It doesn't take a sandwich to choke

Its 82 degrees in New Orleans, and breezy. Its around 11 AM and I’m sitting in my European Legal Systems class, physically, but mentally I’m planning my afternoon. So many possibilities: I could go to the bubble tea café and read my new Breton book; I could go to the park and listen to some music in the grass; I could go to the corner of Carrolton and order a latte and a bowl of strawberries- work on my contracts homework and plan my French lesson.

I could go to the market, buy some fresh shrimp and invite the girls over for early dinner on the porch. I could forget about contracts completely and take the bus down to the French Quarter, spend all afternoon trying on new spring dresses that I can’t afford....

“Ms. Peacock?” says my professor, interrupting my thoughts.

“Um.... yes... um...” I try frantically to remember the last thing he said, where we are in the book, what my name is... nothing is coming.

“Ministère Public?” he says, peering over his glasses as I attempt to read everything in front of me at once.

“Yes, Ministère Public... they um,” I look down and see a footnote I’ve underlined, so I read what it says: “In France, in certain manners, the party must inform the ministère public of the pendency of the proceedings, so that it may give the court its opinion.” I look up at the professor to see if thats anywhere close to what he wants.

“Well, that is true, but why?” he asks, still peering.

“Because of...” I look for anymore clues from my notes. “Because of public interest.” I say. Even I don’t know what I am talking about now.

“What does the ministère public have to do with public interest?” he asks.

The girl next to me tries to put her pen down on my book near the spot where the supposed answer is, but this just makes me more nervous. Does everyone know this answer? This is an impossible question! No one could possibly know!

“They, um, the, um... Ministère has to do with public interest because... They, um....” I look up to him, my eyes pleading with him to stop asking me this question.

“What is their function, Ms. Peacock?” he asks again.

A voice behind me says “Professor?”

“Yes Mr. Johnson.” he says.

“The ministère public can act as the government’s attorney and intervene in the public interest, kind of like.....” he continues, a brief but concise explanation on the organization.

“That’s right, Mr. Johnson” says the professor.

I look down at my book again, and see, on the page right in front of me, the first paragraph highlighted, and to the side, where I had written in my favorite red pen:

Functions of the Ministère Public: 1. act as gov’t attorney in criminal proceedings and otherwise, 2. (sparingly) intervene in any litigation to represent the public interest.

on the subject of why my life is currently boring

how come you never call anymore?

have recently come into a lot of money

traveling around eastern europe in an old white van

painting grafitti on city walls with my naked body

law school

starting a revolution in New York with 6 dollars and a megaphone

a vow of silence to represent the struggle for reproductive rights

on a reality TV show embarrasing myself, but at least its network

eloped in Turkey under cherry trees, currently blind with love and lust

book tour across the western united states with alice notley

what are you up to?

stupid

Sasha worked with Benjamin at the grocery store. Sometimes he bagged groceries for her line, and she got to talk to him for a few minutes.

“Hey Benjamin” she would say “How is it going?”

“Oh Sasha, you know...” he would say.

She knew. She knew.

She liked his shoulders, not too broad. Not too skinny. A perfect hanger for his grocery store uniform. She liked when he said “you know...” to her. Like she knew him well enough to know, like they didn’t need to communicate really, just you know.

Benjamin didn’t have a lot of friends at the grocery store. When he was alone in the stock room he would put on his headphones and listen to U2. Sometimes he talked to the girl in the deli named Stella. She had long black hair and no stomach. Sometimes he bought a doughnut and walked along the sidewalk of the strip mall.

The first time she saw Benjamin outside of work they were in a dive bar down the street. She didn’t expect to see him. He was drunk.

“Hows it going Benjamin?”

“Oh, you know...”

She was in love.

That night she slept with Will.

She didn’t mean to, she just didn’t have enough money for a cab. And when he offered to share one, he looked different. Maybe it was the dim cab light. Maybe it was the house rum and diet coke. Maybe it was you know. She took him home.

The sex was bad.

Will worked in the produce department. He was not serious about his job. He was very attractive. He was not good in bed.

Sasha was not happy about sleeping with Will. She didn’t go to work for three days. He called her the third day. He was drunk. “No Will” she said. “Why?” he asked. “You know.” she said.

He didn’t know. He wasn’t very bright.

The next time Benjamin bagged the groceries in her line, her eyes were burning. Her hands were a little shaky. “I’ve got a secret, Ben” she said to him.

“Yeah?” he said.

“I slept with Will” she said. She turned bright red.

“Oh?” said Benjamin. “Wow.”

“I know,” she said. “He was bad in bed.”

"I slept with Stella.” he said. “But don’t tell anyone. You know.”

“Oh” she said. “I know” she said. She didn’t mean it. Her heart dropped to the bottom of her shoe.