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Sunday, February 24, 2013

The Rabbit, Part II.

(I've managed to get my post to more-or-less the same font throughout, but it won't stop screaming.  It's fine in the edit screen, but when viewed all I see is caps.  If it looks like that to you as well, please let me know.  I think my blog may be on drugs, in which case it needs to change dealers.  Nobody needs this kind of trip.)

When I was given the ticket in Part One of my tale, I’d been over in Merriam town, a different part of the Greater Kansas City Metropolitan Area from my own humble dwelling.  And so I needed to drive back over to the Merriam courthouse to see things through, and hope for the best.  When you’re living on the financial edge, one ticket can be the difference between making rent and being served notice.  But to properly explain what my experience in the Merriam system was like, I should probably explain how things work in KC.

 

The Kansas City Kansas courts are what every church in Christendom might look like if Martin Luther had been strangled at birth and Robespierre had been elected Pope.  Heavy thick doors designed to withstand the invading Turks open in to hard floors and bare walls. Everything is black and white as the sermons of Saint Paul, broken only by dark wood furniture salvaged from the True Cross.

 


The room is huge with a high ceiling, full of echoes and lit with lights harsh and unforgiving. The pews line the main part of the room in two giant rows, and armed Bailiffs in black suits and ties keep an eye on the Unforgiven with an alertness that would have done Solomon Kane proud. Show up on time, by the gods.  Sinners running too late get locked out-- they can explain themselves to the Centurions later after arrest. And if any wanting to fight the ticket they will take to their Golgotha and with this very gavel drive in the nine-inch nails.  Hard, long  pews, bright lights, crowds of sinners ready to beg for an even break (or at least a penance they can afford), and angry gun-toting goons in every corner ready to mop upon any who don’t genuflect.

 

At the back of the room are the crowds: later arrivals, stay-at-home parents with kids, and anyone who just doesn't want to be any closer to the front altar than possible.  All of them just hoping for an even break, or at least something they can pay and still make rent.  There is nothing quite like knowing that the very people you’re appealing to for mercy are the ones turning the screws in the first place.  At the front are the hopefuls, the early risers, and the lawyers working their way up the ladder to pay off the bills.  And at the very front of the room is the Bench, where the Hammer rests, and the devil always wears black.

 


The altar is in three parts. To the right hand of the Unwashed Heathens is the State Lord High Inquisitor: hard, but fair; the mailed fist by whom the Lord deals out retribution and plea-bargaining according to the Law. To the Rabble’s left is the Voice of God: a modern day Metatron and Gabriel all in one, who calls the names from the Book of Life that all may be Judged, and hands out the ticket receipts. In the middle is the High Priest of the show, in all his ebon-robed glory, flanked to either side by his own Twin Pillars of the Temple . . . in this case, the flags of the State and the Nation. He looks out across the peasants for a moment, and tries to struggle against despair. Then the call of “All rise!” is sent forth, and His Honour spends about fifteen minutes explaining exactly how things work in his court, and why.


Solomon generally is an older man, but not elderly, wearing a sympathetic beard and a weary voice that really wishes we could all just go away.  In a voice too tired to brook any dissent, he explains the rules: no cutting in line, listen up, take of your hat, no talking out of turn, no bathroom breaks, and answer every question promptly and correctly with your coloured piece of paper in hand, ready to trade it out for a report card and dismissal before the three o’clock bell.

 

Just being in that room is guarantee of some kind of fine, and that’s bad enough.  Almost everyone there has the same look of defeated calculation.  Maybe they could make a deal and pay it off in pieces, or maybe they’d have to borrow money for rent after all.  That is, if they could find anyone who could loan anything.  But the real punishment was just having to be there at all, exiled back into some twisted grade school flashback. 

 

Every time I’ve been in a KCK court I’ve found myself wondering, Oracle-like: if I look in the mirror, will I still have my beard?  Or, terrifying thought, will my pre-pubescent self be staring back at me, begging for release from the Public School Asylum, all the successive years between then and now only a dream?

 

I once watched as a grown man was caught cutting in line.  And I swear to you now, he was put in time out, forced to stand in the corner, facing the corner, until everyone else has gone.  The Court Gunsels watched him to be sure. 

 

Unnerved, I found myself feeling for my beard.  Still there.

 

So compare this if you will to the Merriam Experience that awaited me regarding the Rabbit.

 


When I finally found the courthouse, it had taken me several moments to be sure that I hadn’t made a mistake.  Light and quiet glass doors opened to a small room with low ceiling and soft lighting. Everything was in soothing colours. Footsteps were muffled by the comfortable blue-grey carpeting and the gentle murmur of voices as court goes on.  

 

As I entered the court proper, His Honour was palavering with someone on webcam, telling her, “Sorry, but with this many outstanding tickets you still need to come in to settle it, we can’t grant you continuance over the web.  Yeah, I know it’s a pain, but it’s the law, and congrats on your new job by the way.”

 

The gentle buzz of conversations just lent a droning background as I find myself a comfy padded chair and tried to relax. No flags or other idolatries, just a few nice views. And through it all, the room itself seemed to take on a kindly drawl as I listened.

 


On time? No problem, brother: we decided to start a little early since there were folks already here . . . maybe you’ll get out a little quicker. Running late? Come on in, neighbor . . . we’ll be here a while anyway, right?  Come on up to the Deacon, you’ll know him by the walrus mustache outlining his smile and the gun belt casually slung under his blue-grey polo shirt. He’s been doing this for a while, and he’s seen it all. What’s your name? Spell that? Oh, that’s right, sure.  Here’s your slip and take a seat.  Maybe you’ll need to see the judge, maybe not.  Oh, you'll know him by his place at the back, no need for robes here, pilgrim. We all want the same thing, after all: gettin’ you out as painless as we can.

 

No “all rise”, no locked doors, no sin and penitence, no angry threats.  Just a few little crimes and how-can-we-get-this-covered, indulgences available upon lawyers’ requests.

 

Wow.

When my name was called from the Book of Pro-Life, I went up to the City Prosecutor and . . . she knew me. Personally. Recognized me on the spot. I, meanwhile, tried not to look too confused as my mind scrabbled to place her with the desperation of a man grasping at the shale of a steep cliffside.

Now, having someone recognize me before I recognize them is not in and of itself unusual. I am not a forgettable person, and I never have been. So sometimes I’ll be well into a conversation with someone when I’ll suddenly realize Just how we know each other.  But I could not place her face for love or money.  Amused, she strung me along for several minutes before she raised the curtain and let me know we’d been in Drama together, back in High School.  We reminisced about family and children and years and other sundry things, and she asked about the ticket.

I told her about The Dead Rabbit and my low-light vision, and she smiled and said that was the most unusual story she’d heard in a while. Fortunately she knew me well enough to know that I wasn’t going to lie to get out of a ticket . . . and under the extenuating circumstances she moved the ticket from seventy-five dollars down to twenty-five, and gave me another month to pay.  That, at least, I could do.


So, I went to court and didn’t get screwed too badly, for all that Johnny Bosco still got paid.  I know that police, more and more, are used for financing.  And it’s a terrible thing, not just because of the rift it widens between Them and Us.  I also know that the courts don’t ask for this mess either, and people caught in a rat trap will get tired, no matter which side of the desk they’re on.  But for all that, it’s amazing to me the difference between the two courts and the atmosphere they engender.  Does income alone really make that great a difference in how a crowd gets treated?  Or are the legal cultures between the two towns just that different?  Thousands of books have been written and millions of studies done over the years, and we’ll probably never know for sure just how it all really fits together.  But considering my experiences between Merriam and KCK, I know which temple I’d rather be in when the cops pass out the collection plate.

--Coyote.

(Robespierre meme courtesy of diylol.com; angels courtsey of hollywoodhatesme.wordpress.com; Andy Griffith created himself; Robber Baron cartoon courtesy of mises.org; Evil Judge is (c) Capcom.  All Rights Reserved by those who wish to reserve them.)

Monday, February 18, 2013

The Post That Wasn't There

Greetings, all.

Yes, it is true: I ended up missing last week's post entirely.  It was nothing catastrophic, there were just some school projects that took more time than I was anticipating.



But now I am almost caught up to where I want to be - or perhaps I should say when I want to be - and my merry tales of fortune and adventure should carry on shortly.  It won't be long.  I have to finish the tale of the Dead Rabbit after all, and there is poetry to compose and celebrations to attend, maidens to slay and dragons to avenge, and books and books and books to write.

The current deadline for Book III draft is this coming spring.  Our fans are some of the cleverest carbon-based life forms in the universe, and so I am confident that, like so many fans of other genres, you will abide with good grace while the final product is perfected.  Nothing haphazard is allowed past our steely gaze.

Soon all the scenes will be in place, the flow will be smoothed, and then it will just be a matter of editing.  Nothing too drastic, of course.  Rather, we will rely upon a gentle touch for a gentle world.

The delicate task of editing and rewriting.

Walk with grace,
--Coyote.


(Building Rome courtesy of http://www.ssqq.com; Picture of Mother Kali is courtesy of http://enmanas.blogspot.com.  All rights reserved by original creators of art, or else those who have managed to haggle the rights away from them.  Whichever.)

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Delay



Due to Real Life concerns, today's Blogspot entry is delayed a few days.  My apologies, everyone.  Rest assured I will share more adventures and insights with you as soon as reasonably possible.  Until then, I remain
--Coyote

Sunday, February 3, 2013

The Rabbit, Part I

(Note: for whatever reason, every time I edit this piece it all comes out in caps.  I have no idea why my Blog is suffering from some obscure form of reverse laryngitis.  I will correct this when I can.)

 I solemnly swear that I was going the speed limit when I hit the bunny. 

 

It happened a couple of years ago, in the spring, and the moon was blessedly new.  I don’t like driving much, for all the fact that it gets me different places quickly.  Right about when the sun is setting enough for comfort’s sake, people keep turning electric lights on for some reason. The world is indeed rife with mystery.

In this instance, I was driving at about 2:30 am when the truck swerved into my lane and back out.  I dodged, he countered, and somewhere along the way some poor rabbit got the scare of his life. The poor thing ran away from the first vehicle and right under mine, and *thump!*


Not being a complete ice-hearted swine where animals are concerned – I’ve never yet had a bunny screw me over for fun or a percentage – once the drunk had swerved his way safely out of my life I pulled over and checked to see if the poor lepus had died.

 

Alas, no.  No clean death here. The hit would ultimately be fatal, to be sure.  But the bun was still in there. He rolled his eyes over and looked at me, most of his musculature exposed from the impact having skinned him entirely on the right side.

To make a long story short, a few minutes later the rabbit was dead, I had a bloody baseball bat in the van, and I had rolled maybe fifty feet when the cop hit his lights.

 

Naturally, I hadn’t noticed that my headlights were off. It’s an easy mistake to make: I can see in wooded areas in the new moon without difficulty, and the leaves still look green. Add that to how pathetically well-lit the streets around there are, and yes, you guessed it: suddenly I’m getting pulled over.

 

Fifty feet.  At the most.  Damn it.  Where the bloody blue-eyed blazes was he when the rabbit needed him? Isn’t that part of the job description?  Protect, serve, and uphold the trust of small woodland creatures?  Oh, well. I knew there was a coppish feel in the air, and sure enough, here the night was turning red and blue behind me, the search light was on, and the cop was walking up, mag light in hand. 


And now on Sprockett, we experience pain.

The cop went through more or less the usual drill.  He came over to the window, keeping his miniature sun disguised as a torch in my face at all times, and asked, “So, where you headed?”


I, meanwhile, tried desperately not to bite his head off while scrunching my face until I resembled a Dick Tracy character.  “Over to Stonebridge, to get some water.”

“Have you been drinking any tonight?”

Here I had to smile. “No sir, I don’t drink.” 

“You’re answering my questions awfully slowly, sir. Is that normal for you?”

“Yes, sir, it is: I generally do speak slowly. Officer, I am incredibly light sensitive, and that really hurts.  I don’t suppose you could move the light . . . ?”

“No sir, sorry, it’s for my safety and yours, I have to keep the light on you at all times. It’s police protocol.”

For my safety, I thought.  Ah, the insults begin.  And in thanks, please allow me to reply, to wit: fuck your protocol. When was the last time your precious protocols served me anything but pain and grief, or protected from anything but a little peace and quiet?

 

And in actual fact, oh officer, most police are willing to at least aim the maglight at the ground instead of right into my face at close range.  And they don’t usually lean closer when I bring it up.

 


But alas, his hair was too short and he’d not been on the streets by himself for very long, and may not have known what latitudes he could take.  So.  Dealing with the pain, and trying to keep cool.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose it isn’t reasonable to expect one to routinely put one’s life in danger.”

“Well, it still happens sometimes.”

“That it does.” I think he smiled. I know I did.

He continued, “Are you carrying any firearms with you tonight, sir?”

“No, sir, I’m not.” Now I was tempted to add, out of sheer mischief, ‘would it help if I was?’, but I decided against it. As I said, for all the fact that he was putting me through intense pain and misery, he honestly seemed to think he had no choice . . . and the grimace of pain could be easily mistaken as hostility, which would have ruined the joke for him, and thus rendered it pointless. So despite temptation I restrained myself so as to keep from frightening him. Rookie cop is bad enough.  Skittish rookie cop is much, much worse.

“OK, well, I need to see your driver’s license and insurance, please.”

 

Damn . . .

Here we began a team effort, and I think it was during this time he determined that I was distinctly on the level, since I couldn’t see what the heck I was doing for his damned light.  I spent several minutes going through the glove-box, and after a while he was even cheering me on.

“OK, that’s a receipt of come kind . . . no, but that’s your title, we’re getting closer . . . yeah, that’s the insurance . . . no, wait, it’s expired earlier this year, sorry about that but you’re getting warmer . . . here we – no, that’s expired too, but you must be close . . . no . . . no . . . keep going, you’re getting there . . . expires July 27, perfect!” 

I handed him the paper with the card on it, and he took it, apparently satisfied. He said, “OK, sir, I’m going to run this, go ahead and adjust your mirrors however you need to for the lights, OK?”

Why, thank you, officer.  What a break you’re giving me.  I I did in fact adjust my mirrors.  I also put on some classical, and tried to relax.  He meanwhile took his time running my record. That was fine with me: some sadistic maniac had apparently been ramming red-hot irons into my eye sockets.  Fortunately my wolverine-like recuperative powers were dealing with them with their usual aplomb.


After a while he came back, and to my surprise he did in fact keep his light aimed away from my face.  I think after all this time there must be some notes on my file about my photophobia . . . it’s certainly led to enough interesting encounters over the years.

“Okay, sir, your address and everything checks out, thank you very much for your patience.”  I was silent.  He went on, “The reason I had this encounter with you tonight sir is because you were out driving without your headlights at exactly drunk-thirty . . . no, I’m serious, that’s what we call this time of night: drunk-thirty . . . and you were driving with your headlights off, which – and please understand that I’m not trying to talk down to you or anything – that is considered a pretty drunk thing to do.”

A  ‘drunk thing to do.’  Okay, that was funny. “Well, I ran over a rabbit back there, and when I got out of the vehicle to see to it . . .”

I think he may have nodded, but he certainly cut me off.  “Well, sir, I’m sorry you ran over a rabbit, but I’m glad you didn’t get into a wreck trying to avoid it.  But we’ve been having a lot of accidents right around here, and a lot of them have been due to drunk drivers.”

 

Yes, I thought, and I think I saw one of them scare the rabbit into my wheels so we could have this little chat. I wondered if the cop might have passed him on his way to me.  But he was in no mood for details.


He continued to tell me about the citation he was writing me, and about how he had “no choice but to give it.”  But I’d been given breaks by police before, and the circumstances that night certainly warranted it.  There had been no one hurt or even vaguely endangered, aside from the pain the cop himself had been giving me, and the whole thing had been touched off by my trying to show a fellow mammal some mercy.  I pointed out that I had no money.  Not his problem.  Of course. 

 

So we talked about how I could send in a payment before the court date, if I had the scratch, or maybe even work out a payment plan in court itself.  How nice.  When he was finished, he returned my citizenship papers and my insurance, and gave me my very own copy of the insult I’d somehow be paying later.  When it was over he turned me loose onto the society he had sworn to protect, and blazed off into the night.  I waited until the spots in my eyes were gone, and then I headed out as well.  Blinded, interrogated, and ultimately fined.  

I realize he thought he was the good guy in all this.  And he might even have thought he was treating me kindly.  After all, he didn’t yank me out of the van.  He didn’t threaten me, mace me, or beat me with a club.  Towards the end he was even polite, aside from diverting my rent to pay his salary.

 

But I’d still rather have hit him than the rabbit.



Sometime again,

 --Coyote.



(Rabbit costume shot courtesy of streetgangs.com; hazel scene from Watership Down, which I strongly recommend; Judge Dredd was created by Eagle Comics a long time ago; Wolverine and his skeleton are (c) Marvel comics; Dragnet was creataed by Mark VII productions; rabbit in a costume courtesy of people.com.  All rights reserved by images' rightful owners.)