It was the week before Thanksgiving. On the train ride home (I live in downtown Washington, DC, in an old, sprawling apartment building that once claimed Huey Long and Richard Nixon as tenants), my attention was drawn to a frazzled female lawyer sitting in the seat next to me, who was feverishly making notes in the margins of a thick, serious-looking, legal-sized document.
I confess. I like to read over people's shoulders, but often lose interest after the first few words. This case was different, though. My eyes locked on the strange text, filled with words like "linoleum," "danger," and "maple syrup." This was not your typical government memo.
It was a legal brief, a plaintiff's brief. It began with the story of a certain puddle-a puddle that was growing ominously on the floor of an isle of a neighborhood grocery store. It told of leather scuff marks nearby, flanked by the spilled contents of boxes of breakfast cereal. It continued for page after page, citing court cases on how temperature affects syrup viscosity. It ended with this dire question: "Did the puddle of maple syrup grow so rapidly in diameter as to absolve the store of constructive notice of a hazardous condition?"
For a 30-page memo on maple syrup, it was a work of art. I thought about tapping here on the shoulder, and saying: "I'm a magazine editor, and I just want to say that you write very well."
Before I could gather up the courage, the train had reached her stop and she was gone.
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