Dead Funny

She lived in a pre-war building and while there had been modern conveniences added, the bathroom was one area that still looked older.  There was a claw-foot tub that was perfect for filling with Mr. Bubble and sinking into.  The fixtures were brass and she’d adorned the mirror with dressing-room style bulbs.  Not that anyone actually had those in any actor’s dressing room she’d ever been in.  Of course, she’d only been in the dressing rooms of Off-Broadway performers, and those places were more like closets than a place to pamper the prima donna before the curtain rose. 

Still, Liz loved her bathroom. It was one of the places she went to escape after a long day.  Today, however, was a cleaning day.  She’d tackled the kitchen – getting rid of worn-out Tupperware, cleaning the oven – and had been doing laundry.  Now it was time for the bathroom.  She knelt down in front of the sink and pulled the under-the-sink cabinet doors open.  Several different kinds of hairspray, various bottles of shampoo and numerous varieties of body wash, not to mention all the face cream and hair dye, littered the cabinet. 

“Damn,” Liz said aloud.  “Guess it’s time to get rid of some of this.”

Grabbing an empty box, Liz began to fill it with products she no longer used or at least hadn’t used in awhile.  She was near the back of the cabinet, the box half-full, when she came across a familiar red and white jar.  She couldn’t help but chuckle slightly as she looked at the Bryl-creem.  It had been Lennie’s hair pomade of choice and she had no idea how one of the jars had managed to be in her cabinet three years after…

She stood up and placed the jar on the sink, next to her toothbrush holder. 

Bryl-creem, a little dab'll do ya, Use more, only if you dare, But watch out, The gals will all pursue ya,-- They'll love to put their fingers through your hair.

Liz sang the jingle under her breath, her hand running along the sink’s edge, looking at the jar of pomade with almost reverence.  In one little instant, it was as if he was still there, his toiletries mingled with hers, peering over her shoulder as he shaved and she brushed her teeth.

She indulged herself in this daydream a few moments longer before shaking herself of it.  The reality was, those times were gone.  He was gone.  She swiped at her eye with the back of her hand and then started to laugh.  You’re crying over a jar of hair goop? Liz could hear his incredulous tone. 

“That’s right, you big lug,” she said to the sink. 

I thought you hated that stuff.  She could see the relentless grin, lips curled upward, unapologetic. 

“Oh, I do.”  She threw the jar in the trash with an equally unapologetic smirk, making a point to herself and maybe…somewhere…to him.

[word count: 488]

My parents were hippies.  Those of you who think I’m older than dirt are wrong.  I’m young enough (or old enough, I suppose, however you want to look at it) to have grown up a bona fide flower child.  My father was sort of a jack of all trades.  His passion was music, but he put food on the table and paid the rent by picking up odd jobs—fixing appliances or mowing lawns. My mother was a painter and a potter. 

That is where I grew up.  We never worried about money and my parents showed me from a young age that you can have all the money in the world and still be miserable.  Happiness lies not with what you have materially but with what you make of the life you’ve been given.    

Word Count: 207  

I suppose that once the bodies and the evidence have left my care, I don’t give that much thought to the criminals that I help convict.  While I know enough to make educated deductions, and while I do on occasion provide the evidence needed to solve a case, I’m not a detective. I’m a doctor. 

The only time that I re-evaluate scenes or look at motives or think about a case beyond “what’s my deadline for getting these results back?” is when I’m called to testify in court as an expert witness.

I’ve been subpoenaed hundreds of times in my career.  Normally, the process is fairly routine.   The evidence that I testify about is not usually controversial. As modern science and medicine evolve, the methods we use to analyze evidence have become more and more reliable.  Usually, the only time the accuracy of results is called into question is when the method is a newer one.

There are some occasions, though – when the case is a shoddy one, or when the defense attorney is hell-bent on giving the jury that shred of reasonable doubt that they need for an acquittal – where controversy cannot be avoided.

Last year’s trial of Senator Randall Bailey was the last such occasion for me, and I hope never to relive that sort of experience again.  It’s one thing to see an attorney take your testimony and rip it apart.  It’s quite another to accidentally do it yourself.  Thanks to some shrewd lawyering, Bailey was convicted, however he could have just as easily gotten away.  Just knowing that he could have is enough to make my stomach turn.

[word count: 272]

The man was short, his shoulders hunched over as he looked through the trashcan outside of the apartment building.  She knew from his clothing – a tweed coat and a fedora, wrinkled, but clean – and the notepad he held in his hand – that he wasn’t a bum.

“Excuse me,” Liz’s voice was firm. “Can I help you?”

“Well, well, are you Dr. Elizabeth Rodgers?” The man’s voice was slick, like a used car salesman’s. 

“It depends on who’s asking.” Her voice was flat, her patience already waning not three hours into her day.

He gave her a sleazy smile. “Al Craven*, with the Daily World.”

Liz’s eyes narrowed.

“I was hoping you could tell me about the latest dealie with those Major Case apes and that evidence that mysteriously didn’t get used during the trial…”  Craven leaned in toward her and Liz didn’t hide the look of disgust on her face.

“No comment,” she practically snarled.

“Aw, the lady’s playing hard-to-get.” Craven followed her down the street. “Just one soundbite? One morsel, one—“

Liz held her hand up. “One step closer and those apes will have your ass in jail.” 

Craven nearly tripped over his feet as he moved back. “Alright, alright. You sure you don’t have anything else to say?”

“Do four-letter words count?”  Liz’s voice was sharp as she headed back down the street, her tone daring the obnoxious man to follow her.

He didn’t, and she continued the walk to the subway, making a mental note to take her phone number and address out of any public listings.

[word count: 261]

*note: Al Craven was a recurring character on Night Court. When I saw "nosy reporter" in the prompt, I just couldn't resist...

There’s nothing I love better than sitting down after a long day of work with a glass of wine.  Music on the entertainment center, glass of chardonnay in hand and all the stress of the day goes right out the window. 

People often ask me how I sleep at night after seeing the things I do every day in the course of my job.  You have to compartmentalize, to be honest.  If you dwell on what you see on the job, you will never sleep, you will never move on from that first tragedy.

[[Private]]

Of course, that’s only If it’s someone else’s tragedy and not your own.

Word Count: 108