Tag Archives: Court

Cop Week: Day 6 — The Final Chapter

I had to pay my ticket by April 1st, a full 7 months after I got it, but trying to convince myself to do anything that requires me to do things is a nigh impossible task. In fact, I usually can’t even convince myself to try to convince myself of stuff. It’s that exhausting.

But it was St. Patrick’s Day, the kind of day when you see the world through emerald glasses. The people on the streets have a strange green tint to them, though whether it’s due to their attire or their alcohol-induced nausea is hard to say. On every street corner, Irish drinking songs blare from garbled voices, random strangers have their hands transformed into merciless pincers, and all in all, cops have a little less power.

It was a day of serendipity.

I didn’t actually realize it was St. Patrick’s day until witnessing the aforementioned indicators, but when I pulled into the spot right in front of the courthouse, I could tell the patron saint of boozing was on my side. Plus, there was already money in the meter, and when I stepped out of the car, the smell of fresh grass hit me like a wave of odor particles. As I walked up to the oversized glass doors, lawyers smiled at me, cops gave me a head nod, and, well, those were the only two types of people that passed me actually.

I’m going through security right behind a guard who’s jivin’ with his buddy, and they’re talking about how they both just learned to do the dip snap. I just learned it too, so I chime in and suddenly we’re all cracking up and packing together.

Extreme bonding moment complete, I get in line for the payment window and strike up a conversation with the lady in front of me, who’s super friendly for someone about to fork money over to “the system.” She sees someone she knows, and because of the magic of the day, lets me go ahead of her, which means that instead of being serviced by grumpy government employee number one, I end up facing this beautiful brunette who can’t be over 25. She’s wearing a tight-fitting, low-cut green top that’s still somehow classy, and the first thing she does is make fun of me for not embracing the holiday. Suddenly I’m drooling all over myself, which, I must say, is a definite step up from weeping like a little girl.

The gods of game must’ve been on my side, cause I’m making jokes left and right, getting into the whole story of how I got the ticket, court, bike school. She’s laughing and joking back and at the end she gives me this look and says, “Perfect! I’ve gone ahead and closed your case, so you’re good to go!”

“I am?” I asked, bewildered. Could someone have truly taken pity on me, the poor, wretched biker whose lack of attentiveness led him astray but for a moment?

“Yep!” She winked.

And just like that, I didn’t have to pay the ticket. I smiled, said thanks, and walked off into the distance.


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Cop Week: Day 4 — The Judge

The year was like 2 weeks after that last part, and I’d decided that I was going to fight my ticket tooth and nail…and fist…and probably weapon, and a lot of things more effective than my neatly trimmed nails and unsharpened non-fangs. But most of all, I was going to fight with my charm, so when my court date arose, I put on a button-up, squeezed into real pants, and donned my finest sandals.

The line was absurdly long, but on the plus side, the guy in front me told me all about the intricacies of cabinet design (though in this economy, people seem not to be hiring quite as many high-level cabinet engineers. Go figure), and the one behind me gave me a lesson or two on shanking technique. Both equally useful.

I made it into the courtroom and sat, with nothing to do but listen to the cases of those before me.

“I swear, your honor. The cigarette I threw out the car window was my friend’s.”

Judge: “That doesn’t actually matter.”

“I swear I was only going that fast so I could pass someone.”

Judge: “That doesn’t actually matter.”

And so on. The judge let people who did the cigarette throwing off the hook if they promised to quit smoking, which they all readily did.

Finally they called my name, and I stood, fully prepared to make the judge and audience swoon with my storytelling prowess. I stepped forward, ready to give the speech of a lifetime.

And was promptly kicked out of the courtroom.

I guess sandals aren’t allowed. Oops.

Two weeks later, I was back, shoed and ready for action! I explained my whole story with all the wit and charm I could muster, weaving tales of the my good-natured, law-abiding ways and the terrors of the evil cop and his sinister mustache. I had the audience laughing at my every sentence, enraptured by the first semi-interesting appeal in their three hours of mindless sitting. Even the judge was impressed, but then he told me that no matter how much he enjoyed my tale, the cheapest way to deal with the ticket would be to go to bike school–the very fate I’d come to court to avoid! I tried to cull a lesson from this, but all I could think was that I hadn’t needed to get up early in the morning, and more importantly, I hadn’t needed to wear pants. Awful, constricting, heat-trapping, soul-sucking pants. The world is a cruel, cruel place.

Stay tuned for the Penultimate Post of Cop Week, in which Russ misunderstands the meaning of Bike School and sends his bike to class.


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