(The following description takes place at a downtown Starbucks on November 30).

The damp, early-winter chill exuded heavy from my wool overcoat, yet was no match for the overpowering, roasted coffee aroma wafting thick from the business side of the counter. My hair stunk, my eyes tingled and all I wanted to do was finish the rest of my legal motion under the soothing spell of soft, piped-in jazz mixed with a half-dozen roaring blenders. It’s how I concentrate. It’s how I waste a Sunday morning.

I took my usual spot on the middle counter, firmly ensconced on the mile-high barstools and perfectly overlooking a row of five tables etched against the glass picture window. Nice, the tables were filled, a concoction of irrelevant conversations representing foreign, unintelligible discourse that could never interfere with my concentration.

Or so I thought.

First table on the right
“Registration,” says the middle-age guy as he plunks his Styrofoam cup atop the faux-wood table about eight feet away. 

My ears perk. Lawyers and referees hate registration. Suddenly, my legal work could wait. I had to eavesdrop.

“Wait a minute,” says the other guy to the middle-age man. “You’re passing up 40-yard line tickets to the Broncos-Raiders game tonight?”

“No choice. Bummer.”

“Bummer? You were gonna eBay your wife’s wedding dress for end zone seats to last year’s playoff game. What gives?”

“Look, Eddie, I know this sucks. But I’m a dope. My attorney registration expires on December 1. I’ve got 10 hours of CLE to make up all day. That’s why I’m getting my Sunday morning shot of Starbucks. I’ve got to stay awake for 12 more hours. I’ve got to finish today.”

“Oh, please,” grouches Eddie, flashing his tickets into the coffee-flavored air. “I know how those online videos work. Just keep 10 windows open at once and sign afterwards that you’ve watched them all. That’s what sharp guys do.”

“I know, I know,” mutters the forlorn lawyer. “But I’m not taking chances. Yeah, I could fudge it – lots of guys fleece it – but Monday morning’s the pre-trial in that civil rights case against the local police department. I’m looking at one million easy for settlement. City hates going to trial. That’s $333,000 to me, big guy.”

Eddie’s bottom lip gets sucked under his teeth. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Even though there’s no actual requirement to listen to the entire 10 hours, it’s the spirit of the registration process at stake. And God forbid you get caught fudging the hours, you’d be classified as non-registered retroactive to December 1. Definitely not worth losing out a chunky settlement. Yup, I’d gladly expend just 10 hours of CLE videos for a chance at that cash.”

As both guys get up and beat feet through the revolving door, my thoughts vacillate. The guy’s a fool for waiting until the last minute to do his CLE videos. But 10 hours isn’t too bad. He was right to pass on the tickets. Especially for the big pay-day. Ten hours. $333,000. Sweet. 

Still, I’ve got a motion to finish. Back to work.

Table second-from-left
“Registration,” mutters this 30-something guy in a tan North Face to what must be his too-cool brother-in-law sporting this ugly-graying goatee. “Sorry, Jake, I can’t make tonight’s game. Gotta complete my registration.”

“What kind of registration?” barks the brother-in-law, as this serious agitation rises from his Mt. St. Helen’s-shaped, clean-cropped scalp.

“Since when do unemployed guys have to register for anything?’

“Hockey. It’s my annual referee registration and online education seminar.”

“Wait, you’ve got to register to skate? And videos, too?”

“Yup.”

“But didn’t you blow-off Aunt Marge’s 75th birthday brunch last September because of a half-day hockey seminar or something?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I loaned you $110 for that. And you’re still not registered? What kind of scam is this?”

“Sucks, Jake. Got a two-hour online test, a two-hour safe-sport video, about eight hours of education clips and an annual USA Hockey background shakedown which alone costs $23. And it’s all due by the end of today, November 30.”

“Big whoop,” grunts the brother-in-law. “I mean, we’re talking 30-yard line seats from my company director. Raiders in town.”

“Yup, but I’ve got a game tomorrow. No registration, no game.”

“So what? What is it, a hundred bucks-a-game for that crap you do? Please.”

“Not exactly ...”

“Wow,” he interrupts. “I mean, yeah you’re unemployed, but you’re stupid, too. Biggest game of the year. Weather not too cold either. Meanwhile, you’re taking an entire day, an entire 12 hours out of your life for a $100 game. Come on. Seriously, all you need to do is keep like 10 windows open or something and just sign out that you watched the stuff. Everyone does it.”

“Not really.”

“Not this! Not that! Nothing’s good enough. Everything I say doesn’t make sense to you.”

“They have some sort of system, Jake. You have to watch the video. The whole video. And then there’s a test after each clip. A real test. You don’t pass the test, you have to watch the darn video again.”

“What? I’ve got an uncle who’s a lawyer making seven figures in a bad year. He showed me how the stuff works. Says it takes him two hours to complete his annual online registration.”

“This is officiating, not lawyering.”

“All that effort. For a hundred dollar game? You’re crazy. Who does that? This is the 21st century. No one does that. For a hundred dollars?”

“Nineteen dollars, Jake. Mite house. I’m out of work. Sure need the 19 dollars ...”

As the sentence trails off into eternity, Jake throws his arms to the sky, spilling his half-cup of vanilla ice coffee onto the table, totally oblivious to the creamy-brown waterfall cascading to the floor. “Seek help!” he cries out. “Seek help!”

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