Stories

Gorj Link

1/9/2020

The questioner challenged us to think of people who had been canonized or maligned, and had influenced us or society. This person couldn’t be a well know celebrity. Rather this individual should be a second tier newsmaker. The whispered conversations of others started around the room. Each group was discussing who impacted them individually and was not an icon, good or bad. As with most discussions, the original topic gave way to peripheral subjects.

These conversations entered my consciousness in snippets:

“. . . direct deposit . . .”
“. . .electronically pay bills through the bank . . .”
“. . . and no checks. The Home Shopping Network . . .”
“You can have groceries delivered to . . .”
“. . . never leave your house . . .”

In my mind, I drifted back. I remembered, and as I floated through the clouds of my memory, I remembered, gorj link. As you read through link’s day, a day that changed his life and my thinking, perhaps you will consider who has been misunderstood or misrepresented. Some of us know gorj link, some may know gorj link. Maybe you have had an experience similar to gorj link, but we may all be guilty of treating others like gorj link.
* * *
T’was a fair day in Midport. The paperboy was delivering the paper, the milkman was making his rounds, and the postman was knocking twice at the doors where he dropped off the mail.
Just off Main Road in a little blue room, life was stirring beneath the sheets. gorj link, the
local ‘nobody’, awoke once again, as he had done for the past thirty-one years. After struggling to his feet, gorj link took the usual two steps from his bed to his front door, where once again the paper, milk and mail hadn’t been delivered.

“No mail for me,” mumbled gorj as he’d always said every morning. Except for on Sunday, as no mail would be delivered.

Taking two very precise steps out of his door onto the front porch, gorj saw the bus pull up to its stop exactly on time.

“10:07,” stated gorj, resetting his watch and taking two very precise steps back into his blue room.
gorj returned to his bed and turned on the small twelve in television set that sat on his wood chest beside his bed. The set snapped, crackled and popped to life as gorj reached to the night stand and poured a bowl of dried corn flakes. As he had done every morning for the past thirty-one years.

“Aaah, good as ever,” said gorj to on one in particular.

Into the blue came a sound. Someone was knocking at gorj’s door.

“Who could that be?” queried gorj to himself. Taking two very precise steps to the door, gorj opened it and saw Mr. Least, the town’s self-made ‘somebody’.

“Hello, mr. link. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but you see, you disturb us. Please, would you tell us why you live at all?” asked a visibly concerned Mr. Least.

“Please come in Mr. Least. Would you care for some water? Perhaps a bowl of cereal?” asked an equally concerned gorj.

“No. You must address yourself to the question at hand,” boomed Mr. Least, as he gently placed his claw on gorj’s left shoulder.

“What is the question? Surely you can come into my house and chat with me for a little while,” sheepishly asked gorj.

“I have no time to talk to you. We the people of Midport demand to know why you do the same thing day after day. Every day you wake up, see there is no milk, mail or paper, and then set your watch by the arrival of the bus. Meanwhile, we go to work every day except Sunday, as no one works on Sunday.”

“Well Mr. Least . . .” started a startled gorj.

“I have no time for this, my break is almost over. I have to get to work. I shall be back later mr. link, but now I must catch my bus. Good day.” Mr. Least removed his claw from gorj’s shoulder and walked down the road.

“Good day, Mr. Least. Stop back soon. I enjoyed our talk,” stated gorj as he shut the door and took two very precise steps back to his bed.

gorj decided, after a while to change the channel on his television set for the first time in thirty-one years. It had been that kind of day.

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The Adventures of Jim

1/9/2020

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Jim stared boldly into the darkness that quivered about him. He inch his way slowly through the cold thick nothingness. What lay ahead would be unlike anything he had experienced before.

“Jim what are you still doing up? You went to bed over and hour ago!” screeched Jim’s mother as the darkness was freed by the hallway lights. “Now get to sleep and quit fooling around or I’ll get your father.”

“Yes mom,” he sheepishly answered, as his mother shut the door.

Locked in a dungeon, chained to a hard wood table, Jim looked around his surroundings, fearing for his life. Would the evil King visit him tonight? He lay staring up at the dark ceiling. If only he could survive till morning, then he could escape.

Jim carefully worked his left hand free from the leather strap which bound it. Aaahh, at last thought Jim. He could now free himself and warn the others of the evil treachery that the dark cruel queen was threatening.

Jim slowly worked his right hand and feet free of the bonds,

“What the hell are you doing boy! I thought your mother told you to go to sleep. Now get back in your bed and go to sleep boy!” yelled Jim’s father through the door.

“Yes sir,” quietly answered Jim.

Jim felt his eyelids getting heavy; the ship’s life-support system must have failed. He slowly reached above his head, so he wouldn’t waste any oxygen. Jim carefully adjusted the complicated dials and gadgets, shutting down the ship’s systems. Jim placed the emergency oxygen tent over his head and drifted off into a safe sleep.

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The OJ Simpson Trial

12/20/2018

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            It has been many years since my involvement with the so-called, “Trail of the Century,” and after years of putting it aside I have finally to down on paper my thoughts. Ideally this will quell the rumors, claims and counter claims of what really happened during the trial. Hopefully this will finally allow Mr. Simpson to stop answering questions of my role in the case. People it has been over twenty years, time to move on.

            June 14, 1994 started as any other day in Los Angeles, bumper to bumper traffic, unhappy commuters and the great smell of exhaust fumes coming through my vents. Over the radio came reports of a terrible murder in the Brentwood area of the city. Apparently Nicole Brown Simpson, ex-wife of football star/actor OJ Simpson, and a friend Ron Goldman had been attacked at Mrs. Simpson’s home.

            A “Dream Team” of lawyers was being assembled to defend Mr. Simpson. F. Lee Bailey, Johnnie Cochran, Robert Kardasian and Ron Shiparo gathered in a secret location to keep the mob and media at bay. I was invited to attend and offer suggestions as to the tract we should take. The majority opinion was to go after the police, the handling of evidence and use Mr. Simpson’s African-American heritage to influence a sympathetic jury of his peers to return a not guilty verdict. A couple of us felt that using the race card could alienate the jurors and public at large, damaging Mr. Simpson’s earning potential if found not guilty.

            The press was already announcing the members of the Dream Team to the world, even though Mr. Simpson had not yet be consulted with in regards to a defense strategy. Here is where the history of the events becomes cloudy in the minds of many of my colleagues. On August 1st, it was decided that the Dream Team would lay out their plan of action to Mr. Simpson over the course of a couple of days. I would be given one day to counter their plan and present my simplified plan of defense.

            On August 5th, I met with Mr. Simpson in his Brentwood home. We met alone in his office surrounded by years of sports and entertainment memorabilia. OJ was seated behind his desk, and did not get up to greet me. Obviously, my colleagues had laid out their master strategy, and convinced OJ that our meeting was a waste of his time.

            After exchanging brief greetings, OJ looked at his watch and told me I had five minutes to make my case. I know gave a smirk, an eye roll, and a shake of my head. OJ asked if there was a problem. I just smiled.

            “Mr. Simpson, my associates were given five days to lay out a strategy on your defense that will destroy your reputation, marketability, race relations, and the public’s perception of the legal system for decades, and you want me to counter that in five minutes. I really don’t need that long, but I will use the time, and you will agree that mine is the best course.

            “First, your guilt or innocence in not my concern; if hired, I am your advocate and will defend you to the end. My plan is simple, will provide an out that will make all parties, judge, jury, and public comfortable with the result. Your earning potential will return to its normal capacity, after a brief lull. That strategy we can discuss after the trail.

            “Let me begin. You are OJ Simpson, Hall of Famer, movie star, celebrity, and most importantly a grieving father who tragically lost his wife. The public can’t believe you would murder Nicole and her friend. The jury, and most of the public, will be rooting for your acquittal.

            “However, if you choose to use the ‘race card,’ put the police and the justice system on trial, you will lose the majority of the white population, sports fans, and your entertainment base. You will split the public down the middle, and if my associates’ strategy works, you will become unemployable with Hollywood, and sports media. You will have gained your freedom, but lost your livelihood. You will be a hated man, spending the remainder of your life in the shadows.

            “My plan is simple. The prosecution will present days, weeks, possibly months of DNA and medical testimony. Every domestic abuse incident will be broadcast to the jury, and public, not only with Nicole, but any other women you’ve had relationships with over the years. These are things we cannot avoid. You know the evidence against you that is out there DNA and otherwise.

            “Our strategy is to embrace the evidence, and use it to our advantage. Remember, the jury we select doesn’t want to convict you, all we need is one person to accept our position and you walk out a free man. I see the doubt in your eyes, but stay with me please.

            “Our position and defense will be, that you were at the crime scene, you wanted to talk to Nicole about some personal business, and discovered the bodies of her and Ron Goldman. You panicked, so much blood, and you knew the history you two had had, and how the police always suspect the husband in these situations.

            “You took off your glove to stroke her hair, and touched Mr. Goldman to see if he was dead. In your anger and hurt you punched the sidewalk, causing your knuckle to bleed. You hear a car approaching, get up and flee the scene, dropping you glove in your rush to leave.
   “Everything else that occurred after, bloody clothes, trip to the airport, the Bronco chase, can be explained as the actions of a man who knew he was going to be the primary suspect in his ex-wife’s murder. Your actions were that of a shocked and grieving husband, and father, trying to buy some time to get his head together.

            “Were you wrong? Yes. Should you have contacted the police from the crime scene? Yes. Should you have cooperated with the police and not had the car chase? Yes. But you were not yourself, you were hurt, scared and in survival mode.

            “We let the prosecution present their case, agree with the majority of it, present a two, maybe three day defense, to a tired and overwhelmed jury, and give them their reasonable doubt, and out, to acquit you.

            “After a couple weeks, you hit the talk show circuit; do Oprah, and rebuild your career. In just over a year you’ll be starring in another “Naked Gun” movie. In the legal system, Mr. Simpson, it’s not about the truth. Sometimes the best truth is the one we can get others to buy into. This strategy will allow you to return to your celebrity status, the other will make you a social piranha, and seen as a divisive figure.”

            Simpson smiled and said, “Boy, you’re crazy, but I like it. Would I testify?”

            “I’m good either way. We can see how the trial proceeds. I would just recommend that you treat your testimony as a performance, keeping your composure, and at the appropriate time, use the proper emotion, but at all times keeping yourself in check.”

            “I’m sorry,” started Simpson as he got up from behind his desk, “I didn’t catch your name.”

            “Firefly. Thomas R. Firefly.”

            “Well Mr. Firefly, you ready to make some legal history?”

            “Absolutely,” we shook hands, and I left.

            The rest is history. You know, because you watched it unfold. We played Marcia Clark and company like a fiddle. Their months of testimony and DNA evidence wore down the jury, OJ’s testimony was riveting, and the performance of his life. The jury came back unanimous in our favor. There were no riots, no meltdown in racial relations, and the Justice System remained strong, just as I had predicted.

            OJ waited a couple of months and hit the talk show circuit, returned to ABC and ESPN sports, started making movies, commercials, and appearances like the old days. Obviously, I made out as well, also. I became a legal talking head, author, and “personality.” The most satisfying part of the whole affair, besides the acquittal, was OJ and I partnering in a business that provided legal services at an inexpensive rate.

            Perhaps you’ve heard of it, “Legal Juice.”

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gorj link

12/18/2018

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            The questioner challenged us to think of people who had been canonized or maligned, and had influenced us or society. This person couldn’t be a well know celebrity. Rather this individual should be a second tier newsmaker. The whispered conversations of others started around the room. Each group was discussing who impacted them individually and was not an icon, good or bad. As with most discussions, the original topic gave way to peripheral subjects.

            These conversations entered my consciousness in snippets:
            “. . . direct deposit . . .”
            “. . .electronically pay bills through the bank . . .”
            “. . . and no checks. The Home Shopping Network . . .”
            “You can have groceries delivered to . . .”
            “. . . never leave your house . . .”

            In my mind, I drifted back. I remembered, and as I floated through the clouds of my memory, I remembered, gorj link. As you read through link’s day, a day that changed his life and my thinking, perhaps you will consider who has been misunderstood or misrepresented. Some of us know gorj link, some may know gorj link. Maybe you have had an experience similar to gorj link, but we may all be guilty of treating others like gorj link.

********************************************************************************
            T’was a fair day in Midport. The paperboy was delivering the paper, the milkman was making his rounds, and the postman was knocking twice at the doors where he dropped off the mail.

            Just off Main Road in a little blue room, life was stirring beneath the sheets. gorj link, the local ‘nobody’, awoke once again, as he had done for the past thirty-one years. After struggling to his feet, gorj link took the usual two steps from his bed to his front door, where once again the paper, milk and mail hadn’t been delivered.

            “No mail for me,” mumbled gorj as he’d always said every morning. Except for on Sunday, as no mail would be delivered.

            Taking two very precise steps out of his door onto the front porch, gorj saw the bus pull up to its stop exactly on time.

“10:07,” stated gorj, resetting his watch and taking two very precise steps back into his blue room.
gorj returned to his bed and turned on the small twelve in television set that sat on his wood chest beside his bed. The set snapped, crackled and popped to life as gorj reached to the night stand and poured a bowl of dried corn flakes. As he had done every morning for the past thirty-one years.
“Aaah, good as ever,” said gorj to on one in particular.

Into the blue came a sound. Someone was knocking at gorj’s door.

“Who could that be?” queried gorj to himself. Taking two very precise steps to the door, gorj opened it and saw Mr. Least, the town’s self-made ‘somebody’.

“Hello, mr. link. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but you see, you disturb us. Please, would you tell us why you live at all?” asked a visibly concerned Mr. Least.

“Please come in Mr. Least. Would you care for some water? Perhaps a bowl of cereal?” asked an equally concerned gorj.

“No. You must address yourself to the question at hand,” boomed Mr. Least, as he gently placed his claw on gorj’s left shoulder.

“What is the question? Surely you can come into my house and chat with me for a little while,” sheepishly asked gorj.

“I have no time to talk to you. We the people of Midport demand to know why you do the same thing day after day. Every day you wake up, see there is no milk, mail or paper, and then set your watch by the arrival of the bus. Meanwhile, we go to work every day except Sunday, as no one works on Sunday.”

“Well Mr. Least . . .” started a startled gorj.

“I have no time for this, my break is almost over. I have to get to work. I shall be back later mr. link, but now I must catch my bus. Good day.” Mr. Least removed his claw from gorj’s shoulder and walked down the road.

“Good day, Mr. Least. Stop back soon. I enjoyed our talk,” stated gorj as he shut the door and took two very precise steps back to his bed.

gorj decided, after a while to change the channel on his television set for the first time in thirty-one years. It had been that kind of day.

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Arnold Fletcher

12/10/2018

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            Life had always been cruel to Arnold Fletcher. Born with two legs instead of one, he was the village outcast. As a young lad while the other children of Hopsville were hopping around gleefully, playing games of tag, football and the national sport of hopscotch, poor Arnold slithered about helplessly.
            “Ha-ha! Look at stupid Arnie,” screamed the children as they took turns picking Arnold up and watching him fall to the ground, legs flopping uselessly.
            “You wait,” cried little Arnold, “one day, after expensive surgery, I’ll be normal and then you’ll be sorry!”
            Poor Arnold slithered off, to the jeers of the entire village of Hopsville until he vanished into the horizon.
***
   Years passed, many in fact, so many, that many had forgotten the poor crippled Arnold.
Until one dark autumn night; when a strange sound echoed through the village of Hopsville.
            Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. It was the sound of leaves being hopped on, only it wasn’t a hopping causing the crunching. This was something never before encountered by the village folk. By dawn a crowd had gathered in the village rectangle. All eyes turned towards the direction of the unknown sound.
            In the distance they saw a figure. It seemed to be a man, but it could not be. This creature did not hop. This thing’s leg was split down the middle. Both halves swung to and fro carrying the creature towards the village. The men of the village rushed the women and children indoors. Frantically the men hopped back to the rectangle to protect their land from the approaching monster.
            Steadily the creature became easy to see.
            “It’s Arnold Fletcher! Ha-ha! We were afraid of him? Ha-ha!” the village folk burst with laughter.
            Arnold stopped two feet in front of the crowd.
            “Remember how I said, ‘I would return,’ do you?” Arnold pulled out a baseball bat and began breaking leg. He rushed into the houses where the women and children were hiding reaping his vengeance from the past. Finally everyone was helpless.
            Throughout the village all one could hear was the moans of the men, women and children. Above it all stood Arnold, laughing madly.
            “You bunch of misfits,” screamed Arnold, “now you need me. Don’t you?”
            Arnold then pulled out a chainsaw and proceeded to cut off one of his legs. Arnold place a tourniquet above the stub of his left thigh.
            “I said, ‘I would return,’ and I have,” screamed Arnold above the roar of his Black and Decker Chainsaw. In just a matter of minutes Arnold had joined the ranks of the normal. While hopping for joy, Arnold tripped on his amputated left leg, fell into the wishing well, and drowned.
            Life had dealt Arnold another cruel blow. He had been born with two left feet.

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Gorj Link

The Adventures of Jim

The OJ Simpson Trial

gorj link

Arnold Fletcher

John Gregory Parks

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