2003-01-30 � Of Pocketbooks

Last night I was working a little beyond the official hours. This is fairly common for me. I get more done in the hour before everyone gets here and the time I put in after everyone leaves for the day than I do during the regular working day. What do you suppose that says about me? I agree. Nothing. Now, what do you suppose that says about my co-workers. Yes sir. Quite a lot in deed.

Regardless, the phone in the chambers never rings much after 5:15 or so. People who call here are trying to reach the judge and they probably won't find her here much beyond that. So I was a little startled to hear the phone ring at 6:30.

I answered the phone with a little trepidation. "Judge Selma's chambers."

"Yeah, hi, Brian."

"Oh, hello, Judge."

"Yeah, listen, Brian, did I leave my purse there? Is my purse still in the chambers?"

"I'll go look. Hang on a minute."

I went into the judge's chambers and poked around her desk until I found it. The judge carries a black leather Gucci with simple lines and a long shoulder strap. The strap features a rather prominent silver buckle. The shape of the bag itself is feminine with deep curves.

I won't say I wasn't tempted by the bag. I would so love to have seen the judge's driver's license photo, but I didn't look.

I got back on the phone. "Judge? I have your purse right here."

"Shit!" she exclaimed. "Well, not shit that I know where it is, but shit! I have to come back and get it. Brian, will you be there for another fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah. I'm just about done, but I will wait for you to get here."

"Ok. I'm on my way."

A few minutes later, the phone rang again.

"Judge Selma's Chambers."

"Yeah, Brian, hello." I was on speaker phone in the judge's car.

"Hi Judge."

"Yeah, listen, my husband and I are on our way. Can you meet us in the parking garage? Say seven minutes?"

"Sure, judge. I'll meet you down stairs."

An unfamiliar male voice came over the line. "With the pocketbook!" I can only assume this was the judge's husband, Sam.

"Yes, Brian," the judge added patiently. "With the pocketbook."

"Sure. I'll have it with me and meet you in the parking garage."

The building where I work is not the courthouse, though the courthouse is directly across the street. It's a six story building with offices leased to the Appellate Division of the State Judiciary, obviously, a State Supreme Court Justice, a number of sizable law firms, an accounting firm, two investment firms, and a Senator. The window in my office has a spectacular view of Manhattan's skyline and I'm told that a couple of years ago the people in my office stood in front of what is now my desk and watched Manhattan burn.

At that time, it was determined that security in my office building needed to be beefed up a little.

There are prominent security guards on the ground floor and in the parking garage. No one is permitted access to the builidng without signing in or showing proof of employment in the building. Additionally, there are cameras in the elevators and in the interior and exterior common areas. And when the Senator is working from this office, instead of his Washington office, and it's Terror-Danger-Fear-Ashcroft-Color-Scale-Level Mauve or however the hell that works, there are Marines posted conspicuously.

From what I can see, these guys do a pretty good job. They are vigilant, they never let me pass without my ID, even though they know me by name, and they don't get easily distracted from their jobs, even though they have thwarted exactly zero terrorist threats since September 11.

So, I finished my task and gathered my things to leave for the evening. I put my coat and scarf on, I collected my belongings in my brief case and rinsed out my coffee cup so I could take it home and wash it. And then, without thinking about it I put my judge's purse strap over my shoulder and headed out, not realizing how out of place it would look.

As I was stepping onto the elevator, my judge's pager went off. The doors opened and I faced the blank stares of three women as I stepped onto the elevator absently digging through the purse looking for the pager to silence it. I requested the parking garage level be selected on the elevator's destination panel without looking up. I was having difficulty navigating someone else's bag with just one hand, so I had to put my brief case on the ground and pull my purse over in front of me for easier content viewing. The women shifted nervously and watched me in that way that suggests they are prepared to leap to safety at the least perception of danger.

I quickly discovered that there is a natural way to wear a purse such that when one is doing so for what is essentially the first time, or at least the first time in a long while, one can still look as if one has been wearing the purse everyday for ages. In a well designed shoulder bag, like the one my judge carries, the strap is designed to compliment the weight of the bag, which rests at easy access level. When walking, the bag hugs the hip and allows free movement of both the lower torso and the arm and shoulder. There is nothing like a good design.

When I finally located the pager I clipped it to the strap to remind myself to tell the judge it had gone off. I sighed heavily, releasing the stress of the day and allowed my purse to find its way, once again, to a state of familiar rest on my hip.

The elevator doors opened on the first floor and the women exited. As they disappeared around the corner, I could hear them giggling.

The next stop was the parking garage. My judge had not yet driven up to retrieve her purse, so I stood by the door to the elevator lobby and waited. Before long I was being circled by a couple of security guards. They eyed me and my purse and were clearly trying to decide if I was merely a gender bending freak or a thief who had stolen that purse and was now attempting to be nonchalant as I snuck past them.

"Oh, the purse?" I offered. "It's not mine."

They closed in.

"No, no. Nothing like that. It belongs to my boss."

They unclipped their nightsticks and brandished them menacingly.

"Hey, take it easy. She's on her way back for it. She forgot it earlier. She's gonna� she's coming to get it from me."

The situation deteriorated from there. The judge and her husband arrived to find me spread eagle in the middle of a pat down and the contents of her purse spread across a desk.

"Brian, I don't think you've met my husband, Sam."

"How do you do," I offered. It was a little muffled as my cheek was pressed against a wall.

The judge quickly straightened things out and, I'm happy to say the security guards let me go.

As I helped the judge put her things back in her bag, I snuck a peek at the license photo. I figured I deserved at least that.

Posted at 12:46 p.m.

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