EVERYONE HAS THEIR DAY IN COURT…

It’s tough to know which was worse, the teenager getting a ticket to appear in court for not having his Muni pass with him on the train, or the pre-schooler discovering Barney the purple fucking dino-fucking-saur. 

I avoided that malevolent mauve moron for the teenager’s entire childhood; I didn’t even hum ‘I hate you, you hate me’ around the house for fear he’d want to know where it came from. And to be honest, I thought it had gone the way of the dodo, thus indemnifying me from dealing with it during her childhood. But alas no. The bastard is very much alive and kicking, a blubby paragon of ‘midwestern values’ and virtue. Confucious once said from atop a smokey mountain  that (and I quote) ‘if THAT is the definition of virtue, then consider me to be the most unvirtuous, dirty, filthy piece of shit ever to crawl the Earth’  and not only do I know exactly what he means, in this instance I resemble that remark. I mean, think about it…even an ancient Chinese philosopher saw ‘it’ coming!  I will thus be ‘hiding/losing/returning to the library by accident’ said DVD as soon as humanly possible.

Anyway, the ticket for the teenager. He received said-citation from an apparently fat, miserable and humorless ticket women with firestarter specs and a thick, near-inaudible accent (to be fair, all the preceding are jolly good reasons to be miserable in my book) and I feel sure that the deft combination of his mumbled monosyllabic tone and her heft-induced grumpiness created the sort of feelgood atmosphere that manifested itself as a $108 fine plus a demand to appear in juvenile court. Wonderful. All over a 50 cent fare versus a forgotten bus pass. I know I know, let one get away with it and they all want to get away with it, but Jesus, how about a little perspective?And if you DO need to punish him, how about a $40 fine and be done with it? Why does it have to become this big palaver? So yes,  I thought it was absurd, though I did lambast the youth for forgetting his pass (“You only have to remember to brush your teeth, get dressed, engage your brain and bring your wallet and keys with you for Christ’s sake, is that really so fucking hard?!”) but nontheless I saw it as an opportunity; an opportunity to show him that the world, the wonderful benevolent, warm and fuzzy world, every so often demands that you tap dance in a monkey suit in front of the elected guardians of our society.

This meant that I ordered him to wear black pants and get his black jacket, to find a shirt and to make sure he was clean-shaven (because we are currently at the age where facial hair means you-are-the-maaaan and I explained in no uncertain terms that in THIS instance he would NOT be viewed as ‘the man’ more than  a reprobate). 

We made our way to the Juvenile Justice building (sounds like a sponsored concert venue) and having gone through a metal detector (I wasn’t carrying my my semi-automatic or knuckle-duster, not because I’d planned it but just because I forget them) we wound our way downstairs. The teenager looked at me as though he wanted guidance. “Read the bloody ticket!” I said, my way of spreading some responsibility. 

“Ugggh!” the criminal fare-dodger groaned, ” we have to go upstairs to the third floor!”

“An early lesson in cheap beurocracy all of this!” I fired off, “different floors every five minutes, a distinct lack of smiling, you want to hope the delinquents ahead of you haven’t worn the Beak down, because if they have, it’s going to be tough!”

He looked miserable.

“So, do you know what you’re going to say?”

“Yeah, I’m going to say I’m very sorry but I forgot my bus pass and that I plead guilty to the charge.”

“Good. And call the judge ‘your honor’ because that’s what you have to do.”

He checked his clothing.

“If I don’t get off after putting this on, I’m going to be pissed off!”

“I don’t think you have any latitude to be getting pissed off right now about anything!” I rumbled in a rumbly ‘big-voiced-parent type way.

“Ughhhhhhh!” he said by way of a reply.

The elevator doors opened (being a public lift used mostly by potential young offenders, it was poorly maintained and traveled at snail speed) and there, before us, was the third floor. A pot-pourri of baggy-panted youth with nary a belt between them, nervous looking public defenders twittering* into thin air and giant, sweaty, angry looking cops and sheriffs prowling around, prodding clumps of teen into over-filled rooms with no air-conditioning. It’s fair to say that we had before us  the proverbial human zoo.

We made our way along the thin corridor lined with miscreants smacking gum or spouting curses (“IT AIN’T MAH FAULT THE FUCKIN’ BEYATCH IS A FUCKIN’ HO’ WHO DON’T BELIEVE ME!” was one I caught) and found the traffic citation waiting room. Inside were three youths, beltless between them as seemed to be the norm for this establishment, having a conversation where every sentence contained the phrase ‘ma nigga’ at least twice. Meanwhile, old suited-and-booted beside me was quiet. I don’t think he was ruffled at all, he’s worked with many youths like this, but I do think the situation’s relative lack of comfort was starting to bear down on him. Either that or he was hungry, it was tough to tell.

His name was called and in we went to a small room where there sat a judge in front of a table. No jury of our peers, not even a stenographer, just some bored, yawning policewoman. She ran through the charge and asked him how he pled. He said guilty, but before he could throw out his excuse, she was motoring ahead. I quietly suggested he ask if he could speak. He did and she let him. His delivery wasn’t Al Pacino, but to be fair he made his point politely enough. Indeed, in the great arena of monkey-suited tap-dancing, he had passed the test, although given the standard of competition on the 3rd floor, had he failed I’d have checked to see if his arms were longer than his body or his knuckles dragged on the floor.

“I am going to offer you the chance to take a 3 hour life management skills course,” said the judge, “the class will cost you $40 but the fine will be waived so long as you complete the class.”

It was, as one says, a no-brainer. And with a few smiles and a ‘thank you’ we were out. 

As we got to the car, he expressed relief.

“I’m just happy I don’t have to pay the fine!” he sighed.

“It’s essentially a $40 ticket and the social equivalent of traffic school,” I said.

“Yeah…” he paused. “Err, Dad…remember you said you’d help me with the fine if it was the full-fine?”

“I remember saying I’d consider it!” I snapped back.

“Well, would you split this one with me?”

“What, $40?!!!” I laughed, “you are taking the piss now…enjoy the out of jail card and get some money from the bank.”

“…OK OK…”

Later that night, at work in the ballpark, he had his best night ever for tips, pulling in $90. His average tip-take was around 20-25. Already he was back in the saddle, class money in hand and a tired but enthusiastic smile on his face. And whilst he will never forget his trip to Juvenile Court, 10 hours and $90 later the memory had significantly dimmed…

 

* How sad I should have to do this; when I say ‘twittering’ I mean twittering in the ‘nervous talking’ sense and not the useless texting or typing sense in which most people now interpret the word and it’s various cousins.