Here Comes the Judge

My day began at 6am, preparing for an 8am court date. I needed to budget time to drive the vast stretch of 55mph highway where I was awarded my speeding ticket a few weeks earlier. Cars zoomed past, drivers shot angry looks my way. I smiled, “May a similar fate befall you.”

Self-righteous, smug, empty inside, I trolled along.

I was pissed I needed to appear in court. They’d rejected a stunning letter I’d crafted in lieu of a hearing. Dear Sir or Madame, my opener, peppered with zingers like, if it please the court, for finesse. I indicated my willingness to accept responsibility, yet signaled open-mindedness towards paying court costs.

They wanted none of my verbal shenanigans. They wanted reckoning. Their flimsy postcard summons a mocking response to my heavy stock paper and matching envelope.

Reckon I would. I donned cowboy boots, wide leg sailor pants, a striped shirt and sweater vest. Possibly one of my better ideas. When I feel like shit, an unconventional outfit makes me feel like I’m still doing something right. The ability to pair odd patterns and textures soothes me.

The courtroom waiting area felt like a casting call for a reality show. There was a woman who, tragically, took styling cues from Hillary Clinton. She was outfitted in a deadly combination of pale pink blazer, black tapered pants, off-black pumps with a wilted leather rosette, and a red purse. Her face expressed tempered shock, she wanted to say, “I don’t belong here.”

An Indian-Brit sauntered around, his pug nose and superb color coordination giving him away. He wore light-brown check pants, slightly worn-in deep brown polo, argyle socks, and knock-off Prada driving loafers. He peered over wire-rimmed glasses at me. I began to unsubtly fiddle with my wedding ring to help him get a clue.

There was an attorney with a disastrous dye job, as if he had dipped the ends in black ink. He waved papers and flailed his briefcase around in an effort to evade the metal detector with his importance. Didn’t work. He rushed towards his client, alternating between talking loudly, then leaning closer to whisper strategy, as if their plan was to tackle the judge.

Then there was the impossibly sexy older foreigner. She may have been Eastern European judging by the spelling of her last name which the officer didn’t attempt to pronounce. Like our Hillary clone she carried a red purse, but it, along with her face said something different.

And who was I? The hesitant 20-something peering behind her bangs, branding each person with personal pre-judgement. She was thinking of something sad, staring out the skylight, holding back tears because that’s what she does when she’s alone.