Nearly two years ago, I was sitting in Fort Tryon Park in Northern Manhattan, spilling my heart out about a then recent break up to a good friend after midnight when we were approached by two officers who shown flashlights into the vehicle clearly searching for signs of drinking, smoking or fornicating - none of which were taking place.
We were promptly issued two pink carbon copied summonses for being in the park after dark having a conversation in our thirties - which, until that moment, I had not realized was a crime.
That flimsy summons sat, neatly folded and patient, in my wallet until recently, when I decided to handle my business, head to 346 Broadway in downtown Manhattan to take in the sights and sounds of the criminal courthouse whilst extinguishing my shady criminal past. Knowing full well what experiences at places like the DMV and Post Office are like I thought I knew what I was in for - little did I know what I was in for was a reality show waiting to happen.
After ascending the majestic marble staircase I was deposited into a long line, flanked by nylon ropes and created entirely of young men and old foreigners in various shades of brown. Quite used to being the only vanilla face in a room of chocolate, this felt different. This felt intentional. This felt wrong.
After getting dinged to window 5, I was met by a smile-less face who took my pink sheet of paper and exchanged it for a sheet orange copy paper instructions with a place for me to sign, signifying my understanding that I was now to move on to court room #2 for my hearing. The thought of having a hearing seemed preposterous, but it was too late to turn back now, so down the lifeless hall I moved in a building so full of youthful testosterone that I fear I may have fallen pregnant. With neon pink papers to the left and bright orange papers to the right I used my well honed life skills to decipher my destination and took a seat under the fluorescent lights on the hard wooden benches to, with no direction from the gaggle of state employees doing their best impressions of functioning adults,wait.
It was during this seeming endless wait time that I was able to do what I do best - observe, and judge. There were so many questions, and no one from whom I could seek answers. For example, is it a requirement to score higher on the BMI chart than the IQ spectrum to become an employee on the state level and, if are you expected to look like a children's book character, as Ms. Frizzle and Humpty Dumpty in a Men's Warehouse castoffs seem to be playing the roles of Public Defenders. Apparently John Larroquette and Markie Post were unavailable for consultation no matter how much I willed them into existence. Needless to say, if I had actually committed any sort of crime I would not have felt so secure.
With the strict enforcement of no cell phones in the courtroom I was forced to make friends and did so quickly with the man behind me who went simply by Mr. Petersen and who immediately spotted me as a newbie and was kind enough to show me the ropes. After guessing at my offense as being an open container (maybe container of gummy bears) Mr. Petersen was quickly called to the front, stood respectfully with his hands behind his back and posture at attention, and just as quickly was dismissed. While witnessing this show or respect and reverence I made a note to self to exercise my freedom of douchbaggery and to channel my not so inner teenager and stand in any damn manner I saw fit - showing no respect for this mockery of the justice system.
Evidently shortly after Mr. Petersen departed it was time for an impromptu recess in which the geriatric judge and some unidentified woman with a Billy Jean King haircut chatted about, what I can only image is senior sexual dysfunction and post-menopausal lubricant. The three bailiffs, none resembling Bull, deemed it appropriate to pretend that they worked for a living a good 20 minutes or so later and I was called to the front where I did my best impression of angsty Angela Chase and was read the riot act - and by riot act I mean the PD sweated profusely beside me before having to repeat the judges declaration in order for me to properly hear that I was now discouraged from entering any parks after dark. I think I literally saw them ball up my paperwork and toss it into the bin as I had my proverbial wrist slapped while exhaustively rolling my eyes and making the most dramatic and sarcastic exit I could muster.
While descending those stairs I boldly climbed not 2 hours before, I realized that not only was this the worst Night Court live action play I had ever seen, but this had been funded by me - the tax paying citizen. It may be a sign that you're a full fledged adult when not only do you make complaints, but do so based on where you're hard-earned tax dollars are being funneled.
Having had my brush with the law I learned my lesson. Never ever will I go out after dark without the written permissions of some authority figure in my life ( I am 32!) and though I may trust in 'God' I most certainly scoff at bureaucracy.
