We had an avalanche in Boston last Sunday–13 inches of snow!–so Spot, my bipartisan free speech libertarian wingnut finger puppet, has been housebound for a week and had come down with “cabin fever.”
“Do you want to take a ride on the T?” I asked, referring to our constantly-late public transportation system.
“I’d rather poke myself in the eye with a darning needle. Can’t we just drive around?”
“No way, Jose.”
“The name’s Spot. Why not?”
“Because the snow’s piled so high you can’t see at corners. I almost got killed the other day by a teenager driving her parents’ new Audi when I went out to get you fictional dog food.”
“So you’re proposing that we take a ride on the crappy commuter rail train that you ride to work every day?”
“If it’s bad enough for me, it’s bad enough for you.”
He grumbled a bit but agreed after looking around the room at the four walls he’s been staring at for a week.
We made our way to the train station and for once I paid to park in the lot, rather than going cheap and keeping it on the street because the snow was piled too high to get close to the curb. After the customary wait of 8 to 10 minutes while the informational sign flashed updates, we boarded. I showed the conductor my senior citizen pass–only $4 one-way!–and he began the friendly give-and-take “T” employees go through when you get on with a child or a finger puppet.
“How old’s your little friend there?”
I had to think back. “He first appeared in an ad campaign for Pets.com in 1998, so twenty-seven years?”
“It’s 2026 so, twenty-eight.”
“Now convert to dog years,” Spot said. I tapped on my phone, found the conversion table. “Fifteen years for the first year.”
“Okay.”
“Nine for the second.”
“That’s twenty-four.”
“Then four to six years . . .”
“Call it five, I haven’t got all day.” That was the conductor.
” . . . for each additional year. 26 times five is 130, so 154 total.”
“How’d you do that in your head?” the conductor asked.
“He went to Catholic grade school,” Spot said. “None of that ‘modern math’ crap, just cheerful sadistic nuns cracking metal-edged rulers on your knuckles if you forgot what 13 times 13 was.”
“169,” I said almost involuntarily, the stuff had been drilled into me so hard.
“Well, at that age I think the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority can let you slide. Have a good day.”
Some elderly women got on at the Wellesley Farms stop with signs, on their way to a demonstration downtown. Spot craned his neck to see better.
“Ouch,” I said. “You’re twisting my finger.”
“I wanna see what they’re upset about,” he said.
The women smiled at us, apparently in high spirits to exercise their First Amendment rights.
“What are you demonstrating about?” Spot asked in a tone of perfect puppet innocence.
“Release the Epstein files!” one of them said with conviction.
“So they’ll finally put Trump in jail,” another added.
Spot gave me one of those looks from the old RCA Victor “His Master’s Voice” ads, the one that suggests “I hear, but I don’t understand.”
His master’s voice
“What’s that expression from Shakespeare all the pretentious lawyers use?” he asked me finally.
“What does that mean?” one of the women asked.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Spot said. “You may be blown up by something you started.”
“I KNOW Trump’s in there somewhere,” another said.
Spot gave her a withering look. “But so are a lot of nice, decent, accomplished women like yourself.”
“Like who?”
“Well, there’s Kathryn Ruemmler, Obama’s White House counsel.”
The women emitted a collective gasp so loud you could easily mistake it for our locomotive’s brakes.
“I don’t believe it!” one said with dramatic emphasis.
“As Flannery O’Connor would say, it’s as plain as a pig on a sofa,” Spot replied. He’s a huge fan of female Southern Gothic fiction. “As they say in Texas to someone who’s a little behind on the news, ‘You ought to move up to the road and take a paper.’ Bringing that up to date, I guess you’d say you need to ditch your dial-up internet.”
“What has she done?” one asked.
“Let’s see, she ‘met with Epstein dozens of times and exchanged friendly emails for years.'”
“So? Who among us hasn’t expanded a professional relationship with a convicted sex offender to a personal level.”
“I know I haven’t, don’t know about you,” Spot replied. He’s like that, quick on his little paws.
“It doesn’t sound so bad to me,” one woman said. “She was just doing her job.”
“Well, it went further than that. Epstein ‘visited apartments she considered buying and knew her sushi order: avocado rolls.’ And she was listed as backup executor in Epstein’s will.”
“I’ll bet you could get a nice fee out of that gig,” I said, hoping to divert the conversation from the direction it was taking–scurrilous calumny of a dedicated public servant–and on to a more innocent path, like absurdly high legal fees.
“Doesn’t she have any redeeming qualities?” a woman asked.
“Of course she does,” Spot replied. “She hates Trump. She said he was ‘so gross.'”
“Good for her!” a woman said.
“On the other hand,” I said.
“I don’t want to hear from your other hand,” a woman said, cutting me off. “I want to hear from the little doggy.”
“Fine,” I said. “Spot–continue please.”
“Ruemmler’s name appears hundreds of times in the 500 page plus log of Epstein’s emails. And she was in the courtroom for Epstein’s 2019 arraignment. Pretty gutsy for someone hired by a big investment bank to handle ‘reputational risk.'”
“Okay, big deal, so she helped a convicted sex offender out a little.”
“So ‘the quality of mercy is not strain’d‘?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know, Shakespeare did,” Spot replied. Have to admit, he knows his Bard of Avon.
“You haven’t proven anything,” one of the ladies added with a harrumph.
“Innocent ’til proven guilty, I agree,” Spot said. “On the other hand, don’t you think it’s weird that when she mentioned ‘girls,’ he said ‘careful I will renew an old habit.’ And that he complimented her on a ‘pretty black dress’ he saw her wear?”
“Well, I’m sure she’s been completely forthcoming about this . . . innocent professional relationship,” a woman sniffed.
“Are you kidding?” Spot replied. “She’s a lawyer–she hid behind ‘attorney-client privilege.'” I had to help Spot make little finger quotes in the air with my other hand to adequately convey his skepticism.
“As long as no money changed hands, I don’t see a problem,” a woman said.
“Well, not money per se, but an Hermes bag, $10,000 in Bergdorf Goodman gift cards . . .”
“I love that place!” a woman exclaimed, before her friends shushed her.
“. . . and a Valentine’s Day hair and makeup treatment?”
There was quiet, or at least as much quiet as is possible in a 50-ton railroad car traveling at 70 miles per hour.
“Well, I’m sure the only thing holding up the release of the files is some wacko Trump judge,” another sniffed.
Spot sniffed right back at her, but in mock sadness, not in umbrage. “I have bad news for you,” he said over a feigned lump in his throat. “Paul Engelmayer, the judge who’s holding things up?”
“Yes?” the women asked together, then held their individual breaths.
“He’s an Obama appointee.”