S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT! What’s your favorite way to spend Saturday night?
Saturday night has long lost its appeal as being a special night. It makes little sense and has even lesser appeal to be a “night on the town” which is normally the phrase that accompanies a tragic event that leads to one being hospitalized, incarcerated, or waking up Sunday morning in Juarez with a cute little Mexican kid counting your toes in Spanish.
I like quiet unencumbered evenings; no phone calls, no loud music, no traffic, and no obnoxious people named Tiffany and Dude. I don’t want tension, I want relaxation. I want to be home and I want Tiffany and Dude and their heathen friends to be enjoying themselves in Juarez which is at least a thousand miles from me.
That’s about it. So here is part 1 of my next short story. Hope you enjoy.
Mismatched (Part 1)
Assistant District Attorney Braxton Williston had to drive to Chicago to meet with Federal Attorney Jefferson Marks. It was delicate case they were working on. They talked many hours over the phone and exchanged emails, but it was time for a face to face meeting.
Jefferson and Braxton hit it off. Sometimes on the phone after or even during their discussion about the investigation they talked about personal items; family, vacations, music, sports, food, etc. They had much in common. They both attended law school at Northwestern, but their paths never crossed. They attended some of the same Bear’s, Bull’s, and Cub’s games and their paths never crossed.
Braxton was raised in Franklin Park and Marks in Willow Brook, both Chicago suburbs.
Their families vacationed in the same places, but at different times.
Before they met face to face they felt as if they had known each other for years.
Braxton was excited about meeting Jefferson for the first time.
He entered the downtown office of The FBI at 7:55. It was strange. He always thought of the FBI as being a stoic and serious organization. In fact, the agents he dealt with in the past were serious to the point of being unfriendly. As he entered the lobby there were smiles, nods, and stares.
Braxton rode the elevator to the fourth floor and found room 412. He walked in and a secretary looked at him strangely.
“I‘m Braxton Williston,” he said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Marks.”
“Yes,” she said with an uncomfortable smile. “Mr. Marks is expecting you.” She stood from her desk and opened the door to the office of Jefferson Marks.
“Mr. Marks,” the secretary said. “Braxton Williston here.”
“Thank you, Mss White,” Jefferson said.
Braxton walked in. Jefferson looked up from his desk.
Braxton stared at Jefferson.
“We could be twins,” Jefferson said.
“Except you are at least part African/American,” Braxton said.
“And you are very white,” Jefferson said.
“But on the phone…,” Braxton said.
“I sounded white,” Jefferson said. “My parents are white. I was adopted.”
“Two people don’t look as close alike as we do without at least having one of the same parent.” Braxton said.
“The only thing I was ever told is that my father was white,” Jefferson said.
“This is all very interesting,” Braxton said.
“Could it be we have the same father?” Jefferson said.
“No,” Braxton said. “My mother has two brothers that look just like us.”
Jefferson rubbed his chin. “I suppose we were destined to be lawyers; that assures us we will never be able to figure this out.”