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care.”
    â€œYou are not going with me to that argument,” I sputtered, a point I’d been making repeatedly since the notice for the argument had come in the mail. Clients rarely go with lawyers to oral arguments, and if they do, they invariably add nothing but another level of stress.
    Gandhi stepped to the door and opened it. “You said you would leave by six-thirty, so I will see you a few minutes before.”
    Quickly, I calculated. The drive to the appeals court in Lakeland could take anywhere from one hour to two depending on the vagaries of back-road Florida travel. I needed to be at the court house to sign in by eight-thirty, and I’m never late. But getting there too early is not a good idea, as years of the collective anxiety had created a kind of freak-out miasma that could make even the normally calm Bonita nuts.
    Okay, I thought, I will leave by six A.M ., an extra few minutes of pacing the sacred halls of justice being the lesser projected evil than having my client tagging along in a yellow Nehru jacket and fake tan.
    Gandhi stood in my doorway, looking out. “That truck. I think it has something to do with your troubles. You should get rid of it.”
    Well, Mrs. Covenant Nazi next door would agree with that.
    After Gandhi left, I made another pot of coffee, wondering as I did if I should buy a bigger French press, and Bonita and I were sipping and snipping and working, and the sun was beginning to set in the west when the doorbell rang again.
    â€œDid you put an open-house notice in the paper, or what?” I said, snapping at Bonita as if she was personally responsible for the repetitive invasions of my planned preparation time.
    Bearess trotted to the door with me. A very big man stood there, his brow furrowed. He was dressed in a black T-shirt with “These Colors Don’t Run” on top of an American flag and the Kmart house brand of jeans, worn over Frye boots. His T-shirt emphasized the gallons of beer he had drunk in his life. In other words, he was the generic male of my hometown in Georgia. Bearess was trying to dance away from my grip on her collar, and barking and doing a fiend-dog routine. I took a quick look to make sure this man wasn’t holding a weapon, and his worn hands told me that in any crisis he would have the right tools and know just what to do.
    â€œI’m Waylon,” he said.
    Well, of course you are, I thought, and tightened my restraining hand on Bearess. In a fair fight, Waylon might be able to put a hurt on her.
    â€œThat dog bite?” he asked.
    â€œYes.” In truth, I’d never known Bearess to bite anyone, but she seemed ready to learn a new trick.
    â€œWell, no need of that. You jes’ calm it down. Dave sent me to pick up that truck there.”
    After I patted Bearess and whispered her into a wary calmness, I asked Waylon how he knew Dave.
    â€œDave and me drove them rock-hoppers out of Lakeland,” Waylon said. “Till we up and quit. Now we both work at a vineyard, out in east county. Cool gig, working in a vineyard.”
    â€œHow’d you know Dave was going to be here?”
    â€œHe told me. Look, Dave and me work together, awright? He said he was coming by here, even got me your address ’cause it ain’t in the book.” Waylon pulled out a page torn from a phone book with my name and address scribbled on it in Farmer Dave’s distinctive handwriting. “In case I needed to pick up the wine, which I do, ’cause he called, and—”
    â€œYeah, okay.” It didn’t make a whole bunch of sense, but Farmer Dave operated in a different sphere from most of us, and at least Waylon knew him well enough to have a sample of his handwriting. So, more or less satisfied, and wanting Waylon and the truck of wine to leave, I said, “Cool. Take it. But Dave said I could have a couple cases of the wine.”
    Okay, so, spank me. Dave had only offered me a bottle, but