August 11, 2004 - Donnelly:1, Officer 1420:nothing!!
At the tender age of 26 I decided that it was high god damned time I got my driver's license. It's not that I was hell bent on joining the adult world or protesting Critical Mass or anything, I just figured that it might be a useful thing to have so that I could do some of the driving on long road trips or balance my karma for all the rides I had cadged from friends in the past. Also, we'd bought a car and I realized that, out of self-defense, it might be a good idea to take over driving duty from The Husband. (He's not a bad driver, per se, but he is an angry driver). Well, as luck would have it, one fateful April evening I was practicing my driving directly in front of a police officer (luckily for me I actually had a licensed driver with me at the time). My lesson that evening was "Turning onto the most confusing street in the City (Market) at the weirdest intersection you can find (Page St.)." The lesson was going pretty well in that I was properly flustered, sort of lost, and totally baffled. I noticed the police officer behind me, and, as instructed by the California Driver's Handbook, I immediately launched into my favorite cop joke for the benefit of my passenger. Sadly, while reaching the punchline, I noticed that the lane I think I was supposed to end up in was backed up for several blocks, and so I turned into a different lane. The wrong lane. The bus lane, as I was informed by a sign half a block further along. Naturally, there is no getting out of the bus lane once you are in it; solid lines, traffic and concrete bus stop islands conspire to keep you there, sandwiched between the two cops in front of you and the one cop behind you. So, I was pulled over (he made me pull over in front of a hydrant - I was pretty sure he was going to give me a second ticket for that). He gave me a ticket, but only after asking how old I was several times (apparently he doesn't get many 26 yr old first time drivers), told repeatedly that the signs were printed in English, and informed that police officers are the "opposite of Muni and that's why they are using the bus lane."
Today was my court date to contest this. I planned on contesting on the grounds that I am the ONLY PERSON IN THE ENTIRE FUCKING CITY to have ever gotten this particular ticket. I got to the court after a sleepless night filled with mental replays of choice scenes from The Wall, Fargo, and Office Space ("I hereby sentence you to life in a Federal Fuck Me in the Ass Prison" for impersonating a bus). I wore large boots with a great deal of metal on them, out of habit more than anything else, and had to take them off for the very bored guard who didn't even glance into my HUGE (and often knife-harboring) handbag. Thoughts of violent uprising and a general Traffic Offenders Glorious Revolution went through my head before I realized that I had removed from my bag anything more dangerous than a particularly smoking hot red lipstick. Dauntless, I went upstairs and sat in mute and uncomfortable silence with all the other hapless motorists awaiting our doom at the callous hands of Dept A's uncaring vehicular justice. The doors opened, we filed sheepishly in, each wavering between righteous indignation that we, brave and noble warriors of these San Francisco streets who daily battle cabs, bicyclists and and the vile Dark Army of Meter Maids, should have been singled out, and embarrassed chagrin at the thought of being dressed-down in front of these strangers for having been foolish enough to commit our acts of automotive audacity directly in the view of police officers. I continued mentally rehearsing my impassioned speech of protestation (I am pretty sure I would have been nominated for an Academy for Best Actress in a Traffic Court), and hoping that the judge wouldn't summarily send me up the river as an example to other's who might have the temerity, the downright gall, to show up in his courtroom with blue hair. The bailiff called some names to the back of the room to receive their information (a laminated card telling you how to address the judge [Your Honor and Sir are okay, but Darling and Pooky-Britches are frowned on]). I stewed, I sweated, I quietly panicked....and I wasn't called. He announced that another clerk would call everyone else to the front of the room. I quickly checked to make sure there was no dunce cap and stool reserved for to display the shame of those of us who had committed only the truly stupid crimes, and was relieved to not see one. The next person called had her case dismissed. Hope rose. The next, and the one after that, were also dismissed. Hope surged! VICTORY!!! I was also dismissed!!!!!! Boo-yah, officer-number-1420-whose-signature-is-so-unclear-I-can't-decipher-your-name (unless it really is "Tur KL"), Boo-yah! Of course, the clerk couldn't find my damn paper and I had to wait for an additional 10 minutes while he searched, and searched and searched for it. That interval did serve to give the guy in row three the chance he'd been waiting for, though. Unable to resist my blue-haired, bus-lane defying charms, and apparently unable to see the wedding ring I'd been pointedly aiming at him since I caught him staring at my ass on the way into the room, he sidled over all ninja-like and asked to take me out to coffee. I told him my husband wouldn't like that. I wanted to tell him that I wouldn't like it much either, but I'm a nice girl and hate to give offense (or tempt fate with rudeness when my paperwork still hadn't been found and the fickle gods of chance might still trap me into staying in the court with the row three speeding ticket guy). After several more minutes of the clerk shuffling paper and the speeder staring at the back of my head, I was finally free! Free at last, free at last!
I like to imagine that the judge reacted to my ticket the same way every other person who has heard about it has. I picture his look of disbelief, a furrowing of the brow and a puzzled, "You can get a ticket for that?" Then, perhaps a good-natured laugh at my expense before graciously dismissing the case. Thank you, thank you, you wonderful man I never had to meet, thank you! I shall now retire to play "I Fought the Law and I Won" very loudly and dance the dance of "No Points on My New Driving Record."
Today was my court date to contest this. I planned on contesting on the grounds that I am the ONLY PERSON IN THE ENTIRE FUCKING CITY to have ever gotten this particular ticket. I got to the court after a sleepless night filled with mental replays of choice scenes from The Wall, Fargo, and Office Space ("I hereby sentence you to life in a Federal Fuck Me in the Ass Prison" for impersonating a bus). I wore large boots with a great deal of metal on them, out of habit more than anything else, and had to take them off for the very bored guard who didn't even glance into my HUGE (and often knife-harboring) handbag. Thoughts of violent uprising and a general Traffic Offenders Glorious Revolution went through my head before I realized that I had removed from my bag anything more dangerous than a particularly smoking hot red lipstick. Dauntless, I went upstairs and sat in mute and uncomfortable silence with all the other hapless motorists awaiting our doom at the callous hands of Dept A's uncaring vehicular justice. The doors opened, we filed sheepishly in, each wavering between righteous indignation that we, brave and noble warriors of these San Francisco streets who daily battle cabs, bicyclists and and the vile Dark Army of Meter Maids, should have been singled out, and embarrassed chagrin at the thought of being dressed-down in front of these strangers for having been foolish enough to commit our acts of automotive audacity directly in the view of police officers. I continued mentally rehearsing my impassioned speech of protestation (I am pretty sure I would have been nominated for an Academy for Best Actress in a Traffic Court), and hoping that the judge wouldn't summarily send me up the river as an example to other's who might have the temerity, the downright gall, to show up in his courtroom with blue hair. The bailiff called some names to the back of the room to receive their information (a laminated card telling you how to address the judge [Your Honor and Sir are okay, but Darling and Pooky-Britches are frowned on]). I stewed, I sweated, I quietly panicked....and I wasn't called. He announced that another clerk would call everyone else to the front of the room. I quickly checked to make sure there was no dunce cap and stool reserved for to display the shame of those of us who had committed only the truly stupid crimes, and was relieved to not see one. The next person called had her case dismissed. Hope rose. The next, and the one after that, were also dismissed. Hope surged! VICTORY!!! I was also dismissed!!!!!! Boo-yah, officer-number-1420-whose-signature-is-so-unclear-I-can't-decipher-your-name (unless it really is "Tur KL"), Boo-yah! Of course, the clerk couldn't find my damn paper and I had to wait for an additional 10 minutes while he searched, and searched and searched for it. That interval did serve to give the guy in row three the chance he'd been waiting for, though. Unable to resist my blue-haired, bus-lane defying charms, and apparently unable to see the wedding ring I'd been pointedly aiming at him since I caught him staring at my ass on the way into the room, he sidled over all ninja-like and asked to take me out to coffee. I told him my husband wouldn't like that. I wanted to tell him that I wouldn't like it much either, but I'm a nice girl and hate to give offense (or tempt fate with rudeness when my paperwork still hadn't been found and the fickle gods of chance might still trap me into staying in the court with the row three speeding ticket guy). After several more minutes of the clerk shuffling paper and the speeder staring at the back of my head, I was finally free! Free at last, free at last!
I like to imagine that the judge reacted to my ticket the same way every other person who has heard about it has. I picture his look of disbelief, a furrowing of the brow and a puzzled, "You can get a ticket for that?" Then, perhaps a good-natured laugh at my expense before graciously dismissing the case. Thank you, thank you, you wonderful man I never had to meet, thank you! I shall now retire to play "I Fought the Law and I Won" very loudly and dance the dance of "No Points on My New Driving Record."
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