had been in and out of lately. Only, in my family’s eccentric taste, it was painted a pale blue and had a gravel lawn in place of grass.

  I was told this was part of some sort of save the earth agenda, but I never quite understood the logic behind it. Far be it from me to understand logic. It’s not like I was a lawyer or anything.

  A full family affair at the Irving manor was an event. It’s not a nice dinner at a long table where everyone sits nicely and passes the salad. I always envied those families. No, a full dinner at my family’s was sort of like My Big Fat Greek Wedding meets That ’70’s Show.

  We had a handful of extended relatives who lived in the neighboring towns around Sedona. They came in with their kids and grandkids and whomever else they could round up. My dad was in a band in the 1970’s. They almost got signed, until one of the members quit because he got a job as a backup drummer for Led Zeppelin. He didn’t last long and tried to come back on his knees. They never forgave him for his betrayal, and so the remaining members, sans record deal, had all stayed friends in Sedona.

  Only over the years, they had all been in and out of random bands. Now, they all have this brotherhood of miscellaneous musicians, old hippie burnouts, with a few hipsters thrown in for special effect.

  In between, the women and children floated around. There was a ton of food, but no official meal. People just grabbed paper plates and sort of wandered around eating and chatting. There was music, so much music, everywhere.

  We walked in the house and the festivities were already underway. There had to have been about forty people crammed inside. The music was already about the decibel level of a high school house party right before the cops show up, and Vicki turned to me with an expression of shock on her face.

  “Welcome to Sedona,” I laughed.

  My aunt Jeannie, a heavyset woman in a long, floral muumuu and sandals, saw us first. She had shoulder-length blond hair and wide-blue eyes, and she squealed when she saw us.

  She pecked me on the cheek. “Henry! So glad you came.” Then she noticed the woman beside me. “This must be…”

  “Vicki Park,” Vicki said as she held out her hand.

  Jeannie shook her hand and then pecked Vicki on the cheek. Vicki looked a little surprised, but took it well.

  “I’ve heard so much about you!” Jeannie squealed. “Come, come with me.”

  She grabbed Vicki by the arm. Vicki eyed me and I shrugged.

  “Have you ever tried home brewed kombucha?” Jeannie was asking Vicki as they disappeared into the party.

  As soon as Vicki was gone, my mother showed up. Saffron Irving usually had long, dark hair flowing down her back. This time she had it wrapped in a bright orange scarf on top of h
er head. She also wore jeans and a beaded top.

  “Good of you to come.” She gave me a genuine smile and reached out to hug me.

  “Good to see you too, Mom,” I replied as I hugged her back. The words came out with more sincerity than I realized I felt.

  “Come inside,” she gushed. “Everyone’s dying to see you.”

  I followed her into the living room. Amps, guitars, guitar cables, and flimsy metal music stands littered the floor. Somewhere about a dozen people lounged on the couches. Some played, others were just there.

  “Hey, everyone,” my mother yelled.

  The music stopped.

  “Look who’s moved back home from the big city,” she announced. “My first born son, Henry.”

  A resounding chorus of applause resonated from all over the house. I found myself suddenly barraged by hugs, handshakes, and back slaps from people I hadn’t seen in over a decade.

  “Finally came to your senses, huh?” an uncle toasted me with a beer from his spot on the staircase.

  “Are you rich yet?” a friend of my father’s asked from the living room.

  “Shit, yeah,” another one of my dad’s friends said. “I saw him driving around yesterday in a Beemer.”

  There were whistles all around at this revelation.

  “Moving on up to the east side,” I heard someone yell from somewhere I couldn’t see.

  “Do you know Beyonce?” the nine year-old daughter of one of my cousins asked.

  I laughed. “No, I do not know Beyonce, but I do know her agent.”

  She didn’t seem very impressed by that.

  “Did you date any actresses or models?” another voice called out.

  “Alright, people,” my mother said. “Let’s give Henry some space. Who’s up for some improv?”

  There was loud applause, and the attention turned away from me. I spotted Vicki on the other side of the room talking to my cousin Rachelle, and my girlfriend started to laugh.

  Rachelle had long brown dreadlocks with pink and purple extensions pulled into a pink wrap on her head, and she wore huge jingling earrings in her ears. She was dressed in black leggings and a black tunic top with long silver necklaces and matching bangle bracelets. Her hands moved when she talked, and I noticed a small tattoo flashing on her wrist.

  I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Vicki seemed to be listening with interest. Rachelle was touching Vicki’s hair and then her own.

  Yeah, I needed to get over there, but the improv was starting, so everyone quieted as my sister Harmony, Phoenix, and another girl I hadn’t met, came to an area in the living room that was apparently accepted to be a stage.

  The sketch had to do with an airplane crash. Phoenix was a redneck pilot, and they were all going down. Harmony played a paranoid schizophrenic who, among other things, thought her stuffed pink dog was real.

  “What’s that Fluffy?” she placed her ear up to the dog. “Fluffy says it’s cold in here. We need to turn up the heat.”

  The other girl played an over the top self absorbed lawyer who I found mildly amusing.

  “Well, I’m going to be in the Bahamas,” she obnoxiously whined into a mimed cell phone. “Just tell the judge that’s not going to work for me.”

  “Really? Is that how that works?” I whispered as Vicki found me in the crowd. She elbowed me softly in the stomach so I would pay attention to the play.

  The plane was crash landing, and the three souls on board all played on exaggerated stereotypes for their impending deaths.

  “I hope you folks got your religion stuff sorted out, “ Phoenix drawled to the passengers. “Cause hoo-doggies, we’re going down.”

  “No,” the lawyer said. “I can’t die. I have to have lunch with Gwyneth Paltrow! Gwyneth! Don’t leave me here to die with … Fluffy.” She punched buttons on her phone.

  In the end, the plane landed safely, and they all make it out alive. Phoenix and the crazy lady went off together while she told him how she could hear what the animals say. He found this fascinating. The lawyer decided she needed a manicure. The sketch was overall cute and made everyone laugh.

  The cast stood and bowed, and everyone applauded. There was a break as the next group assembled, and I caught up with Phoenix in the kitchen.

  “Good job, bro,” I said.

  He smiled. “Thanks, man.”

  “I saw your film,” I told him.

  His face brightened. “What did you think?”

  “You made some good points,” I said in an encouraging tone. “It was well-done. Although, what was with the hippos?”

  He smiled. “It’s the cocaine hippos. You see, when they arrested Pablo Escobar in the 1970’s, he was this eccentric character with a mini-zoo at his compound. He had all these crazy animals: giraffes, elephants, zebras, I think. The authorities seized all the animals and either sent them to other zoos or released them into the wild. All except for these four hippos. The investigators felt like they would be too much trouble to move, so they left them there on Escobar’s land. Now, those hippos have migrated off the land and into a nearby river, and they have multiplied into a colony of like, sixty-four hippos. They are protected, but they cause problems for the locals. I just thought the hippos were a symbol of the victims of the cocaine war. You know, the CIA created the cocaine market for greed, and then they just left the wreckage and damage to the people.”

  I nodded, studied Phoenix for a moment, and then decided I could either be a fan, or be a real big brother and speak the truth. I decided on the latter.

  I might get quite the earful from my parents later, but after watching that film, I had to follow my conscience. I knew I was on shaky ground here. But this was a kid with no apparent interest in education or a career other than to complain endlessly about the government and ‘the system.’

  “I know you don’t think much of the government, “ I started, “and that’s okay. You can spend your life railing against the government and the system, and make some valid points. But if you do that, that’s all you’ll make: points. But, let me tell you, it’s easier to sit back and tell others what they’re doing wrong, than to do something yourself. The truth is, if you want to get anywhere in this life, you’re going to have to play into the system one way or another.”

  “No, it’s thinking like that that allows injustice to continue,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Injustice. Okay,” I said. “So, in what ways are you fighting injustice?”

  “By creating awareness,” he responded.

  “How does awareness help?” I asked.

  He looked at me wide-eyed, like I was crazy. “It lets people know there is a problem.”

  “Okay, how does that help?”

  “What do you mean?” He was dumbfounded.

  “Okay, so let’s say the sink in here has a leak,” I said after a brief pause to consider my words. “That’s a problem, right?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “So, I can talk about how the sink is leaking all day long,” I said. “I can complain about it. I can paint pictures of the leaky sink. But is that going to help the problem?”

  “Well, no,” he admitted.

  “Right,” I agreed. “The only thing that can help is to actually fix the sink. Are you getting my point?”

  “I guess,” he sighed, “but government corruption is everyone’s problem. The only way to fix it, is to speak out about it.”

  “But, again,” I pointed out, “you’re just complaining about the leaky sink.”

  “But there are people who can change it,” he insisted. “These are the people who need to hear.”

  I smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who are those people?”

  “W-well,” he stammered, “legislators, and people who have organizations, and the money to do those things.”

  I leaned back, and a smile played about my lips.

  “How does a person become one of those people?” I asked.

  He looked confu
sed. “Uh … well, they’re just in the right positions.”

  “So, they woke up one morning and had a multi-million dollar endowment to help fight injustice?” I asked.

  “Well, no, I mean, who are you talking about?” Phoenix’s head looked like it was about to explode from confusion.

  “These … legislators and people who have organizations and resources to help fight injustice,” I reiterated, “the people who can effect change with these messages. How did they get to those places?”

  “Uh, I guess I don’t know,” he conceded.

  “Right,” I said, “and that’s the thing. They had to play into ‘the system,’ and ‘work for the man,’ before they were in a position to truly effect change. If you want to make a change, if you want to fight government oppression, that’s noble. But it’s a lot harder than just complaining about the injustice and creating awareness.”

  He listened quietly.

  “Phoenix I’m going to tell you the truth,” I continued. “If you want to make a real change, a real difference in the world, you’ve got to get yourself in a position to where you can actually create change. Or you are in an actual place of influence with the people who can. And that requires, unfortunately, some compromise.”

  Phoenix nodded slowly.

  “Compromise like an education, a career, a job,” I went on.

  “I guess I never thought of it like that,” he said. “Makes sense. That’s a lot to think about.” He suddenly looked at me with a newfound respect. “Is that what you’re doing, fighting injustice by compromising? Being a lawyer and all?”

  I blinked with surprise as the idea had never occurred to me like that before.

  “I guess I am,” I said with a grin.

  Phoenix smiled and toasted me with a glass of kombucha brew. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers, man,” I toasted him back.

  He left pensively to go join the rest of the party, and I sighed. Maybe my timing wasn’t the best with that conversation with Phoenix, with his big film and all, but I just felt like it was one of those things an older brother needed to say. Because who else was going to say it in this town?