Fucking A

I took care of a parking ticket today. My payment was long overdue, the powers-that-be were threatening me with suspensions, and nobody I know is capable of "fixing" such a thing. So I had to go down in person and pay at the window.

Since it was an old ticket, they had to "pull it" to figure out the fine. They told me I'd have to wait a few minutes, so I took a seat on a bench across from the cashier's window. The bureaucracy seemed angry with me today. They were angry about the ticket, but even angrier about my wanting to hand them my money. I told them, "Maybe I can just give you my seventy-five dollars, and you can give me a receipt for paying you seventy-five dollars, and I can go home while you straighten things out and be angry with each other," but they weren't accepting suggestions from the Silent Majority today, so I waited.

There's a courtroom down the hall from the cashier's window. People were trickling out of the courtroom intermittently after their cases were decided, and I could hear snippets of their conversations while I sat on my bench.

"Revoked? What means revoked?" asked the unrefined voice.

"It means you can't drive for six months," answered the more polished voice. "You can apply for a conditional license, but revoked essentially means you won't have a driver's license for six months."

"So how I'm s'posed to get to work?"

"I don't know. That's something you're going to have to work out for yourself, but I'd strongly caution you against trying to drive. If they pull you over, you're going to jail."

They rounded the corner and came into view. "Polished" was an attorney. He carried a leather briefcase. "Unpolished" looked like a nightclub customer. His dress-for-court-wear differed little from what he'd likely worn the night he was pulled over. I drummed a house beat with my fingers and instinctively waited for him to dance. The man had lost his innocence long before the judge revoked his driving privileges. Polished makes his living dealing with the Unpolisheds of the world, and his attitude and demeanor toward this particular Unpolished told me exactly how he felt about his life.

On the heels of Polished and Unpolished was someone I hadn't expected, yet wasn't entirely surprised to have seen: the requisite beautiful young girl. She wore a denim skirt and a sleeveless blue blouse, and wore them well. She had sandals on her feet and her toenails were decorated with little designs. I couldn't make out what these designs were because I didn't want to stare. They may have been daisies. She was what you'd call a "piece of ass." In another life, maybe a few years ago -- having never seen her with him -- I would have pursued the sex.

"You have to pay your fine and surcharge at the window," said Polished, impersonally. "And make sure you get a receipt. Good luck to you."

Unpolished slumped on the opposite end of the bench from me, the girl beside him. He stared at the floor, considering the ramifications of being "revoked." She placed her hand atop his, stroking the webbing between his fingers. Neither said a word. They didn't look down at me. When she crossed her legs, I snuck a glance and thought about the sex again, and then my name was called, and I went to the window and paid my fine. I made a point of failing to thank the angry clerk.

I thought about Unpolished and his girl on the way out. I'm thinking about them now. I'm not thinking so much about Unpolished as I am about his girl and what thoughts ran through her mind while she sat on the bench and stroked the webbing between his fingers.

I'm not wondering how beautiful girls end up with assholes. That's too easy, and I don't have to wonder about it much. If you end up with an asshole on your arm -- whether male or female -- it's because you're flawed. I'm flawed, and I've had the occasional asshole on my arm. You get stuck with an asshole because you think very little of yourself. Or the sex is phenomenal. Or you're after money or drugs. I know this already. So do you.

I'm wondering what's there when all that you "see in him" is gone. When the whole alpha male act gets tired, and what you're left with is a semi-literate manual laborer with poor work habits who's just been told by the State of New York that he's no longer permitted to drive on its roadways. What happens then? Is your love for such a person so unconditional that you'll continue to sit and stroke the webbing between his fingers even though he's just been metaphorically castrated by the judicial system?

I wonder about her parents. Had they cared? Had they put ribbons in her hair and made her sit at the kitchen table and work her multiplication tables? Had her father run after her the first time she rode without training wheels? Had he known she'd end up with Unpolished, stroking the webbing between his fingers on a bench outside the courtroom?

I can't pretend to know what transpires between the two of them. I looked over at this man, and he had nothing. No command of his native language. No idea how to dress for a court appearance. Probably never opened a book voluntarily in his life. But he had her, and she was beautiful and I wondered what would happen once they walked out the doors of the courthouse.