A Deliberation

A Deliberation
By Jason Cigan

Mickey Ryan, convinced as any writer that his best words were a matter between himself, his pen, and his paper, had a particular dread of giving speeches. He had delivered none formally since ninth grade, though his Communication Skills teacher had assured him he was eloquent and poised before an audience—if only in rare bursts here and there—and awarded him a B-minus in the course. “It’s normal to have some rough spots in a course like this,” Mrs Riordan had assured him; “do you know more people are afraid of public speaking than of spiders and death combined?”

No matter now. Nineteen years since, he found himself behind a lectern once more, and, while his audience waited, Mickey paused a moment to fume to himself on how his imposing roommate had conned him into signing on to this—how Hal had begged him, saying he couldn’t afford to hire a professional to do it, how the only ones volunteering free of charge were incompetent, how Mickey was far and away the smartest buddy he had, and engaged in all other sorts of flattering and pleading ‘til Mickey couldn’t give any answer but yes.

Mickey, like all dedicated English majors, had never imagined an adolescent love of literature would so drastically decrease his earnings potential someday.  Likewise, he’d never imagined that publishers would consider an MFA in poetry a credential every bit as wowing as a misdemeanor shoplifting offense. Or that his most heated rivals at Iowa summer programs for wannabe literary prodigies would go on to make fortunes with marketing firms, or in the case of the especially insufferable Joseph Reynolds, by inventing a tinted transparent strip to allow the upper left corner of a letterhead to be seen through a closed envelope. Mickey’s twentysomethings had been a decade of rejection letters and middle-rung clerical work.

None of this had prepared, much less qualified, him to stand here, to stand now. Surely everyone in the room knew it; no doubt they looked past Mickey’s drab tweed suit, his tidy brown hair parted slightly right of center, his top-percentile vocabulary—directly at the watery-eyed, five-foot-six Irishman with an irksome propensity for spending awkward conversational silences devising, and impulsively announcing, puns.  Mickey had promised Hal to repress this tendency for the occasion. Hal had only last week forgiven Mickey for that awkward first conversation, three years ago, with Hal’s mother, who, upon convulsing into sobs after announcing that Hal’s father, Will, had filed for divorce, had prompted an unfortunate witticism from Mickey. “Well I’ll tell you what, where there’s a Will, there’s a way,” he’d put in, his initially confident tone trailing off toward the end—so that “there’s a way” was softly intoned, as if a comforting truism—just as he had noticed Hal staring back at him, brow piqued, while embracing his mother.
But Mickey had sworn to give his all. “I’m a bit people-shy,” he’d admitted, then paused for a few seconds. “But I won’t shy from… helping a friend in need.” Mickey shrugged apologetically, suggesting the flimsy pun, rather than the service he’d agreed to do Hal, was all Mickey had to offer; and though he knew it wasn’t much, he’d do anything for as good a friend as Hal, so it was Hal’s to keep. Hal had given a knowing smile, a light upturning of the left corner of the mouth and a brief look into Mickey’s averted eyes that, as only a true friend can do, acknowledged sincere thanks for a service mutually understood to be inadequate.

The audible clearing of a throat startled Mickey from reflection. He looked about, seeking its source, until, glimpsing the sizable crowd gathered before him, he knew the time to deliberate had ended. “Ahem,” he echoed, and glanced left to see Hal seated in a wooden chair, eyes darting over everything save Mickey. Mickey paused, in thought, speech, and motion, for what seemed a moment—he knew not how many seconds it was, or hours it seemed, to his listeners’ senses. His thought ceased, his speech began.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Ahem. Ladies and gentlemen, men and women of the jury, your honor,” came out in staccato. “Thank you. My client pleads innocent.”

“Not guilty!” came a stern mutter from Mickey’s near left.

Mickey started. “Yes, yes. The plea was not guilty, but the fact is he committed no crime. And that, my dear audience, is the essence of the matter.” A pause—more thoughtful than hesitant. “We need not make a federal… case of this,” Mickey said. Then sighed.