Deli Court  I'm about to eat dinner. I look in a refrigerator case. There are some loaves of bread in it. Some of the bread comes with meat: it looks like two small loaves of bread with a clump of sliced meat in between them. There is one loaf of bread for 35 cents. It is from the 36-hour famine. It looks good to me: it's a big, long loaf of soft white bread. I grab one bottle of beer out of the refrigerator. Others are eating with me. I think of getting a beer for each of us: that would be a nice thing for me to do. My old flat mate Glen Ryan and my coworker Herald Jamison are there.  I'm in court, which is a deli. Herald is on trial. My name is called to go to the witness stand. I'm surprised, and feel pressure. I'm sworn in. I put my right hand on a tub of hummus. I hold the tub with my thumb around the edge and my four fingers over the top. I try to keep my hand flat while holding it. The woman bailiff swears me in, asking me if I promise to tell the whole truth. I say, "I do." As I'm sworn in, my right hand and arm falls down, it seems as if the bailiff isn't holding the bible (hummus) anymore. I quickly glance at the judge to see if this makes a difference. The judge doesn't flinch, so I guess it's okay. I'm then on the witness stand. It's about six feet square bounded by a one or two-foot high fence made of wood or wire. The judge is to my right, at about 2:00. There are some ovens and some deli cases to the right of the judge. The prosecuting lawyer is questioning me. He is a young blond man. He asks me the name of the deli manager. I say her name is Patty. I don't know her last name, I say. He asks me if I see her in the courtroom. I say no, she isn't here. He then asks me if the inspector is there, meaning the health inspector at Mountain Market. I stand up and look around the courtroom/deli. I really don't know who the inspector is. By process of elimination I come up with a few people in the room who could be the inspector, based upon where people are sitting and whom I know has some other role in the room. I point out one man, and say that could be him. He is wearing a gray sweater and has gray hair. He is a big person. I say I don't really know if he's here: when we work we all have different tasks, and I just haven't taken notice of who he is. The lawyer then asks me several vague and indirect questions. I don't know what he's trying to demonstrate: where he's going with his line of reasoning. I'm very direct with him. I say very firmly, "Why don't you tell the court where you're going with this." He arrogantly says that he will. He then brings up my criminal history. I immediately feel threatened and think he may expose my speeding ticket or expired tab citation, or my stealing meat and cheese from the deli. He starts to talk about my life. He is speaking pure lies, trying to degrade my credibility. He says I missed bail three times. I realize that this guy is talking out of his ass: he doesn't have a clue about me. I yawn and stretch and scratch my head in contempt for him. I look around and see my friend Sam Kingsley and a woman who works at Mountain Market. By their facial expressions I know they know that the prosecutor is making it all up. The prosecutor rambles on without making a point. The people who know me know that what he is saying isn't true. My lawyer, who is Herald's lawyer, but seem seems like my lawyer or is on my side-because I seem to be on trial-is a woman with short straight dark hair. She is pretty. As I'm testifying a timer for the ovens go off. Patty, who is near the judge's bench, switches some food, maybe ribs, in the oven as the trial takes place.