Like the very best of relationships, my friendship with fellow convict starts with a confession.
“So what are you in here for?”
“Speeding ticket.”
“Me too.”
“But I’m pleading not guilty.”
“You can do that? I thought…the radar gun doesn’t lie.”
“Okay, so I’ll plead guilty with a very good reason. I think it should reduce my fine.”
Got me thinking. Maybe I should rethink my guilty plea too and see if I can get fewer points on my license. After forty-five minutes of waiting for the Judge to show up, come to find out, my bench neighbor is one heck of a story teller. The time flies as we bounce story after story off each other. My kind of tennis. And learn about each other’s marriages, kids, vacations, past run-ins with the cops, and a few others. Where’s my tape recorder [Hello? Dating myself. Do those even exist anymore?] – when I need one?
We quiet down when Your Honor arrives, and we rise and sit. Just like on T.V. Then they start calling names. The charged with lawyers get first dibs; yes, we will be here for a while. So I resort to writing my new friend a note. Because I am falling asleep.
“They all need to watch Law and Order. Spice things up a little.”
She nudges me to look up. A guy with handcuffs surrounded by three court marshals takes the stand. Okay. Now things are getting interesting. But I can’t hear a thing they say. And he’s lead away. Handcuffs still on. Hmmm.
“Rajdeep.”
I rise.
“Singh.”
I sit down.
What are the chances that another person has the same first name? Especially when you have a name like Rajdeep? Only in New York. Or India. Of course.
When they start to read the traffic violations aloud, they go in alphabetical order. Text the hubby to pick up our four year old from pre-school. I have no idea how long before they get to the letter “P.” When I do hear my full name called, I say, “Here,” plead not guilty and proceed to the outer room, where you are given under two minutes to convince a lawyer of your sob story. While waiting, my eyes spot something.
I’m staring at an art piece on the wall in front of me that instantly moves me. I reread the words above the picture of the 9/11 rubble with a firefighter standing atop the heap, holding an American Flag. The title reads, “Without Hesitation.” Below the picture, in the same large black font, the words “In God’s Service” run across my eyes. Wow. Ten years later, my throat tightens as if it happened an hour ago.
“Hey. Glad I found you.” I am startled out of my thoughts when my jailbird buddy plops down next to me. Phase two of waiting. I point out the picture and we both just stare at it for a few minutes silently.
Until she shares another story. “My brother-in-law, a fire fighter, once fell through two entire floors of a building during a call. Got hurt real bad. How do you handle being married to someone when you don’t know if they’re coming home each night?”
We talk about our views on marriage and I nearly pee in my pants when she iterates my marriage mantra. “You have to work at it.” I like to call it the “Willing to work at it” factor and tell my non-married friends to keep that at the top of their lists when they’re looking for a life partner. Cuz it’s a gonna be a lot a’ work.
“One time, back when my husband and I lived in Hawaii [Okay, I’m jealous now], I took my hubby to my old neck of the woods. To show him where I had my first kiss.”
“Get out of here!” I turn in my seat to face her. I’m a sucker for a juicy love story.
“Yeah. I just wanted to show him where I kissed Dean Hornet back in fifth grade. Dean liked me. I liked him. He asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes. That afternoon, he gave me a quick peck on the lips, and I was in love. Until the next day. I saw him pick his nose and eat it. My image was shattered. We broke up that afternoon.”
I am laughing so loud, they are surely going to kick me out now. My turn.
“My first kiss was in fourth grade. Adam Donsey. I was nerdy little brown girl and he was blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy wonder. Out of my league…until I made friends with Janet, the tallest and strongest girl in our class. One winter afternoon during recess, I convinced Janet to help me with “Operation First Kiss.” We had come up with a simple three step plan. Chase. Knock Down. Kiss. Janet was in charge of steps one and two. I would take care of step three. The recess bell rings and we’re off running. Literally. I believe I got in approximately nineteen kisses all over poor Adam’s face. But number twenty was smack dab on the lips.”
“Oh wait a minute.” My petal to metal side kick remembers. “There was one kiss before Dean Hornet. I can’t believe I forgot about it, but your story reminded me. There was this kid who chose to walk by my house every day instead of taking the short cut. I was nine. One day, I walked right outside my door and up to him. I punched him in the face. Knocked him clear to the ground. Then I kissed him all over his face, and told him, ‘Stop walking by my house!’ He stopped. That was my real first kiss.”
Sheesh. Hope those guys recovered.
Back in the court room, we get our calls. Receive our fines. And take the elevator up to the clerk where we pay our dues. While I’m up there, I tell my last story of how I think I might have met my future publisher at a bar. She starts laughing when the woman behind the window calls my name. I offer her my future book for free if she cancels my ticket. No go. The judge’s decision is final.
I turn to give my new friend a hug. I’m just a hugger. Some random guy by the elevator asks for a hug. Are you for real? The court house is not a good place to hit on a girl. You could get arrested, tried, and kicked into jail — all in under an hour. Hello? Common Sense?
Anyway, as the elevator door closes and returns us to our own worlds, I shout out, “Like a good trailer, I’m gonna leave you hanging! If you want to know what happened, READ MY BLOG!”
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