Moons

I never considered getting a traffic ticket a kiss of death-- until today. A few weeks ago, I was headed for an appointment and entered an intersection while the light was yellow. A city police officer dropped down from the heavens just long enough to offer me words of shame-shame and present me a citation. I dutifully promised the Officer I would appear in Court and signed the citation confirming I would do so. Today was that day.

It started like most days start for me. My brain receives some kind of innate prompting that causes my eyelids to pop open like reflexes. Knowing that if I lie on that feather mattress five more minutes it will involuntarily convert into a water bed, I roll out and take itsy bitsy baby steps, though quick ones, to the next room.

Better, much better. Shower, brush teeth, globs of cream, more cream, comb hair, push and pull clothing, feed the mutt, out the door.

I turn the corner and for the fourth time drive past the Municipal Court building. Just before I finally cave to walking a marathon, a 1958 Edsel jets from the curb and like magic, I have a parking slot. I took it as a healthy sign the gods were on my side this fine morning. (Well, who else would be able to conjure up a 1958 Edsel?)

I deposit my driver's license so that I may enter the floor that houses municipal court. (Can you believe the cops take my driver's license as security -- the same driver's license they spat on a few days earlier?) I encounter an armed guard at the closed courtroom door. "Are you the baliff?" I asked. With a sharp glare, then quick diversion (now you know she was female, don't you?) she responded. "No! I AM THE SECURITY M-A-R-S-H-A-L-L!" Ouch. Where am I, D.C.?

Reluctantly the Marshall let me into the courtroom and directed me to sit tight. (Apparently she thus far had not been the least bit impressed with my legal knowledge.) Shortly before the judge entered, I looked around and saw one of my colleagues walking through the door. Naturally, being friendly like I am, I motioned to him and he came and sat down. Quietly, very quietly, we were chatting, when all of a sudden (no, it was not Dancer or Prancer) the Marshall shouted (loudly) -- THERE WILL BE NO TALKING IN THIS COURTROOM!

Here comes da Judge in his black robe and glory. He sat down on his throne and sent the message "be good girls and boys and listen to what the prosecutor has to say," then excused himself. I never saw him again. I don't even know if I passed or was a good girl or bad girl. I hate not getting prompt feedback.

Next came the prosecutor. His speech was pretty clear. "I'm the meanest game in town. Take me on and you die."

I'm fairly sure at this point that I am orbiting somewhere in the Twilight Zone until I see my friend. His eyes are bulging. Heck, I'm not about to say a word. I've already gotten THE word. I raise my eyebrows. He lowers his. I think, "Wow! we're talking in code. I wonder what we said?"

At the end of all the thundering the Junkyard Dog told me to come back in a couple of months for the trial. That's okay by me, but I'm thinking -- shouldn't the City be forced to post signs that say: "For the next 180 minutes you are in a reality test"?

With no resistance, I slide out the courtroom door, down the corridor, retrieve my driver's license and step on to the sidewalk. I stand there a few minutes appreciating freedom then start looking for an Edsel to escort me back to Earth.

© Coninc., TheDownsideUp.Com 2006