Never before have I awaited an outcome before writing on it. I know that it is the spine of journalism to do so. Still, a piece simply about a sport like baseball, can be masterful. I do not write about a game or a match, except that of cat and mouse. The game is one I play with patrol cars in my town solely for reasons of paranoia. I carry no contraband or warrants. But, for the time I've been driving the car, I've been asked to pay for some ill-planned parking jobs. I have four outstanding parking tickets. The first is an account in the data banks of my visiting a border town between mine and another state. This might raise an eyebrow to some assigned overseers of my inhabitance in my own town. Then again, it's probably paranoia to think a mid town psychiatric unit would care to hack into my traffic history. They've got to be doing something with those new whiz-bang computers, though. I do not intend to lament on the healthy shits that supervise my medication taking, only, the fuzz.
There's a relief when the swirling lights in my rear-view mirror turn out not to be for me. There are generally computations of probability that either the police car is going somewhere else, or looking for someone different. I count the cars around me. Then, there is the resignment when his tires, too, scratch down on the shoulder. This countless time I'd been pulled over, I had a friend with me. He suggested removing our identification cards, maybe to take the edge off how nervous I was acting. I hadn't had anything to drink, and I had pulled into a parking lot to avoid blocking traffic. It was an adorable miniature car chase, complete with intermittent siren. It was more of a mini parade, really. In any case, I removed my safety belt so as to more easily get at my wallet, where my proof of identity is stored. As I said, I had not been drinking, and the police officer did not question that. He did cite me for nervousness, and that's got to be a bit of a paradox for the boys. Alcohol can tend to smooth out social conflict. Not always, but such that I'd call it probable that it would act as a charm to a friendly policeman like this officer.
That aside, I was given a warning, written-- printed, for expired registration. Also, as if someone had flipped on a television right before my eyes, I was being read a court summons for a seatbelt violation. Recall, I had removed my seatbelt because pants were a little tight, in getting to my wallet. Court eh? Seemed pretty binary to me. Either I was wearing it or I wasn't. If he needed this to be heard as much as I did, game on! I adhere to the speak when spoken to rule with law enforcement, if I can help it. I don't believe he asked if I had any questions. Only, if I understood, and, "OK..?" and such. I did want to tell him right there that I'd been wearing my belt. But, his car was packing Internet, and the date of reckoning had already been set. It was a case of shooting first, "OK..?"
I had a witness, who could at least stick by his story enough to convince, maybe, a judge as well as he convinced me that he could stick by a story. There would be two visits to the courthouse in the downtown of my town. Many times I thought of tapping my friend's knee and saying, "U-turn, now!" There are more stages to traffic justice than I counted on. There were crowded waiting rooms, and long general briefings to fifteen or so other weary drivers. This process was no drive-thru. Seems pretty severe to plead not-guilty through a shitty microphone over a seatbelt violation. The judge looked up from where he had surely been doodling. The whites of his eyes flashed round like doughnuts. It may puzzle him a lifetime, for the case did not go to trial. On the day of the pretrial meeting, my friend and I played phone tag, requesting just another half hour of sleep, and screw the pancakes. We arrived midway through the filling of the short foyer of chairs leading to the court chambers. My friend had been out the night before, I'd skipped my sedatives as a precaution. I hunched in my seat, and he slouched with slits for eyes. A courtroom might not always be so conducive to staying awake. Especially traffic court? The inexperienced would be surprised, I'm sure. There's a soapbox at the front, and it's derby time!
The first fellow to take the podium was foreign, Asian. The man was older, which I wouldn't have suspected. Many Asian teenagers in my community soup up small four cylinder imports, and with loud exhaust systems. Surely this tendency would land a frequent young Laotian in this room. Not for any stereotypes, and not for this reason, did I not know just what was going on. The man had either failed to stop completely at a stop sign and had been caught... or, look! Chewbacca! He had a medical excuse from a doctor, apparently. The story was that he needed to use the bathroom, very very badly. He is a business owner, and when the squad comes by to pick up their coming donation, they can stick it, is what he said. Oh, this was going to be great.
Though, only one other who attested to citation was notable in this way. One guy seemed to be trying very hard to be as assertive, but was obviously very nervous. He did very well, nonetheless. There was a younger girl there about the technical fouls involved in her recent accident. Her mother was seated in the audience. She was soft spoken, which gave a breath of politeness to the room. I'm sure they get these all the time. The aforementioned notable driver was challenging a speeding ticket given very close to the police station. The argument was over a lack of proof that the cops weren't just fucking with him, which he all but said was the case. He said he'd pay the fine, but he wasn't stopping there. I don't think the pun was intended. He left the podium before the bailiff could serve him his reduced fee citation. He was called back, and he complied, which was just the anticlimactic end to the hearing that was needed.
It's surprising when someone nails the pronunciation of my last name. The District Attorney did, and we were off to a rockin' start. I explained the story. When the clarity of the mishap clicked for her (the D.A.), I read her face and sigh as "Wow, that sucks..." I'd gotten what I wanted at that point. There was now higher legal acknowledgment that someone's got a happy touchpad pressing finger, and a badge with their name on it. I said nothing to the panel of the integrity or manners of the city police force; I really couldn't top anything already said. The D.A.'s decision was to stick me with the fine, anyhow. I hadn't come to debate, only to share an interesting story, and maybe get my ten spot back from the city. A break was given on the registration; yes, I should have told the officer I was buckled up priorly, she affirmed. "Can you not pay ten dollars [only]?" I looked to see my friend drooling into his lap, or trying to hide in some primal way. She got me there. Ten dollars is a good week of helping out panhandlers in my old town. I guess I could get a street salted and sanded this winter, thus reducing the need for a seatbelt. I was handed a stapled version of the same citation. The bailiff smiled at me, as most of the previous resolved cases received a wary cautioning glance. Some microphone feedback might have roused my friend. He was awake when I returned to my seat to gather my bandanna and original citation. Either the D.A. couldn't hear me well, or I would be too loud. Maybe it had something to do with my greater familiarity with more expensive microphones. I'm unsure, but it's likely these microphones cut out a need for a stenographer. Might all go down to the archives on solid state in your favorite compression format like so many light years of microfiche.
I sent the check off today. There was no visible due date on the new fine. There was the date of my meeting with the District Attorney, I'm sure. That was the date, right? I keep asking myself, and concluding, no, that cannot be the due date. Not the same day. Absurd, but absurd to think she left no deadline for payment. What a favor. Like, if I held the paper up to a candle there would be a map to the attic above her garage, and a date there. The envelope is already at the post office, and like some office memo, the header proclaiming, "...CAN RESULT IN CONTEMPT OF COURT!!!" is followed by three exclamation points. I'm not exactly sure who to criticize for all of this hometown style injustice. All of us in this story are a little guilty of perpetuating what those in some higher standings might consider trite. People dig their own cars. It's like I'm at home when I drive one. Nobody likes to be bothered in either place. Cars can be beautiful, and rarely are they ugly. They possess expression, and are often cute and personal as a result. So, when a car gets scratched, there can be repercussions. One of the calmer persons to take the stand told of being chased to a parking lot and told she had hit this lady's car. The woman admitted there was a sizable scratch, but she did not recall a collision. The other party's report was apparently exaggerated. The cop agreed the damage was negligible to invisible. She was told she could either accept a seventy dollar fine instead of an eighty dollar fine, or the case could go to trial. "Um, [this sucks] but I think I'll take it to trial." I think she will enjoy showing up the plaintiff's cool, and I applaud her. It's not my job to decide on this case, and it seems I've seen it before in television small claims. But, it's nice to see the promenade of lunacy slowed by a little w.t.f.?
I believe I've tapped this jug of irony about dry. My car has a spare tire attached to its axle, and it is rusting from the spoiler holes. I bears expired license plates. The bumper stickers are on straight. My car's appearance might be somewhat vagabond, but I don't care too much. It's street legal, and it's not the car with the crooked bumper stickers. I've ridden a skateboard more of my life, than driven a car. I've cross dressed for homecoming. I can ride four wheels, and trick out my threads. Man, don't tell me I can't wear a belt.