Got the Look Read Free

who held the final say on whether any proposed structure was in keeping with the city's strict aesthetic standards and, more important, with the personal whim of the board's most arrogant members. Jack's client had placed a seventeen-foot statue in his backyard in Gables Estates, an exact duplicate of the David in Florence, Italy. Well, not quite an exact duplicate. Experts have long noted that, perhaps because the artist realized that his statue would stand high on a pedestal and be viewed from below, Michelangelo intentionally made the right hand much larger than the left so that, to the viewer's eye, it would appear anatomically proportionate. For reasons that could hardly qualify as artistic, Jack's client took this big hand anomaly to its inevitable twenty-first-century, Viagra-crazy, size-does-matter cultural extension. (What did women always say about guys with big hands?) The end result was a David that, if reduced proportionately to a man of average height, would sport a fourteen-inch penis.
    The neighbor complained.
    Jack was on the case.
    Theo, naturally, was loving it.
    Of course, Jack could readily appreciate the opposition. He had no interest in owning a David with a Goliath-sized penis, and he probably wouldn't want it in his neighbor's yard, either. But his client had dug in his heels, and it was Jack's job to convince the board of architects that it was a homeowner's God-given right to erect whatever he wanted, no pun intended. He also knew that he didn't have a chance in hell of winning. So he might as well have fun.
    Ladies and gentlemen, he said, addressing the twelve staid board members, thank you for your time on this matter. If you'll indulge me for a moment, I thought we'd begin our presentation with a song. Not just any song, but the official state song of Florida, Old Folks at Home,' or perhaps better known simply as Suwannee River.' It will be sung a cappella by my distinguished and surprisingly musical assistant, Mr. Theo Knight. Theo, if you please.
    The chairman leaned toward his gooseneck microphone and said, Mr. Swyteck, this is highly irregular.
    We'll be quick, I promise. Theo, from the top.
    Theo took a moment, as if getting into role. He was an imposing man with the brawn of a linebacker and the height of an NBA star, sort of a cross between the Rock and a young Samuel L. Jackson on steroids. His prison time came as no surprise to anyone, but that bad-boy image served him well. He could flash a friendly smile or a menacing glare, and either way you got the message that he took crap from no one.
    For this little number, Theo rounded his shoulders, head down, as if he'd been out in the field picking cotton since sunrise. Then he sang in a baritone voice that filled the old stone chamber, using the exact plantation dialect that Stephen Foster had penned:
    Way down upon de Suwannee Ribber,Far, far away,Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber,Dere's wha de old folks stay.
    Mr. Swyteck, please, said the chairman, groaning.
    Keep singing, Theo. Go straight to the chorus.
    Theo took it up a notch, his voice louder and fuller.
    All de world am sad and dreary,Eb-rywhere I roam;Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary -
    Stop right there, said Jack. Did I hear you right? Give me that last line one more time, please.
    Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,Far from de old folks at -
    Okay, stop. Jack canvassed the board but said nothing more. He simply let those lyrics lie exactly where Theo had dropped them, right on their inflated heads, draped over this distinguished deliberative body like an itchy blanket. Everyone felt the discomfort, but they were drowning in the seas of political correctness, not sure how to handle this one.
    Finally, Jack voiced his incredulity. Oh, darkeys'? Oh, darkeys'? Now, there's a state song fer ya. Don't you think?
    A volley of awkward glances bounced across the dais. Finally, the chairman crawled out from under that figurative blanket, stroking his gray handlebar mustache as