Judge Me by Ace Boggess

I have no music in my soul. A man told me that once, full of conviction. No real anger in him, but definitely judgment. I sentenced him to twenty-five years in the penitentiary, and he was back before me on a Rule 35 (b) motion for reconsideration, which I denied. He stood at the defense table in his baggy orange prison-transport jumper, his wrists and ankles shackled, and he grinned at me, biting and cold, a man with nothing left to lose.

“Something funny, Mr. _____?” Sorry. I don’t remember his name.

“You know what your problem is?”

“Careful,” I started to admonish him, but that turned into “Care to tell me?”

He locked his hands, lifted them as high as the shackles allowed, and pointed with both scrawny index fingers, not like a pistol so much as the aim of pure righteousness. “You got no music in your soul,” he said. “Can’t trust a man that got no music in his soul. There’s a dead spot inside, all black and rotten. No matter what he does, he can’t wash it away, ’cause that’s where the music goes, and he ain’t got none.”

I could’ve held him in contempt, but didn’t bother. I waved for the deputies to take him away, and as he left the courtroom, I said, “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I take my wife to the symphony.” It sounded like a proper response. It wasn’t honest. I bought season tickets to performances every year only to be charitable. Summer and I rarely attended, and when we went, I ended up snoring before the intermission—head drifting back, eyes fogging, brain full of pillows and clouds. Mr. _____ saw through me. I had no place for music. No blues, jazz, funk, pop, rap, country-western, rock and roll. Not even the bluegrass my family played at funerals during my childhood. I kept a void, or maybe a rest, where others found rhythm and harmony.

Self-aware about that, I feel more out of place here, now, behind a plastic picnic table, part of a panel of “celebrity” judges for the finals of the Rising Stars high-school singing competition. Three contestants over three hours singing three songs each—I get to score them and help decide a winner. I’m not sure what qualifies me. Twenty years as a Kanawha County circuit judge doesn’t make me a grade-A talent scout, unless the talent you’re seeking is who’d be best suited to work in the prison laundry. My late wife used to be on the Board of whatever organization is sponsoring this event—I think that’s why they called me. Or maybe they were desperate. If there’s one thing I’ve witnessed, it’s that desperate people do ridiculous things.

My co-judges are an actress who grew up here in Charleston and a young man who won one of these contests a few years ago, recording an album or two before he disappeared from the spotlight. I’ve seen some of the woman’s movies, which fall into the categories of high drama or horrible cheese. I haven’t heard the man’s music, although of course I recognize his name from stories in the local paper. In any case, both of them count as bona fide celebrities, whereas I’m most known for handing out the harshest sentences to anyone before me on charges of drunken driving that resulted in injury or death. In court, I’m the Honorable Melvin Benjamin, but I’ve heard rumors that local lawyers call me Benny Buzzkill to their clients, or sometimes the Temperance Judge. I don’t care for that second one. I’m not against alcohol. In fact, I plan to wash this whole day away with a bottle of Absolut when I get home. I just won’t be jumping into the driver’s seat of an automobile after.

The contestant on stage is the only female performer. Marina, the scorer’s sheet says—no last name. She’s seventeen, with heavily kohl-lacquered eyes and mid-length pink and black hair that looks like it could be a wig but probably isn’t. She’s singing a pop song that sounds familiar, although of course I can’t place it. She’s accompanied by a background track with off-kilter beats. I don’t know if this is the modern style or one of the many trends I’ve missed. The song itself has no appeal to me.

Slowly, so as not to seem uninterested, I reach for the bottle of Dasani to my right. I unscrew the cap with one hand, then pull the bottle to my lips for a quick sip.

Glancing left, I see the actress looking at me as she grins and nods her head in time to the music. She mouths, “This is great, right?”

I don’t answer, but smile back as though I know the answer.

Growing up, I didn’t have much access to music. I didn’t own a record player, and I wasn’t allowed to touch my dad’s. He and Mom listened to gospel or bluegrass or sometimes sad country-western in the car. I know he liked to listen to Elvis Presley, too. He’d sneak away when Mom wasn’t around just as an ex-smoker might steal a puff off a Kool and blow smoke out some neighbor’s bathroom window. It seemed as if he were ashamed of himself for his taste, though he admitted to me later in life that he bought tickets to an Elvis concert but didn’t get to go because the King died a few days before the show.

My mother only viewed songs as hymns. She loved to hum “Amazing Grace” and “The Old Rugged Cross” while she completed some menial domestic chore.

When the 1980s arrived with Ronald Reagan and the space shuttle and MTV, my school friends raved about new albums by Men at Work, AC/DC, Michael Jackson, and whatever the Bangles were. I shrugged and went about my day, more concerned with history and science than Def Leppard or Debbie Gibson.

During my entire youth, I only connected with one song. I loved “Yellow Submarine.” I got into it when I was four or five, watching that strange movie on TV. If it weren’t part of a cartoon, or whatever you call it, I doubt I would’ve come across it. At the time, it was just the right song for me. I can picture those catchy, pointless, happy lyrics in my head.

To my right, the former contest winner is shouting “Woo woo woo!” while pounding one hand on the table and pumping the other fist in the air.

I think I drifted off for a moment. The younger of the two male contestants was singing in a gospely tone about wanting people to entertain him, and the next thing I knew, I was being startled awake by the one-man cheering section beside me.

Kid must have done well, I think. I feel bad for slighting him. He’s a normal-looking guy in tee shirt and jeans—closely cropped hair, no scars, no tattoos. I doubt I’d recognize him if I passed him on the street, and I definitely wouldn’t know his voice if I heard it on the radio.

“Man, that was outstanding,” the contest winner shouts. “You have any formal training?”

The kid sounds meek as he answers.

I miss his reply. I’m watching the older male contestant, maybe eighteen, lurking nearby and waiting for his chance to take the stage. He has longer, wavy hair like the fashion when I was his age. His eyes look purpled from lack of sleep. I see a word tattooed on his wrist, but it’s in cursive, and from my distance, I can’t quite make it out. He also has an angry expression as though something’s just gone horribly wrong.

Oh, I feel for this one. I can see his future. He’s in my courtroom, standing in front of me and pleading for mercy as though I have any music in my soul.

Summer knew I didn’t care about music, that I saw it as existing on a line between silence and noise, conversation and evangelizing. During our college days, we’d go to bars where bands were playing. She’d discuss those bands, saying This is good, this is awful, this is the next big thing. I rarely replied with more than a smile or a shrug. If it made her happy, I could live with it.

On occasion, we’d go for karaoke night at a place called Stoker’s in Morgantown. She’d get up and sing, her voice sultry, eyes closed, hips swaying to the rhythm of whatever song I didn’t recognize. Her blond bangs hung down over her face, and for a moment, she would disappear. I loved everything about her then, except the songs. When she returned to our table, sweating and blushing, I praised her as though she had given a romantic performance of the out damned spot scene from Macbeth. She accepted my compliments for what they were: signs of devotion, even though I couldn’t connect with those parts of her life I didn’t understand.

Later, after lymphoma made a second run at her, when it became clear to both of us that she wouldn’t make it, she gave me a list. “These are the songs I want played at my funeral,” she said. “I know you’re no good at this stuff, so give it to the funeral director. He’ll figure it out.”

I read the list and didn’t find a single hymn or bluegrass song.

“It’s popular music,” she said. “I want to keep things light.”

I asked, “How do you keep things light at a funeral?”

“By not playing sad songs, not trying to give folks the blues.”

“The blues?”

“A mood,” she said, “but also a type of music. Go listen to it when I’m gone. Maybe you’ll feel it.”

After the first round of songs, the other judges, promoters, and staff head to one of the mall’s anchor restaurants for steaks and festive, meaningless conversations. I could go with them, but I already feel out of place. Instead, I take the elevator up to the food court and grab a slice of stale mall pizza like I used to do as a teenager.

I remember when this mall was the place to be for shopping, dates, or hanging out with friends while security guards glared down from a level above. It was always crowded, noise echoing off tile floors like a car’s engine revving. Now, it’s quiet, with plenty of space for older folks walking laps to get their daily exercise. The floors are carpeted, muffling every step. When the owners laid that carpet a few years back, that’s when I knew this mall was dying.

I pick a table and drop my paper plate on it. I maneuver a chair with my left hand while holding a soda in my right. When I’m settled, I stare down at the arrowhead of bland cheese and pepperoni pointed at my gut. I shake my head, a little nostalgic and a little sad. I grab the slice. I’m the kind of guy who’d eat fresh, steaming pizza with a knife and fork. Go on, judge me. Not mall pizza, though. That’d be like drinking Coca Cola from a champagne flute.

As the pizza crunches between my teeth, I scan the food court. There are maybe a dozen people here, most of them employees on break from their shops.

I close my eyes and listen for the buzz of human interaction. There’s not much of it. Few people talk. No one’s hamming it up for a love interest. I hear a song playing from overhead speakers, but I don’t recognize it—a woman calling herself a bad guy in a kind of sexy/evil tone. I tune it out when I catch a raised voice nearby: “You told me this was it!” They’re the only words that reach me, but at least it’s some passion, a hint of life left in this dead place.

I follow other eyes to the commotion, surprised to see one of the contestants, the older male, arguing with a guy in a herringbone suit that glimmers like an oil slick. The man looks to be in his mid-thirties. His receding hairline is highlighted by sandy hair slicked back and locked in place with some sort of gel. His puffed, pink cheeks and sloping forehead give him a menacing, maniacal appearance as if he’s the devil with whom a young singer makes deals.

Father? I wonder. Manager? Do these kids have managers? 

Though I can’t hear any more, I watch the performer—Joss, I think—wave his arms, then cover his eyes with his hands, which disappear when his shoulder-length blond hair falls over them.

Joss—I’ll call him that—was the only performer to catch my interest and do something unexpected. He sang a country-western song I had heard before, the shadow of a memory from the back of an Oldsmobile while my father drove us. I can’t say I enjoyed the song, but at least I had heard it and had something on which to base my scoring of Joss’s performance. I gave him a nine out of ten. My co-judges disagreed, hitting him with mid-range numbers and a hint of contempt the same way I might sentence a guy to the pen, talk down to him, and then forget about it before I finished my evening meal.

Joss has calmed now. His hands are at his sides, head bowed, face still hidden.

The devil reaches out to him, cupping his shoulders, then pulls him into a tense hug. He leans a little and kisses Joss on the top of his head, a gesture so tender it reminds me of a widower saying goodbye to his wife before the lid is closed, as I did a couple years ago.

Standing, I grab my paper plate and cup, then head for the nearest trash can. I dump all of it in. I’m not in the mood for mall pizza and nostalgia anymore.

I take an elevator to the lower floor and stroll to the central Starbucks stand. I order a tall house blend with cream. It comes lukewarm, and I drink it standing, downing it in a few gulps. After that, I decide I should use the restroom before returning to judge the second round. So, it’s back on the elevator and back up to the food court where the quietest men’s room in the mall is out of the way down a winding corridor that looks like it might lead somewhere important.

This is my life. Not judging singing contests, which I know nothing about, or criminals, which I do. It’s a cycle of grabbing a coffee on the fly and then finding a quiet place to give it back. Everything in between feels like a fuzzy dream that no longer makes sense when I wake.

I do what I need to do, then wash my hands. Over the sound of running water, I hear noises coming from one of the stalls, followed by a loud thump and a voice saying, “That’s enough.” I know I should leave, but keep washing my hands as if they’re covered with pizza grease and I can’t seem to get them clean. Part of me wants to rush out of here, but another part wants to learn what’s going on. Only two reasons I can think of that would cause two people to squeeze into a stall together. Both, technically, are crimes.

I keep washing and washing, certain that the huddled men know I’m here. I glance in the mirror at the closed door of the stall, then at my face, wrinkled and thin with a beard the color of pipe ash. I look back when I hear the snap of a latch and the creaking of a door easing open.

I’m not surprised when the suited man steps out, his face crimson and looking even more demonic than before. The triangles of skin above his forehead resemble flaming horns. He pats himself down as though he’s lost his keys. A second later, he sees me watching in the mirror and lowers his head as though, were he to meet my gaze, he’d see his own death and spend the rest of the afternoon trembling in fear. He leaves without approaching the row of sinks.

Why do I feel such contempt for this man? I’ve seen shady characters like him in my courtroom. He’s the physical embodiment of corruption, but what kind? I should call mall security and have him arrested, but to what am I really a witness? Nothing more than innuendo. My heart finds a dozen felonies, but my brain assures me I couldn’t prove a misdemeanor.

Finally, I turn off the water and reach for a towel, my hands as clean as they’re ever going to get. While I’m drying, the long-haired contestant comes out of the stall. I glance at him.

He sees me and moves toward one of the sinks.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. I nod, and he nods back. I have no animosity toward him, but his future is full of heartbreak and struggle. If demon-face doesn’t drag him down, drugs will, or poverty, or a crime that sees him standing in front of some other circuit judge with no music in his soul, the type of judge who glares like a wolf and tells him he’s wasted his life.

It occurs to me that I don’t want that awful life for him. I want him to go at it like a champion, to win this contest—even if his next two songs are terrible, even if I don’t connect with them at all. I want him to have the kind of chance at a better tomorrow that maybe this can give him, let him find a career that’s also a passion, break free from demon-face, travel far from West Virginia and never find a reason to come back. “Good luck,” I say.

“Thanks, man.”

“Let me ask you something,” I say.

“Shoot,” he says. “I’m all ears.” I can tell by his tone that he thinks I’ll interrogate him.

“Just curious. Any chance you know the words to ‘Yellow Submarine?’”

He smiles. His arms stretched under the flow from the spigot, I’m able to read the cursive writing tattooed on his wrist. Forgive, it says. I wonder what it means.

Ace Boggess

Image: A colourful image of floating music on a rainbow wave with a large treble clef on the left and spirals of colour holding musical notes. From Pixabay.com