BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Part 2 of 2…

Continued from: Yes Sir, Officer Obie…

When last we left off I had just received a driving award from the City of Saint Ann, Missouri, presented by Officer JellyDonut.

Now, something I need to point out. I hate driving. I consider it a nuisance. However, I also see it as a responsibility. Therefore, I am one of your safer individuals on the road. I realize everyone says that, but EKay and my friends are always insisting that I NOT drive on road trips because I actually obey the speed limit and it will take us too long to get where we are going. True story.

Therefore, I am hoping it won’t come as any surprise to you that this was only the second ticket I had ever received in my life, because… Well, to be honest, it’s the truth. I know, it kinda spoils my bad boy image, but what can I say? At any rate, that first citation had been for following too closely. I was awarded with that one in Perry County, Missouri, a notorious speed trap, while I was on my way to visit relatives in Fulton, Kentucky. That was 24 years ago this coming Christmas Day. In that particular case, while I was actually following someone who was showing me a different route I’d never taken before, I probably was following too closely and deserved the ticket, notorious speed trap or not.

So, here I was, just shy of 24 years later with a brand new driving award. I figured what the hell. Going to court to contest it will just eat up time, and an attorney is just going to cost a mess of money. I’ll just pay the fine and be done with it. Good plan, eh?

I thought so. The City of Saint Ann, however, did not… I called the court and asked about the fine. A very rude woman barked, “Court appearance only!” I wondered silently if she was perhaps Officer JellyDonut’s sister. I tried to explain that the officer had told me I could simply plead guilty and pay the fine, however, before I could finish the sentence she all but yelled, “Court Appearance Only!” and hung up in my ear.

Now I was convinced that she was related to Officer JellyDonut.

I contacted some of my cop buddies and asked them to look into it, which they did, but met with resistance themselves. I didn’t want them to “fix” the ticket. I just wanted to pay the fine and be done, but the City of Saint Ann wasn’t going to let that happen.

Therefore, I had no choice but to wait. Which I did. But, I won’t make you wait because it would be kind of boring…

December 1st finally rolled around and I had gathered my ammunition. I figured if I was going to court anyway I might as well contest the ticket. So, I had printed copies of the Missouri Vehicle Regulations as well as the Missouri Driver Guide, both of which stated the limit was five feet, not two. In addition I had my own personal measurements, but in order to back that up I also had the manufacturer’s detailed dimensions of the vehicle and cargo area, along with the length of the item in question, for which I could produce a dated and time stamped receipt if necessary. The math – length of item minus cargo area – fully supported my claim. The projection could not have been sticking out 5 feet 3 inches from the rear of my vehicle.

Now, I’ll be honest – I’ve never been to traffic court before, so I was a little nervous. I was about to do what I had been taught not to do – I was going to argue with a cop and a judge. But, hey… That’s sort of what court is for, right?

After researching procedure I determined that it would be best for me to arrive early, as the accused are taken in the order they show up. So, I put on some nice clothes, tucked my documentation into my pocket, and carried myself off to Municipal Traffic Court 30 minutes early.

Here was the problem. I was thirty minutes early based on the time Officer JellyDonut had given me. I had also called to verify the time and had been given same by Sister JellyDonut. Thing is, court had been in full swing for some time. Fortunately, I wasn’t late. I just wasn’t the first in line… In fact, I was damn near the last in line.

Nothing I could do about it now. I was in for the long haul. I stood in the line, waiting to go through the metal detector. When I made it to the head of that particular line I dumped my valuables into the tray, walked through, then waited as Officer Bewildered became intensely confused by the 2 GB flash drive in the tray. It took him a bit to decide that it wasn’t a high tech terrorist weapon and didn’t pose a threat to Municipal Security, whereupon I was finally allowed collect my belongings. I told him thank you, to which he appeared to become even more confused.

I entered the courtroom and found myself a seat among all of the other criminals, then proceeded to watch the Kangaroos in action.

Now, the reason this entry is title The Group W Bench is simple. That’s where I was sitting. Granted, I was on a hard metal chair that made my hemorrhoids ache, but for all intents and purposes it was the Group W Bench.

On my left was an older man who kept wobbling in his chair and muttering to himself. Throughout the three hours that followed he would hand me his AA coin and ask me to read it to him.

On my right was Pig Boy. That’s pretty much all I can think of to call him. I came up with that not because he was almost as big as Officer JellyDonut, which he was, but because he sat next to me grunting like a pig. In between grunts he would mutter commentary about each pending case in the front of the room. Well, I should be a bit more accurate, his commentary wasn’t so much about the cases per se, as it was about the women involved in them. Whenever the accused was male, he would just sit there and grunt. But, if a woman was up in front of the judge, the grunting accelerated and was punctuated by commentary. Unfortunately for me there was a bumper crop of women coming up before the judge that particular evening so my right ear – which is my good ear – was treated to grunty, under-the-breath observations like, “I’d fuck her…” “too old…” “Whore…” “Great ass…” and so on…

What’s worse, he was a straggler who came in after I did, which meant I had to endure him almost the whole night. What’s even worse than that is the fact that somehow or another he was called up a few folks before me. Figure that one out.

And so, for three hours I sat. Reading an AA coin to a man I didn’t know from Adam, while watching Officer JellyDonut – yes, he was there – act pissy toward men, but flirt with all the women. Hmmm… Maybe he was related to Pig Boy too…

I saw a woman get fined more than $150 for jaywalking, while the next case, who was some idiot who had been driving on a suspended license, was dismissed. I witnessed people having cuffs slapped on them and hauled out of the room, and I saw other wingnuts tell the judge they needed a continuance “just because”…

A pretty woman of African-American descent was called up before the judge at one point. She was wearing a sharp looking business suit, stylish leather jacket with matching handbag, and some high dollar heels. Seriously. She was probably wearing and/or carrying a $400 ensemble, easy, because they sure didn’t look like knockoffs to me. I don’t claim to be an expert, but I’ve shopped for the Evil One on a few occasions. At any rate, turns out she owed several hundred on tickets and failure to appear charges – but informed the judge she couldn’t afford it. If I was her I would have dressed down for court if that was going to be my story.

The major offenses of the evening seemed to be driving on suspended licenses, or without insurance. Those seemed to be the easy ones. Show a license or insurance card, the case would be dismissed save for the $25.50 court costs. There were a few folks who had unpaid tickets dating back to 2003. They were easy too. They just got themselves continuances. I think maybe my favorite was the woman who claimed to have had her license reinstated. They had her sit down while they ran her through the computer. She came back as suspended, AND with two outstanding arrest warrants. No big surprise there, I don’t guess. What was a bit of a shocker though was when the judge told her he would just ignore the arrest warrants and give her a continuance.

From the looks of things, I figured if I ever managed to get my minute or two in front of the judge, I should be in good shape because I was somewhere in the middle. I didn’t have a warrant out for my arrest, so he wasn’t going to just dismiss my case outright, but by the same token I hadn’t jaywalked, so the odds were against me being led out of the courtroom in handcuffs.

And so, I continued to sit and watch the circus, alternately reading an AA coin to a stranger, and listening to rude, sexually-oriented comments from another. Finally, after nearly three hours, my name was called – or, a vaguely recognizable facsimile thereof (which is another story in and of itself) and I stepped up before the judge.

“Good evening, sir,” I said.

In my hands I held paperwork. Literal proof by both law, manufacturer’s specs, and tape measure that I was innocent of the crime for which I had been unjustly accused. I had already planned – not rehearsed, mind you, but planned – that I would NOT be disrespectful to, or about, Officer JellyDonut, even though I believed him to be utterly incompetent (I still believe that, by the way.) I was simply going to write it off to everyone being fallible and the improper measurement being an honest mistake or perhaps a faulty measuring device.

However…

You saw that coming, right?

The judge looked at my file, mouth the words “reckless driving” with a look of absolute astonishment, then shook his head, rolled his eyes, pointed to a row of chairs and said, “Mister Sellens [sic] why don’t you sit down for a bit.”

At this point I figured I’d been moved to the Group X bench. I wasn’t quite sure what was up, but he proceeded to mumble with the city attorney (at least, that’s who I think the guy was) then a minute or two later said attorney came over to the corner of the desk and called me up. He proceeded to improperly paraphrase what the ticket said and asked if that is what I understood the charge to be. I said yes, though I explained that it was not an unsecured load as he had just stated, but a missing flag. He corrected himself. I then proceeded to explain that per state law the limit is 5 feet not 2. He indicated that they knew this, which was apparently why I was talking to him instead of the judge. However, my sheaf of paper with specs, circles, arrows, and paragraphs were to be of no use to me. When I began to explain that the measurement was inaccurate he told me that they were going to take Officer JellyDonut’s word on the measurement. It seemed that even though he was woefully misinformed about the traffic and vehicular laws he was supposed to be enforcing, they were going to trust him to operate a tape measure and actually know where the vehicle ended and highly technical things like that. I mean, after all, they let him carry a gun, right?

And so, I was not allowed to present my case. I suppose I could have been far more adamant, insisting that it be brought before the judge and that I be allowed to present irrefutable evidence that Officer JellyDonut was in error. However, it was almost 9 PM. I had memorized the AA coin and been listening to Pig Boy for three hours. It was hot, stuffy, smelly, and all around unpleasant in the room. I was tired, annoyed, and stressed. People had been and still were coughing, sneezing, and snotting all around me, including the judge who had been through an entire box of tissues already.

I just sighed.

The attorney guy looked at me and said, “We’re just going to make this into a $49.50 parking ticket plus $25.50 court costs. So, a $75.00 fine and you promise you’ll never do it again.”

I looked at Officer NoButt who was holding up his britches with one hand and guarding the court with the other. I heard someone start sneezing behind me.

“Sounds fine to me,” I said. “Thank you and have a wonderful evening.”

I paid my fine the next morning. The folks behind the counter were rude and sarcastic. I wished them a wonderful day nonetheless.

Saint Ann is now a part of my no-fly zone. For various reasons I will have no choice but to venture into their airspace from time to time, but unless it is absolutely necessary, I’ll get to Bridgeton via Berkley from here on out.

Yeah, okay… So, it didn’t turn out quite as funny as most of my other blogs, but hey, at least now you know the story…

More to come…

Murv

Part 1 of 2

We don’t have an Alice’s Restaurant here in town. I wish we did… Then I could write a song about my little story here and be famous like Arlo Guthrie. But alas, we don’t, so no Thanksgiving Dinner that can’t be beat for me… Well, that’s not actually true, but the person who generally prepares it is named Liz… Or, every other year, me… Just not Alice… I did actually know an Alice once, but she never cooked for me, so I don’t think she counts…

Either way, once upon a time we had a place called Charlie’s. Served the best biscuits and gravy this side of the Mississippi, outside of homemade of course. But, unfortunately, Charlie’s is long gone. I think a plumbing outfit is in that spot now (see footnote)…

But, I’m getting off the subject, as usual…

If you’ve been following me on Twitter, or happen to be a Facebook friend, you’ve more than likely noticed my recent tweets / status updates lamenting the fact that I recently had to deal with a bogus traffic ticket.

And, that’s the subject I am going to focus on here…

You see, this blog entry is all about Adventures In Night Court… Not the old Night Court with Harry Anderson… After all, Anderson and Larroquette were a riot, and Markie Post… Well… Let’s just say she made the screen a whole lot of fun to look at in addition to being funny.

No, the Night Court I’m talking about wasn’t funny. It was an annoying waste of 3 hours for me. Of course, it probably will be funny once I get done writing about it, because I am going to endeavor to tell you about the weird that went on during my 180 minutes in close proximity to Hell. But, as usual, that remains to be seen. Guess I’ll just have to start writing and see what happens…

Now, to properly grasp the reason I visited Hell’s waiting room – also know as the City of Saint Ann Municipal Court – we have to start at the beginning. Wouldn’t you know it, the beginning involves Hell House… Please note, that the name of the city has NOT been changed, because very simply the citation is a matter of public record… And, in that public record is the City of Saint Ann Missouri’s side of the story. Not mine. Therefore, here you have my side, being made a matter of public record as well. I did, however, change the names of individuals involved just because I’m a nice guy. The real names are a matter of public record too, but I really doubt any of you will go look them up.

And, also for that record I’m sure you will note that my story is flip and punctuated with observational satire.  Otherwise this would just be me griping about getting a ticket… However, since the officer involved elected to try his hand at writing fiction I thought I’d try my hand at writing reality. I just figure I’ll make it funny so it’s worth reading…

To make a long story short, back in early October Scuba and I ventured off to “The Depot,” better known as “Home Depot,” in order to obtain some materials necessary to the completion of a project or two over at Hell House.  One of these items was a long section of wire rack shelving for a closet. We put it into the bed of my truck, along with the other materials, then secured it firmly in the center, jutting out at an upward angle so as to not present a hazard to other motorists. It was long, and it hung over the rear of the vehicle, as one would expect. We looked around for flag material, but found none (I forgot that I had a plastic, orange emergency flag under the seat in the cab, but we’ll get to that in a bit…)

So, we couldn’t find a flag, however, in the state of Missouri, per Missouri Vehicle Regulations, revised statutes (August 28, 2009) section 307.170 item 5 – Projections on vehicles:

All vehicles carrying poles or other objects, which project more than five feet from the rear of such vehicle, shall, during the period when lights are required by this chapter, carry a red light at or near the rear end of the pole or other object so projecting. At other times a red flag or cloth, not less than sixteen inches square, shall be displayed at the end of such projection.

The piece of shelving projected 4 feet 10 1/2 inches from the back of the truck. We knew it would be prudent to have a flag, however, we also knew full well that we were still perfectly legal, not to mention the oblique positioning of the item rendered it harmless to all around us (except perhaps extremely low flying aircraft… and I mean EXTREMELY LOW.) Furthermore, if one employed the Pythagorean Theorem, the actual end of the item was only projecting 4 feet 7 inches from the rear of the vehicle as measured parallel to the cargo box.  The point here being that while we were close to the limit, we were still legal, so off we went.

Just over two miles down the road – and oddly enough, just over two miles from our destination – flashy red lights appeared in my rear view mirror. The thing is, I had seen the police car traveling alongside us. I had watched him drift back and slide in behind us. I even told Scuba, “This cop is getting ready to pull us over.”

Officer JellyDonut, though I didn’t know his name at that particular moment, proceeded to follow along behind for several blocks. I began to wonder if perhaps I was wrong, because if he was going to pull me over he had plenty of opportunities to do so safely and with room for us to pull off the road. But alas, no, he elected to make the traffic stop. But, for some unknown reason he waited until I entered an intersection. He stopped at the white line, because as I entered the intersection the green light flipped over to yellow. In my rear view I saw him come to a halt. Then, as the light was going from yellow to red, he lit up his light bar and sped into the intersection to chase me down – what with me being a hardened criminal trying to make an escape and such.

Doing as one should do, I pulled over, immediately turning onto a side street so as to be out of traffic. I parked, shut off my vehicle, removed the keys from the ignition and placed them on the dash. I then extracted my license from my wallet, as well as my registration and insurance card, placing them on the dash as well. Then rolled down my window, and waited patiently with my hands in plain sight.

Officer JellyDonut extracted himself from his cruiser. And kept extracting himself from his cruiser… And kept extracting himself from his cruiser…

Eventually, when he had gathered himself and hitched his belt up underneath a belly that Santa Claus would have endeavored to reduce, he lumbered the 35 feet or so from his vehicle to mine. This took a good minute and a half if not longer. When he arrived at my window he was huffing and puffing as if he had just chased us on foot. To be honest, I wasn’t feeling particularly confident in his ability to protect and serve should the need truly arise.

I was immediately given the impression that he was angry with me for making him get out of his car, because the first words from his mouth (once he caught his breath) were, “Where’s your flag!”

“We don’t have one,” I replied.

“Why not?” he barked.

Scuba piped up. “We don’t actually need one, and we’re just going up the road.”

“That’s more than two feet!” the officer announced in a very agitated voice. “You have to have a flag on anything more than two feet.”

Now we knew we were screwed. Number one, we had ourselves a cop who either didn’t know the law or was making it up on the fly because he figured he could. Number two, we had a pissed off cop – probably because we interrupted his lunch, but that’s just speculation on my part – and when you have a pissed off cop you can’t even reason with them. Even my cop friends will tell you that. My only hope at this point would have been to distract him with a dozen donuts, but I didn’t have any on hand.

Besides, I was taught that you don’t argue with a police officer. Enough said.

At this point, although I had been more than cooperative as well as appropriately respectful and polite, Officer JellyDonut proceeded to announce in no uncertain terms, “I’m writing you a ticket! Give me your license and insurance card!”

By the way, the exclamation points punctuating the officer’s dialogue aren’t just there to end the sentences. Everything with him was an angry declaration.

Knowing that discussion was out of the question and that arguing would only serve to get me a pair of bracelets of the type I am only good with if E K is the one applying them, I kept my mouth shut other than to say, “Yes, sir,” which is pretty much what I had been doing all along except when other words were necessary due to a direct question. Each of those sentences, however, always ended with, “sir.”

After the arduous huffing and puffing 35 foot trek back to his vehicle, the officer piddled about calling in my license to make sure I wasn’t a hardened criminal who had gone around putting envelopes underneath piles of garbage. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about that. It’s part of the job and necessary – remember, I write books about cops and portray them as the good guys. I know what they are up against. I like cops. Some of my best friends are cops (hey, I couldn’t resist that last one)… However, there’s a bad apple in every bunch, whether it be rotten to the core or simply bruised and mushy. It seemed to me that what we had happened upon on this particular day was an entire barrel in and of itself that wasn’t even good enough for making cider.

So, on with the story. Unfortunately for Officer JellyDonut, he had not captured the Kowalski* of Saint Louis. I say unfortunately because this seemed to agitate him even more. He got out of his car, and got out of his car, and got out of his car (you get the idea) then rummaged about for several minutes in his trunk. Eventually he came to the back of my truck with a tape measure the size one might find in my wife’s purse – i.e. pretty small (make all the jokes you want she doesn’t use it for measuring that.)

Officer JellyDonut then proceeded to huff and puff around the back of my truck, bending the measuring tape, slapping it around, dropping it, wrapping it around things, and generally re-enacting a scene from a Three Stooges short.  With Curly or Shemp. Not Joe, although Joe had is good points.

But, moving right along…

Scuba and I watched the officer as he measured from several inches inside the cargo bed of my truck (as opposed to the actual rear of the vehicle  from whence the measurement was supposed to be made) to the far end of the piece of shelving, all while a nice, arcing droop fell along the middle of the tape. At one point Scuba even remarked, “Do you think I should go out there and offer to hold the stupid end for him?” (the stupid end, in case you haven’t already figured it out, is the start of the tape, as in end that doesn’t require reading.)

After several more minutes of huffing and puffing I was finally presented with a traffic citation to sign, which stated I was being charged with – “Reckless driving due to not having a flag on a load that extended more than 2 feet beyond the rear of the vehicle.” It also included the wholly inaccurate measurement of 5 feet 3 inches. Please make note – Per Officer JellyDonut himself, I wasn’t operating the vehicle in a reckless fashion other than the whole not having a flag thing, which legally I was not required to have in the first place.

Officer JellyDonut informed me that I had a court date of December 1st, but that if I wished to plead guilty I could just go by the City Hall any time before that and pay the fine. He then started the long trek back to his vehicle, whereupon I annoyed him even more by calling after him and asking for a copy of the citation, to which he replied – after staring at me for several seconds as if I was some sort of alien with three heads – “Yeah, I guess.”

Yeah, I guess? I can’t be positive about this but I’m pretty sure they are supposed to give you a copy of the ticket… But, I digress yet again…

It was about this time I remembered the emergency flag underneath my seat. I asked him if that would suffice to which he replied, “Maybe.” We won’t even go into his strongly implied threat that I might very well be pulled over again because the flag was safety orange instead of red.

Scuba and I attached the orange plastic to the load and climbed back into the truck to head on our way. I watched in the rear view as  Officer JellyDonut made a swift turn into the Burger King across from which we had been parked.

I guess with all that hiking and measuring he had worked up an appetite, and it was time for something that didn’t involve jelly, icing, or glaze…

More to come…

Murv

To be continued in Part 2: The Group W Bench…

Footnote: A little bit of trivia, just for the hell of it: Charlie’s, the Eat-Rite Diner (another Saint Louis institution), and a little mother-daughter run place in small town Michigan called “The Spot” were the combined inspiration for “Charlie’s Eats,” the diner frequented by Ben and Rowan in the RGI novels.

* Kowalski is the name of the main character in a cult classic movie titled, Vanishing Point. The character drives cars for a company and… well, either follow the link in the body above for a full synopsis, or watch the movie. I highly recommend option 2, but watch the 1971 original, not the remake.