The Old Professor

I met a friend at Fox's Saloon on Friday night, and we shared a few drinks and war stories about the law. We were celebrating: he had just received a windfall settlement.

About 3 years ago, my office roommate offered me a case, in which a man crossing Biscayne Boulevard was struck by a hit and run driver. I investigated, and concluded there was nothing to do, as there was no one to sue. The client wanted to sue the County, claiming that an improper traffic signal was partly to blame. I saw no case, plus I never bother suing the County, since the damages (and more importantly, attorney fees) are limited.

I called my friend and asked if her were interested. He was. He signed up the case, and, in all accuracy and fairness, just let the thing sit, for over a year.

And then, he got a call from the police. They found the driver who hit (now his) client. And, it was an old, rich drunk guy, with $1.5 million in insurance! From there on, the case was an unguarded layup.

My roommate got the lion's share of the co counsel fee, which he'll use to find African hunting trips. So far, he's only shot and killed SOME beautiful animals; he still needs to take down some elephants and other furry critters. For real.

My firm got a not insignificant co counsel fee, too. But back to Fox's...

So an elderly gentleman walked in, and stopped next to my table. "Well," he said, "you look an AWFUL lot like Bill Clinton." I get that a lot --even more these days as my hair has grayed towards white like the former President."

I replied: "And you know what else? I sat in your British Lit class at UM in 1982!"

And so I did. He was my old professor --the one who taught me old English poetry.

We chatted for awhile, about mutual friends, and then he went off for dinner with his wife.

My waiter friend at Fox's, Nelson, said he comes in every Friday for dinner. He always orders one bourbon with his meal.

I remembered something amazing about him. Over 10 years ago,I had heard he siffered a massive MI while playing tennis at a South Miami park. He died, essentially. At the next court, luckily for him, a cardiologist was playing, too. The doc brought the professor back to life, and here he was, over a decade later, drinking bourbon on a Friday night.

I called Nelson over, and gave him my AMEX card. I told him to put my professor's tab on it, and give himself a big tip. Nelson told me to write something on my business card. I did: "Thanks for teaching me Beowulf."

On the way out, the old professor pulled me aside, and thanked me. His wife had a twinkle in her eye, like she really felt her husband was "Da Man."

I drove home, imagining and hoping they'd spend the rest of the night reading Yeats together, and doing what the poets say to do...