ix months ago, I was driving from Austin with my boyfriend when I heard the sound. We had just hit the outskirts of Dallas, where all the strip joints and XXX billboards dot the highway. We were engaged in a particularly interesting conversation which ended abruptly with the noise -
Whoop. Whoop. Whoo-whoo-whoo. And then the crazy swiveling lights fill your rearview mirror, and you know you are busted.
In movies, it always seems as though you have time to charm your way out of a ticket. Women cry or show their boobs. Men crack wise or, I dunno, shoot someone's head off. But in my case, there was no conversation at all. He wrote the ticket, tore it off, and handed it to me. 70 in a 55. Got questions? Tell it to the judge.

****

If it weren't such a total drag, the county court would be a terrific place to people watch. Like hospitals and the DMV, the county court is the great equalizer. Sooner or later, we all stand in judgment. And more than likely, we have the wrong paperwork.
"Okay, I'm back," I tell the bailiff, proudly handing him three sheets printed out for me by the cleric downstairs.
"This ain't it," he says.
"It's what they gave me."
He sighs. "Go next door. Tell 'em you need your paperwork."
What paperwork? Was this written somewhere? Are they being intentionally confusing, or am I really that dumb? It's not that I resent the ticket. I broke the law, fine. The money goes somewhere good, right? Protecting the citizens and all that. But now I see how many people are here in this building handing out paperwork, and I'm kind of pissed off. Because now I think my money is going to staff the paperwork people. And so if we could cut them out, then can we forget this and all go home?
"This is more like it," says the bailiff when I hand him the right paperwork. "Now tell me what you want to do again?" The bailiff starts organizing the sheets.
I need an extension to take defensive driving. It's a long story. I'm an idiot.
"When did you get your ticket?"
"I don't remember. Three months ago?"
"It says here six months ago."
"Six months ago." Then why did you ask?
I'd feel embarrassed about my ignorance, except this seems to be the epicenter of cluelessness. To my left, the kid is explaining to the judge why some payment was late. To my right, the prosecutor is counseling a college kid who wants his speeding ticket quashed because, he says, "he's a good and careful driver."
"Okay, that's not a good reason to quash a ticket," the prosecutor says.
"But normally I drive the speed limit, and it's very rare that I -"
"Yeah, that's not going to work."
I feel bad for the prosecutor. You know, some of my best friends are lawyers.
In the end, I get what I need - 30 more days before I have to come back. The whole process took so long that my parking meter had expired. That one, however, I got away with.