Violators

I’m #83 in line at the courthouse to pay a ticket. I’m part of a single file of people that snakes from a small room with two old bank windows down a long hallway out through the exit into the street. Two voices in my head yell for my attention. One says, “It’s fine, the line’s moving, good for you for taking care of this,” and the other says “Oh Jesus God,” and puts their face in their hands and slumps to the floor. I have a momentary thought that I could come back later, maybe in the afternoon when it has died down, but I cut myself of before going too far down that road. I’m here to pay a ticket. That’s it.

Really I’m here because I have a warrant out for my arrest which sounds a lot worse than it is. When I got the (form) letter in the mail I didn’t think it was real. It seemed like the same kind of letter that informs me I am guaranteed a $50,000 line of credit, and I almost threw it out. But the truth is, my license expired and I was supposed to come in a while ago to show my new one and I never did and I guess that’s how it works these days. Now I not only have to present my new license in person but I also have to pay a late fee. So I’m here with 82 other violators waiting to pay for our errors. These are my people. Something both reassuring and depressing. We all stand here not talking, like mules in a train car

This building is old, the kind with marble floors and a big front desk and behind that a row of elevators that ding before they open. Above each one is a brass half-circle with numbers and a dial. People used to rush in, fresh and crisp, and stand and watch the arrow descend 6-5-4-3-2-1 ding and then pile into the elevator and go to the various offices to conduct their business. They’d say Good morning or good afternoon and treat each other respectfully. Now we pile in by the hundreds and take off our shoes and coats and bags and slide them into the x-ray machine and walk through some strange metal altar to make sure we don’t have weapons tucked anywhere sneaky. We grab our things and then go to one area to sign in and another area to wait, and then three hours later we slouch through the exit, numb and less $243.

I made that up about the old days. This building is over 75 years old and I wasn’t around back then. I don’t know that there were fewer people or that they were more polite than they are now, or more fresh and ready for good things, but it seems like they were. Maybe 50 years from now when this building has been closed down because it was deemed unnecessary and we violators conduct business on our phones because all the humans have been fired, it will seem like back in 2025 people were more polite and sweet and eager. It probably will.

Recently, I heard a comedian tell a story about his friend with terminal cancer who was being honored at a televised dinner. He was a teacher or a sport’s coach I think. In his thank you speech, he said “Vulnerability is one of the most important qualities in your life. Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t let himself be vulnerable.” Then he continued talking about this and that, being grateful and feeling lucky for his life and thanking people who had cheered him on, and just as he was about to launch into a story, the orchestra started to play, indicating that he had exceeded his time limit. The coach looked around in disbelief and said, “Guys! I’m dying!”

A woman behind me lets out a weary grunt. Huhn. I love that sound, so filled with judgement and disgust, exhaustion and disdain, and still a tiny bit of love. Almost a chuckle. Now another woman clucks her tongue. Someone else says Tsss. They are having a wordless conversation! I turn to look at these queens and then follow their glare across the room to an older man bent at the shoulders and knees who appears to be peeing into a bottle. My one voice says, Jesus, what the hell. My other voice says “What, he’s old. He doesn’t want to lose his place. He’s not hurting anyone.” I look around at other people, almost every single one looking at their phone. The old man tucks himself back in and then twists the cap onto his bottle so gingerly and thoughtfully, it makes me sad. I turn back to look at the queens and they are all looking away, eyes to the ceiling, to their fingernails, to their shoes. They are done. End of discussion. Period.

I wonder for a moment if I really saw what I thought I saw, but I let it go. What difference does it make in the full scheme? We keep standing. The line moves. More people come in behind us with their tickets and their wallets and their phones. Down the hall the arrow on the elevator swirls up one way and then swirls back down the other. There are pauses and then we take a step.

When the old man gets to the head of the line, I can hear muffled voices. I see him put his hand behind his ear and the lady behind the glass has to say everything at least twice. Finally she just comes out. She puts her hand on his shoulder and walks with him to the side exit. His head is tilted towards her as she speaks to him. I wonder if this is something he does every day, just stands in line like it’s a job. I like that she is being kind to him. You never know these days. It’s a hard time to be old or vulnerable. Or wrong. Maybe he is just confused. I know I am.

***

ALSO, EVERYBODY: Last week I got a mention in Cultured Magazine by

Elizabeth Gilbert

and I’m still flying high from it. To be recognized and shouted out like this fills my heart, and especially from this particular person and writer and friend, it means more than I can say. Thanks Lizzy. I also want to say thanks to all of you who wrote to me and reposted and subscribed and applauded and cheered. I have really felt every single bit of it. Thank you, thank you. And I am definitely framing the quote below!

And One More Thing… I have had to travel a few times this past month and I have been on a slightly sporadic schedule so thank you for your patience. xo