I Saw The Sign

Song: John Darnielle Does Ace of Base- via Patton Oswalt on FB

Ace of Base- I Saw The Sign- official song

There are three prosecutors standing at evenly spaced podiums in the front of the courtroom.  The courtroom, which reminds me of a small chapel with lots of pews and no cross,  is packed with myself and other ne'er-do-wells.  Seems I "failed to answer" a ticket I got for an "unregistered vehicle" in "October" "2012" it is "April" "2013".  The ticket is a wallet draining $285.00.

Monday, I received the letter that my license would be suspended in three weeks if I didn't respond this time.  Thing is I did respond the first time.  I wrote a letter, sent photos- the whole shebang.  Look where it got me...threatened and on the phone with a clerk with a mouth on her who told me to "come to court right now- don't wear your pajamas." Um, okay. The first part I can do, the second? I'll try.  I mean seriously.  Don't wear your pajamas?  I was so irritated.

So, there are three prosecutors standing at podiums; two shorties, and one tall guy.  They call names off of the drivers licenses in the order they are received and you go up and plead your case when they get to yours.

"Susan Saraf." The tall prosecutor calls my name.

I walk up and don't mind that he's the tallest and has the most hair.  I do mind that his energy feels intimidating.  Maybe it was the label "prosecutor".

"So where's the registration?" he asks.

"Yes, um, well, I couldn't find it in the glove compartment so I took a picture of the one on the windshield."  I stammer.  Hoping to pass.

"Only problem with that is I won't be able to see the date it was issued."

"Yes, you will." I say, confidently. I know this because I looked when I took the photo! Score for the defense!

"Okay, show me." he says.

I boot up my phone (no cell phones in court).  He's very serious.  This makes me nervous.  It takes a lot longer than I want it to. My hands don't work well under pressure.  Eventually, (30 seconds?) I hand him the picture.  He looks at it and asks me to read the date that the registration was issued.

"February 23, 2014. See?" I point to the date on the photo of the registration smiling.  Told ya.

"Yeah, that date didn't happen yet."  he says.  Looking somewhat disgusted by my being an idiot or resigned that I'm just like every other person he will see today.

"Oh, ha. Right." Oops.

He doesn't raise his head or make eye contact for the remainder of the "hearing."

"Okay, so you got the ticket in October, let's say you waited four months to get the car registered after that."

"I have a REALLY bad memory for this stuff," I admit. "I don't know."

"Okay, well, it wasn't registered when you got  the ticket right?"

"Right, no."

"Okay, so let's leave it at that," he says, cheerfully.

"Leave it at what?" I ask.

"You want a reduced fine?"

"Well, yes. Yes." I say.

"Okay, I'll knock off a hundred bucks," he says.

He writes 150 x 30 on the ticket.  Below that he write 180.

I'm ho-hum.  I'm not psyched. $180 still stinks.  It's steep but not a suspension.  And I have no idea what the "x30" means.  But...I'm not asking for more since he pointed out that I waited four months and he's tough.  I can tell he's tough.

This is where a normal person would walk away. But I've become interested in a tiny gold angel he has pinned to his lapel.  Defeated during the line of questioning,  my attention was drawn to the angel more than once.  I wondered if he pinned it on a different suit everyday or wore this jacket everyday and it had become part of it, like a pocket.  In the otherwise immaculate presentation of his dress, there was a bit of fraying around the spot.

"Who's your angel?" I ask him, looking at his lapel.

"Huh?" he asks.

He looks at my face for the first time since he realized I didn't know what year it was.

"Who's your angel on your pin?"

"Oh," he is caught off guard, emotion floods his face. He shakes his head dismissively. "A, uh, a deceased family member."

His eyes hit the podium and he is again done looking at me.  I nod in sympathy.  I can feel his emotion.  I feel sad for his loss.  I think I feel the angel is in the space between us.

He takes his pen and makes the 1 of the 150 into a dollar sign by drawing an S over it.  $50.
Then he crosses out the unregistered vehicle charge and writes in new letters and numbers- I later find out from the judge that meant he reduced my charge to Jay Walking and lifted the suspension.  The x30 is a standard unrelated court fee everyone must pay as soon as they enter a case.  Not bad.  Now I'm sure I felt the angel in the space between us!

When I told my mom she said, you are so lucky. When I told my mother in-law, she said, you are so good (sly).  When I told my husband he said, you saved $235 bucks!  But I kinda think they (sorry!) missed the point.   I was done negotiating.  It was the angel.  I would love to be lucky (does a lucky person end up in court?) I would love to be sly (does sly forget to bring the registration?) and I would love to have saved us $235. (I hate to point out that I actually lost us $50.)  If you don't believe in angels...there felt a deeper instruction about noticing something about someone else and being moved to acknowledge no matter the circumstances.  What happened after I noticed the angel was awesome- don't get me wrong.  That it moved him to absolve a huge chunk of fee's and my suspension.  I absolutely loved and needed that.  I doubt I'd be telling this story if he didn't do that.  But, I believe the angel was there with us.  Maybe that makes people want to puke.  There are better people for the job of writing about that presence,  but of all my stories this week I thought that was the most fun to share.

I never found out his name or the name of his angel,  his face closed up like cement over a sink hole immediately following,  but I'm glad I asked (on many levels) and I'm guessing he was too.  God bless our sweet angels all around us. May they all reduce your fees and lift your suspension. <3

Expresh Yourshelf!

Song: I Love It- Icona Pop

Photo by Melanie Springer <3

   

 We are on the beach. It’s close to five o’clock, my favorite place is the beach before sunset.  Presently, my favorite place is the beach before sunset with Colbert, my seven year old son. The ocean is gently rolling up and out just a foot or so from his feet. His legs are curled underneath him as he crouches in the sand.  I am lying on a lounge chair facing the Atlantic ocean in Mexico, he is facing me.  The sun has brought out his freckles.  They are so cute across his nose.  He is more spectacular than the sea.  The sand is the color of the pads of his small feet.  He looks around, he is about to tell me a secret.  He draws an arrow in the sand- points it at me.  

“I want to write something, Mama,” he says, looking over his shoulder at the couple wading in the shallow water behind him.  His face looks as if he is bracing for trouble. 

“Write it,” I say. 

He stares at me, narrowing his eyes, indicating the people,  don’t you get it? 

“Write whatever you want, it’s just sand, it’ll wash away.” 

“But they’ll see it,” he says, you don’t get it. 

“Who cares?” I ask. 

“What if they don’t like it?” he asks. 

“Do you like it?” I ask. 

He nods. 

“Why is what they think more important than what you think?” I ask.  I wonder,  Did I do this?  Did I shatter his confidence somewhere back when? Or is this the process? At some point sooner or later we become conscious and then terrified of being judged.  It feels sad that his sooner is at seven.  

He shrugs, that’s true, I guess.  

He takes both hands, little fingers draw out a heart, next to that he makes the letter “I”, he dots the i. 

“It’s pointing at you, Mama,” he says, do you get it?

I do.  

        "I love it." 

       The couple is walking through the water now, toward us.  HIs whole body tenses.  He locks his big brown eyes on me-paralyzed by fear- what do I do? Just leave it, Bruss.  He shakes his head no.   Quickly, he rubs the words out, leaving only the arrow.  The pointed arrow doesn't carry shame. 

A memory comes of when he was almost two years old.  I had gotten a delicate gold chain for a pendant I wanted to wear as a necklace.  We did everything together then.  It was just the two of us throughout the week.  Danny went to work and we spent the days together. 

“Say bye to Daddio,” I’d say, looking out the window.  “Bye-bye, see you soon!”   

“Ba-ba she you shoon!” Colbert would repeat.  Everything was “sh”.  Shunny, outshide, she ya. Shometimes-sh. 

Nothing was ever serious-we played.  He was a big sleeper, I liked that.  He napped, I napped, he ate, I ate, we got in the car, we got out of the car, we hugged and snuggled and I loved that little boy.  All of every day.  If this was parenting I didn't see the problem. 

I called him Brussel, as in brussel sprout.  I don’t know why that particular word came to be his moniker.  I barely like the bitter green vegetable and he is amongst the greatest loves of my life-no equivocation there-but the word came out of my mouth and I felt so much love for him at the same time, it happened again. And again and he became my little brussel sprout. L’il Bruss.  Brush.  Once, we were in a store and he was running through the racks of clothes and I was calling him, “Bruss, Brussel, come here.” The sales girl said “Is that his name? Russel?” 

     So, we are standing in the driveway and he swipes the jewelry box out of my hand.  I grab for it and he runs away from me.  I chase him and call to him to stop and he won’t.  When I get my hands on him, he spins out of my grasp and he’s laughing and squealing and having a blast, he has taken the gold chain out of the box and is swinging it now.  Chasing him is making it more fun - for him.  I’ll stand still.  He stops, flaunting himself, his expectant face asking me to chase again.  

     "No, Colbert. Give me the necklace."

     “Hahha!” he laughs, “Nnnno!” 

     “Colbert. Stop.” 

     “Shtop!” he says, jumping toward me and then spinning around quickly, looking over his shoulder for me to chase him. 

    “Colbert!” I call his name loud and firm.  

      I’m going to make him listen. I’m going to have a child who listens.  Suddenly I have a flash that he will become this out of control kid - always in trouble and it will be my fault for letting him run wild.  I take him by the arms to still him and with angry face I tell him “Stop.”  There is a break in his expression, in his trust.  A tremble in his lips.  I see for the first time, fear in his eyes.  He is confused and scared. I am too. “Oh no, baby, I, it’s okay, I love you, I’m sorry.”  I hold him to me.  But he doesn’t cuddle in.  His body won’t relax.  He’s afraid of me.  It was only a game to him, of course it was, at two, everything’s a game.  I wanted to control him.  I got what I wanted.  He was never the same.  Or maybe I wasn’t. 

After he erases the words in the sand we take a walk on the beach.  We walk in the water and talk over the breeze.   It’s a great little beach, the water is shallow and clear for half a mile out, it’s almost an inlet-it curves around.  We are walking beside mangrove trees,

The lighthouse

toward a lighthouse.  It has red and white stripes.  The stairs winding around it are rusted.  On our way the sand is spotted with pumice stones and gold colored seaweed, the remains of a fish left by a pelican.  There is a boat, that looks as if it were swept to shore- shipwrecked- but probably it is staged by the resort.  It’s the size of a canoe and has a rusty burned out motor inside it’s shell. Someone has written SOS in front of it in the sand. 

“Look, Mama!” Colbert says. 

“Cool,” I say. “Aren’t you glad the person left their writing? You don’t think anything mean about it do you?” 

“No,” he says, “Not at all.” 

“What you wrote in the sand was cool like that.” I say.   

     

We get into a bit of story about the signal “SOS”.  The wind has really picked up and we decide to walk back.  

“Mama?” Colbert asks.  “Was I as cute as Henry?” 

Henry is almost two.  Strong arming him is unthinkable.  

“Yesh, Brushel, ” I say.  "Still, the cutest little Bruss." 

Oh, on the plane I saw this woman carrying this cool bag- I'm always the last to know- but just in case you are...check it out...so cute and funny.  XX
http://amypiehoneybunch.buzznet.com/user/journal/12243921/canvas-birkin-bag-luxury-discount/