3/15/23
Newsletter #276
The Crack of Dawn
In 1988 I had a development deal with Sam and Rob to write Lunatics: A Love Story. They were satisfied with how the script was coming along, but didn’t have enough money to keep paying me for rewrites. I told them that I would continue to rewrite the script, based on their notes, for as many drafts as it took to get a one they really liked, and they didn’t have to pay me. How, they wondered, would I pull that off with no money? I said, “I’ll move back to Michigan and get a job.” I’m pleased to report that they were both so impressed with my answer that they agreed.
I moved back into my parents’ house and got a job working for my uncle Carl, the lawyer. At that time Carl owned a law firm with ten lawyers and I was hired as the in-house process server. I received $25 a case. It’s commonly understood that a process server delivers subpoenas, but that’s really the highlight of the job. Mostly, a process server files legal documents with the court. And each document has its own peculiarities in regard to which court it’s being filed in, and there are many different courts. The two big ones around here are Wayne County, where Detroit is located; and Oakland County, which is next to it (and where I live). Wayne also has the federal courts, Friends of the Court, and what have you. There are also a number of other counties around here with their own courts.
I would arrive at the law firm at 9:00 AM. There was a row of wooden boxes attached to the wall, each with a lawyer’s name on it. When they wanted a case filed they put it in the box. Most days there were five cases. Some days there were ten. Every week or two there would be a subpoena.
It was a great job. But once I’d been to enough courts, and stood in sufficient lines only to find that the document I was filing wasn’t filled out properly, or didn’t contain a check made out to the right party for the correct sum of money, and I was forlornly sent away, I learned the very bottom end of the legal system. And since my uncle Carl is a nice, bright guy, he allowed me to take charge of my newly-created department. I would collect the five to ten cases, take them into an empty conference room, get a cup of coffee, smoke a cigarette, put on an album – Carl was hip and had a stereo in the conference room – and I’d go over all the documents. I’d then go to each of the offending attorneys, toss the file on their desk and say, “It’s not signed on page three” or “The check’s made out to the wrong place.” It made me feel powerful for a moment – the integral bottom-line.
Anyway, most of the job was driving around the Detroit Metropolitan area. I could listen to my own music, smoke weed, get five cases filed by noon, make $125, plus mileage, then come home and rewrite Lunatics. I was also teaching an acting class called Acting for the Camera that was fun. I look back now, 35 years later, and this was a magical little period in my life that I haven’t often reflected upon it. I was 31 years old, teaching a class, going out with pretty actresses and car show girls, and endlessly rewriting Lunatics. Ultimately, I wrote 14 drafts of that script.
Once a week, maybe every two weeks, I’d actually deliver an real yellow subpoena. In half the cases it was accepted and signed for by a person in a state of complete resignation. “Fine. It’s come to this, huh?” and they’d slam the pen down. Good. I’ve got my 25 bucks and I’m out of there.
In the other half it was theatrics. A big dirty guy in an auto garage made a fist and put it in my face, stating, “I could kick the shit out of you.” I said, “I bet you could. But I’m not suing or divorcing you, am I? I’m the messenger, proverbial or otherwise (maybe I didn’t say that).” And every other subpoena, the person, or persons, would throw their hands in the air like I was offering them a glowing hunk of kryptonite, and state, “I haven’t touched it.”
This comes from the game Tag. “You didn’t touch me.” I would say, “No, but I’ve seen you, and you’ve seen the subpoena, and, need be, I’ll go to court and testify. That’s my job. You don’t have to sign it, but I like having a copy.” And they’d say, “But I didn’t touch it.” And I’d explain, “That’s not a law, that’s the game of Tag. You don’t have to touch it.”
One of Detroit’s great 1920s Art Deco skyscrapers is the Penobscot Building. I went into a law firm, like Smith & Wilson, with eight secretaries at their own desks behind the counter. No cubicles. I put my Italian leather briefcase on the counter and took out that incriminating yellow document. All eight secretaries stood up and put their hands in the air as though I had aimed a Tommy gun at them. I asked, “Is Mr. Wilson available?” “No,” they all mumbled, “he never comes here.” Just then a middle-aged white man in a good-looking suit stepped out of an inner office. I said, “Mr. Wilson?” He said, “Yes?” I handed him the subpoena. “This is for you.” Mr. Wilson took it, and signed, saying, “I knew this was coming.”
It was a great job. I was usually done at noon. I drove to Saginaw a couple of times. It took Paul Simon four days to hitchhike to Saginaw, in a dream in Michigan.
Good day.