My Day in Court

I was sitting there, in the courtroom, waiting.

Waiting to be called about my unpaid parking ticket from 1999, and casually reading an auto magazine to pass the time.

I’d been there all day long, long enough to be amused by the fabulous stories of many who were trying to get out of paying their tickets.

I’d been there long enough to become bored by their tales of woe.

I’d been there too doggone long.

I, of course had a tale of my own. You see, the ticket that I was here for, it wasn't even mine. Ray, my boyfriend at the time, had used my car to make a run to the gas station. He needed a pack of cigarettes. And he parked in the handicapped parking spot in front to the gas station. I remember him telling me about it.

"I got it, Chele. Soon as I get my check, I'll pay it."

He never paid it.

And I forgot about it.

We broke up three months later.

I don't know why I was with him anyway. I don't smoke, and I don't like smokers.

I suppose the smooth talk and the good loving weighed in more with me than the unfurling of stinky gray smoke from his lips.

I wondered if the judge would have sympathy when it came time for me to tell my story?

The day was fast coming to an end. I glanced down at my watch and noticed that it was close to time for the court to end its session for the day. I was sitting there getting cold. Earlier, when the room was full to capacity, I’d been a little warm.

Going from being hot to cold let me know one thing.

I’d been in that place far too long.

An older woman walked into the room. She looked ancient, like she'd founded and ran the Underground Railroad with Harriet Tubman. The pillbox hat she wore atop her head had a single yellow flower sticking from the top. Her coat was a dark tweed, or plaid. I couldn't tell. She wore matching pants and brown penny loafers with thick white sweat socks.

The homeless had wandered into the courtroom, I thought. Oh joy.

She looked all around the courtroom- up at the judge's bench, at the baliff, even at the lights in the ceiling.

Then she looked at me. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. And she walked my way.

This type of thing always happened to me. Of course, there were tons of unoccupied seats in the room. As a matter of fact, I was the only one there, and for some reason, the last to be called.

But people who were crazy targeted me.

it was like I had a sign wrapped around my head that read, "Hey, please harass me. I don’t mind. Harrass me!"

The woman sat next to me, a little too close. I scooted over, just enough so that her thigh wouldn't be touching mine. She leaned forward and looked at me, wrinkles moving on her face as she smiled, baring teeth that were in desperate need of a hard bristled toothbrush. Then she looked down at the magazine.

"Watcha reading there?" she asked.

I glanced at her and her smile broadened.

"Auto Weekly," I replied. I scooted over just a little bit more, hoping she would get the hint not to talk to me any longer.

"You like it?" She asked.

"It's okay," I said. I didn't bother to tell her that it had been placed in my mailbox by mistake. That would've started a whole nother line of conversation.

“Is it yours?” she asked.

I looked down at the magazine in my hand, then at her. “Uh, well yes it is.”

“Did you buy it?”

“Uh,” I said. “No I didn’t.”

Why was I even talking to her? I should’ve told her that it was none of her business. And that she should leave me alone. I had a 13-year-old parking ticket to worry about. Who cared about a frickin' magazine?

“If it’s not yours, you should make sure it gets back to it’s rightful owner.”

I nodded and smiled.

I doubt if I would go looking for the man whose name and address appeared on a white sticker on the front of the magazine. This man Ralph Jones' address was the same as mine, accept for the street name. And I had no idea where Arcadia Drive was located. None at all. And I wasn’t about to go searching either.

There was no need to return it. This was a car magazine, not a car itself.

"Do you have any fingernail polish remover?" She asked. She stretched her hand out before her. Her nails were ragged and the paint was chipped. "I could surely use some."

Now why on earth would she go change the subject like that?

"No ma'am I don't."

"That's fine. We’re in a courtroom. It’s not something us ladies would do, sit in a courtroom and maintain our nails, now is it?”

I nodded and smiled again. I opened the magazine to a random page. It just so happened to be an advertisement about beef jerky and how it was the best snack in the world. My mouth watered for it, even though I'd never had it before.

“You want a piece of my granola bar?” the strange woman asked. “It’s the one with the chocolate chips and walnuts in it. It’s very good.”

And it was my favorite.

I wasn't going to let her know that, though.

“No thank you. I’m not sure we’re suppose to be eating in the courtroom.”

That was a lie. I hadn’t seen a sign. And I saw the baliff eating a Mr. Goodbar earlier. As a matter of fact, I saw him scarf down two that day with a twenty ounce diet coke.

“Your nails are beautiful. You get them done at Long Nails Spa, don’t you?”

What was all this granola bar and nail talk?

An even more important question: How on earth did she know I get my nails done at Long Nails Spa?

I didn’t answer. I gave the same head nod and plastic smile.

“You sure you don’t want a piece of my granola bar. I have half left. I've been here all day too, and it's good to have a little something to eat. I didn’t bite off of it. Just broke pieces off with my hand. You’re welcome to a piece.”

“No thank you,” I said, although my mouth watered for it. But whether she’d bitten it or had broken off pieces with her fingers, there was no way I would have any. I didn’t know her, and it was unsanitary.

The judge walked in and peered down at his docket. "Miss Matthews, since you're the only one here, we will just have to let you go. I don't even want to try to add up the cost of paying a 13 year old ticket. We’ll be here all night.

I yelled out "What about the lady here?"

I suddenly realized that was stupid. Here he was willing to let me go, and I was holding things up.

"What lady?"

I looked to my left. No one was there. “She was just sitting here.”

“Uh, okay,” the judge said. He glanced over at the baliff, then back at me. “How long have you been here, Ms. Matthews?”

“All day,” I’d said. “I arrived at eight this morning, just like they instructed me to do when I called about my ticket.”

“And here it is, five thirty in the afternoon. Being here that long will make one delusional.” He smiled over at the baliff. He turned his attention back to me. “Maybe she’s seeing things.”

“Maybe it was a ghost,” the baliff said.

"Or an angel," the Judge added.

They both laughed hard.

I stared down at the empty seat on the bench beside me.

“Ms. Matthews?” the judge said, jarring me from my thoughts.

“Yes, Your Honor?”

"Angels don't count, but one had to be with you today. You’d have to sell your first born to pay a 13-year-old ticket."

"Yes, I thought that would be the case. Expensive indeed."

"I'm looking at your driving record here and there's nothing here. Absolutely clean all these years. Not even a parking ticket since then. So I tell you what. I'm going to excuse this ticket. I'm willing to bet that you're not going to go out and lead the police on any high speed chases."

"No, I don't see me doing that, Your Honor."

"And I don't see you parking next to any fire hydrants or in handicap parking spaces either any time soon."

"No, I won't be doing that either."

"Well, I think we should get on out of here." He signed his name to some paperwork and pounded his gavel on the bench. "Your ticket is dismissed. Unless you have some more protesting you want to do. I'm willing to hear you out, but I won't be happy about it. My wife usually has dinner on the table for me, and I'm not going to be happy sitting here listening to you and thinking about how my dinner is getting colder and colder. I might just throw you in jail. And we don't want that, do we now?"

"No we don't," I said as I rolled up my magazine, grabbed my coat and purse, and hightailed it out of there.

I needed to get out of there fast.

I was going to find 123 Arcadia Drive, and return the copy of Auto Weekly to Ralph Jones.

I also made a mental note to buy a bottle of nail polish remover the next time I went to Wal-Mart.

Next time, I'd be ready for that angel...

If, no, when she showed up again.



Afterword

That was from my Women of Color Writing Workshop last Friday night.

Writing Prompts: Use the following in a story:

1. Half eaten granola bar.
2. an unpaid parking ticket from 1999
3. fingernail polish remover
4. A copy of Auto Weekly Magazine

Those writing prompts like that are a little hard, especially when you only have 7 minutes to work it all out. I worked it out to the tune to 390 words. The final story above was close to 1600 words, after approximately 2 hours more work on it. I used it as part of my nightly writing goal of 500 words per day, and that worked out well.

That one was for you, Chele! Haven't jocked you in awhile.

LOL!!!

I hope you enjoyed it.