To start 2010 off interestingly, I received my very first moving violation on Jan. 6. Not for speeding at 90 in a 35 or driving on the wrong side of the 101 as my right of passage into the [insert San Fernando Valley street name here] Gang. I turned right safely on a green light between the hours of 7:00 and 9:00 in the morning, and now I'm $300 poorer with eight hours of life wasted to traffic school. Dad told me to fight every ticket, because if you don't, insurance will shake its seven story tall finger at you. So I said, "OK, Dad!"
I'd been experiencing slight pings of anxiety in anticipation of this court date. Last time at the Van Nuys court house, Dad dragged me by the earlobe to deal with my truancy ticket for hopping the fences of Taft High School. After successfully clearing the wall to freedom, my buddies and I unanimously rested our 15 year old semi-selves on the sidewalk to light up a celebratory cigarette in recognition of this great success. There's no time for school when you have a sheet in your pocket and not a trace of self esteem. Mid-high five a black and white crept around the corner, sirens screaming (for theatrics and intimidation purposes only) and I'm cuffed, jammed into the plastic navy seats, with a torrential downpour of emotions flooding the creases of my scrunchy little girl face. After that, Dad arranged with my teachers to fill out strict weekly progress reports for which I despised him violently. Several months later, he brought my report card to trial and the judge let me off for good grades. Thanks, Dad.
10 years later I don't have a progress report or an adult to hold my hand. I'm in trouble for trying to squeeze in a trip to the bank before buying billboards for nine straight hours.
That morning I awoke 15 minutes ahead of time to run a flat iron through my hair to seem polished and mindful of my appearance during the work week. Before leaving the house, I globbed on a bit of mascara, slung on a gold necklace and left to my half day at work preceding this dreaded appointment.
After paying $10 to park in a government lot, I limped on a broken toe toward the security line to enter the Los Angeles Superior Court. Approaching from the east, I came within seven feet of a petite gentleman who, too, was approaching the line, but from the west. As we proceeded with similar intentions, we both recognized that in a soon second, one of us must say "go 'head" with a slight and cordial nod. The petite gentleman excitedly announced "uh, ladies - ladies first you know!" in an unidentifiable and fantastic accent, to which I kindly smiled and said "thank you". The interaction resulted in strange and unavoidable eye contact from all corners of the room. Whenever an instance occurred to urge a reaction from any of the 200 defendants (such as a gasp), he'd summons my eyes to his by boring two painful holes in my existence, throwing his head back in laughter as if this was a private joke between us. Apparently an awkward security line encounter is grounds for an instant friendship. Much better than hate in the end.
Upon confirming that I had no plans to blow up the courthouse, I lifted my unnecessarily large red bag over my shoulder, and set out to find Room 201: Traffic Court. I exited the elevator on the fourth floor, and to my relief, a sign reading Room 201: Traffic Court hung above two large double doors. I asked a man in a plaid shirt and work boots if he was in line and he whispered "no, yeah, it's OK". I then looked out the window where a hot dog truck led my eyes northward to Sylmar's low lying hills, vibrantly green from the rain. This added to my satisfaction of successfully finding Room 201 without the help of a janitor.
Court doors scheduled to open at 1:30, leaving 27 minutes to read my book, so I propped myself against the window and cracked open an original print of In Cold Blood. People continued filling the room, including a tall and slender Korean man in his 60s with salt and pepper hair. Confused and apprehensive, he studied the list of names posted on the wall to verify his inclusion. As he slid his index finger gingerly down each sheet of legal paper, another man of similar age in a tweed sweater and fedora lent his help and insight on the other man's journey through the lists. He demonstrated an uncommon level of energy and charisma, so I closed my book and stuffed it back in my bag. Each word left this man's face with laughter, which made me wish he was talking to me instead, or that he'd talk to me next. He danced through the bleak hall like we were all guests at a sock hop, and welcomed other court-goers as they entered through the elevators. This man had a purpose for everything he was doing, would do, and has done in the last 60 years.
In a corner 10 feet to the right leaned a guy in his twenties wearing a cropped leather jacket and purposely torn jeans. Buried in his iPhone, his hair stood at attention and Jersey Shore came to mind instantly because I really like that show. Pauly D without the DJ and less height as far as hair is concerned. Another young man entered the vicinity in similar attire, but from Mervyn's before its demise. Then a third joined the two, adorably chubby like a Disney hippo with a buzz cut. The design on the back of his white pop-collared shirt looked to be a combination of a Japanese dragon and Mike Tyson's face tattoo. I found out later that this was the Jewish guy. Noticing right away that they all had a great deal in common on the surface, they meshed immediately and became the least bored and awkward individuals in the room. Those three entered the court house as strangers and left as friends.
Court doors finally opened and the swaying blob of humanity turned focused as the police officer explained next steps. We were directed to form two lines: English Speakers and Non-English Speakers. The English speaking line was the longest, and as we shimmied our way into the court room, a very old woman emitting a highly offensive odor merged into my lane. I held the door for her. As we forward marched into the court room, we English speakers took the seats on the right, the others on the left. Once all seated, a different police officer warned us that our names would soon be called in alphabetical order. Upon hearing our respective names, we were to respond with "here" in a tone loud of enough be heard by all 200 people. We'd then take a seat in the mid-cluster of chairs between the English and non-English speakers. I broke a sweat. Anticipating one's name to be called in a public setting can cause a great deal of anxiety. If I faltered to any degree, everyone would think me for the rest of their lives as that idiot who didn't know what to do at the Van Nuys court house. The smelly old lady sat next to me. I smiled so she wouldn't realize how much I hated her decision.
The officer eventually shouted "Pardess" after the A - Os, to which I crackled in response, then filed into the middle section next to the guy who took advantage of the Mervyn's nationwide liquidation. His adams apple protruded to an unusual distance so I studied it for a rude span of time. Next thing I know, the dancing man with the fedora tumbled down my row and situated himself right beside me. The size of the adams apple to my left paled in comparison to the wonderful conversation about to occur on my right. I shifted in my seat a bit awaiting fedora man's first words and nothing. Not a glance, nor a smile. With bruised feelings, I imposed my chin upon my knuckles and listened intently to a recording announcing our choices of guilty, not guilty or no contest. No contest and guilty are synonymous, and the former only exists for cowards, dainty ladies and insurance salespeople. Does this apply in other situations such as not tipping the bar tender for opening an $8 bottle of beer or throwing a recyclable bottle in the garbage?
We reached a grace period between the recording and when court came to order. Behind me sat two middle-aged white men: 1) Tall and commanding in a fitted suit, likely a member of The Hair Club for Men 2) Lanky in a shirt with a busy pattern of silver sword fish, wearing CVS aviators indoors. I eaves dropped as they one-upped each other on their plans of getting out of their various traffic offenses. "Well, technically the cop's radar gun hadn't been calibrated so I'll be just fine, " said the man in the suit, to which the man in the swordfish shirt responded, "I'm just hoping the cop doesn't show up!" They laughed heartily at this punchline. The dialogue went on for too many minutes, consisting of all the other activities they'd rather be doing than sitting in a courtroom. These included golf, important business meetings, the gym and driving down the coast.
Growing impatient with these two, I pulled out my book, which grabbed fedora man's attention. "Well, I say, that looks like a very old book," he said with the kinder eyes than a lamb. I explained the title and that it was the first addition, and he went on to describe how films based on books never turn out correctly, which then funneled into the appropriate conversation of why we were there. It seems that his 1973 Cadillac is made of steel, unlike the plastic cars of today, so he couldn't help traveling at 80 miles per hour down Laurel Canyon. Today he would claim not guilty. Our time together ended here as court came to order.
The judge entered the room, and the giant adams apple leaned over and whispered "she looks like the crypt keeper." I smiled politely jumping to the conclusion that this was childish and below me, especially in a court of law. But as I looked closer, it did seem that she'd been exhumed, cloaked in a black robe and nailed to her seat before us all. Row by row we sauntered to the microphone and announced guilty, not-guilty or no contest. I pleaded guilty, because I was. And then I realized that this trip to the Van Nuys court house was completely pointless from a legal and monetary standpoint.
Like a donut factory, we pleaded however we pleaded, then rotated back to the hallway to wait for the cashier to break the news. The cashiers began calling names, but as the assembly line of defendants saturated the room, hearing became increasingly difficult.
During the wait, commanding white man in the suit stood a few inches beside me to where I could gauge that the top of my head reached just below his shoulder. Though we stood closest, he began a conversation with fedora man standing two feet away and offered advice on his case. Others in the crowd heard the suit's officiality and we were eventually surrounded by others seeking advice on their states of affairs. Finally someone asked "are you a lawyer, sir?" He replied, "no! I put satellites in outer space." One would think that the crowd inquiring about legal advice would dissipate after learning that this man probably had no more legal training than their gardener, but it didn't. It didn't because he was tall, white, of distinguished age and in a suit.
Finally taking a break to scan my surroundings, I noticed the silver swordfish shirt on the other side of me, arms crossed, pouting. He quickly realized my acknowledgement then continued to express his negative opinion of the suit in mumbles and grumbles. After each comment, he'd look to me for approval and I'd politely smirk and look away in hopes that he'd take a hint. "That guy is so dramatic," he whined, shaking his head, slumped against the window pane in his swordfish shirt, sandals and socks. Naturally, we dove into the conversation of why we were sharing this space in time and I learned it was old news to him. While awkwardly humoring him and trying to listen for my name for a quick escape, he grabbed my right hand to examine my middle finger, encircled by a ring with a brownred stone. "What stone is this?" he inquired excitedly, as if the man in the suit never existed and we were in an Austrian meadow or Starbucks. "I'm not sure, but I got it in Northern California," I answered as I slipped it off and gave it to him after noticing his filthy finger print ridges. He took an even closer look, turned it around, smelled it and I sarcastically asked if he was a geologist. "No, I just collect rocks. I have about 30,000 rocks at home. I love rocks." After wondering why he didn't mention this earlier during his contest with the suit, the cashier called my name and I repossessed my ring and received my bill to the State of California for $307.65.
After sincerely thanking the cashier for my bail amount, I twirled to point myself toward the defendants who accompanied me on that Wednesday. Straight ahead, a man with a surplus of white hair and a rhinoceros skin face looked toward the floor and tapped his foot. A willowy lady with sailor moon eyes and brown hair seemed nervous and I envied her smooth shiny pony tail. On the floor sat a young man wearing faded black from head to toe, legs stretched out in front of him, purple shoe laces in his converse. A backpack slouched by his side to compliment his apathetic motif, hair styled with what looked like canola oil, but was indeed a lack of personal hygiene. Petite gentleman bid me adieu with eager eyes and the type of wave you give when you know you'll see that person in the morning at the water cooler.
I reconnected with reality that day. Thanks again, Dad.
