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Hunched over like a row of upright candy canes in a box.  Thumbs wag.  Texting.  A common dress-code of denim, hoodies and button up shirts dressed down.  A baby cries loudly in the other room.  Check.  A baby screams loudly in the other room.   A siren sounding off - starvation for a meal of goldfish, cuddles, and a bit of “anywhere but here” it whines.  Despite the walls, I sense a mother’s desperation and wonder how long she’ll last.

Across the waiting room I have a clear view of the prosecutor’s small make-shift office.  A desk.  A computer.  Two chairs.  A spreadsheet.  What I assume is the docket.  A girl in a plummy lululemon wipes away tears.  She doesn’t dab, but smears the tissue across her eye.  The bags under my eyes sting empathetically.  I wonder how serious this is.

A scruffy man breaks the steady clips of texting.  He talks loudly to his girlfriend as he plays with his ticket, clutching his worn black leather wallet tightly.  He leans back, tilting the waiting room chair.  By all accounts they are comfortable - the chairs.  Fitting for the dullness of the bright shiny perfection of another government building.  Grey and stripe-y, like corduroy without the corduroy; matching the carpet and contrasting the walls.  Plummy Lulu wipes her nose and keeps her eyes low as she half-nods towards the prosecutor.  Scruff’s girlfriend gets up and paces.  Caramel skin, sharp features, despite the day old makeup, she is attractive in an edgy exotic way.  Channelling Kate Moss’ affinity for appearing unkept, her hair hangs in clumpy waves halfway down her back.  Her chunky open toe shoes choke her pudgy swollen feet.  I think of the pedicure my toes need.

The baby screams.

I smile thinking fondly of the late night conversation with my crush.  Sweet compliments.  Awkward jokes.  Charm and insecurity tightly intertwined. Forgiven only by the fog of first steps.  “Sounds like she’s having a rougher day than us” I say quietly to the air.  “Uh-huh” I hear the hammer say beside me as his well loved danners keep a steady pace in time with a fan running among the layers of white noise.

Mr. Perry Ellis doesn’t budge, the arm of his neat namesake glasses remains a perfect parallel to the floor.  Eyes straight ahead.  Hands cupped tightly on his lap.  Legs uncrossed and perfectly square, matching the shape of his navy knit sweater vest.  His hands loosen long enough for me to catch the glint of his flat gold ring as he scratches his nose.  He is as unrelaxed as a nun on Sunday, braced for anything but fun.  He’s not wearing socks, which I think is odd for the windy about-to-rain grey October day.  His leather deck shoes are tidy and well cared for, guarded by layers and layers of leather protective spray.  The leather laces are not tied in a bow, but are knotted and tasselled with a tightly wound nautical coil.  I wonder how they smell after a long sockless day.  

Hammer’s clipboard lists his many jobs for the day.  Call Rocheck.  Call – get lights.  Ticket.  Dr. Smith windows.  Pick up lumber.  Remember receipt.  The baby’s scream fades, I assume on account of her leaving.  The new quiet is broken by chimes of incoming text and email.  The candy canes thumb busily. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Bennett” the prosecutor calls.  

I lean my head back and rest it on the wall.  Taking pause, I reflect.  Every experience I have these days is super draining.  My mind a hive of bees in and out, bringing not honey, but details details details and more details.  “Show … don’t tell” my imagined professor reminds me.  There are details everywhere and in everything, and my alert mind can’t help but scan the world on constant intake.  Is that shirt blue?  How blue is it?  Is it navy, or just blue?  Is it the kind of blue that gives you that sense of delightful discovery within … like Ikea blue?  Or is it just blue?  What was the person thinking when they put it on that day?  Were they thinking?  Clearly Mr. Perry Ellis wasn’t?  Clearly his was the work of a loving wife?  “Here.  Put this on.  This is smart,” she might have said.  Or maybe he heard her spirit say that.  My imagination tells me there are many reasons.  Maybe it wasn’t a she.  Maybe it was just clean.  I wore what I wore because it was comfortable.  I wore what I wore because it’s me … clean and comfortable.  Worn in jeans, cashmere socks, royal blue cashmere hoodie, coach belt, born short leather boots, roots 3/4 length coat, and the expensive leather purse … a spontaneous therapeutic splurge during a previous life’s exceptionally rough work day.  Comfy.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennett walk out of the office and re-take their former seats in the waiting area with the rest of us.  Their olive skin, dark hair, and saucer brown eyes inform me that they are from the mediterranean.  I recall seeing versions of them while on a trip to Greece many years prior.  Three young girls, all professionals, we took a three day break from the main event in Kosovo for a little rest and recovery in Greece.  The white wash, the aqua blue, the calimari.  Ohhhh the calimari.  My eyes close and my mind returns to now.  Bennett tells me I am wrong about Greece.  Scottish-Greek, I compromise.

We are finally called into the courtroom where Mr. Justice waits for us, ready to affirm our guilt, collect our fines, and to send us on our way.

NO hats.  NO food or drink of any kind.  NO cellphones or electronics of any kind.  NO talking.  

We file into the pews.  I glance down to see if there’s the drop down bench for kneeling prayer, and smirk to myself that there isn’t one.  The Justice sits high above us.  Dark leathery skin with thin white tight curls.  I’m guessing Caribbean and wonder if we’ll reggae ourselves through this ditty.  One by one we’re called up.  Things remain serious and formal.  A steady chorus of yes my plea is voluntary.  Yes I understand the consequences of my plea.  Yes I would like more time to pay the fine.

Plummy Lulu must pay a generously reduced fine of $20 for failing to have a current sticker on her plates.  The charge for failing to have her driver’s license on her is waived.  “Yes” she says softly, leaning forward into the mic.  “Can I have an extra thirty days?” she responds to the Justice’s question of more time to settle the fine.  She gathers her things and quietly leaves the room, and presumably leaves the building.  I think of the novels worth of assumptions it would take to appreciate her life.  30 days for 20 dollars.  Perhaps it’s just because she can.  Perhaps not.

Hammer …  $35 for failing to signal.  

“The facts are accepted as entered,” drones the prosecutor.

Mr. Perry Ellis … 80 in a 60.

“The facts …”

Mrs. Bennett … invalid license.

“are accepted …”

One by one, they plead their guilt.  One by one they request extra time to settle their small fines.  

“as entered.”

I suddenly feel ashamed about my $15 cashmere socks.  We are in a different place now that the ordeal is almost done.