New York courts are efficent.

Well friends, I finally had my day in court. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting… I’m not exactly a stanger to the legal system I’m sorry to say… but this was different. I showed up early in a shirt and tie (I don’t own a suit or I’d have worn one), clean shaved… the first time I’ve shaved in over a year, and the first time I’ve been completely clean shaven since the late 90’s (!). I entered what I’m fairly certain is the shittiest high rise in all of Manhattan, and went through security that makes TSA look like seasoned veterans. I walked up the dirty marble staircase and found myself waiting in a line to show my summons. It wasn’t unlike a DMV line… everyone was pissed off to be there, including the employees. The whole place felt temporary… as if still under construction. Cheap gray linoleum, a counter of unfinished drywall with scratched plexiglass windows that only reached 3/4’s up. Above us was a loft type space packed with cardboard file boxes that I assume held evidence, and somewhere in there the knife that the tubby Puerto Rican took from me a few months back.  In front of me, a Muslim kid of about 19 was trying to look tough for his girlfriend, telling her that if they tried to make him swear on a bible he’d refuse. Apparently, I’m the only one who thought a court date meant you should try and look presentable. People mostly wore street clothes… hoodies, baggy jeans. Behind me were 3 gutter punks wearing so many chains, studded belts, and piercings it must have taken them forever to get through the metal detectors. A few places ahead of me, some girl was handed a paper saying her case was dismissed… that gave me a glimmer of hope that was quickly snuffed out. When I got to the window (in a surprisingly short amount of time), I was handed a pink slip…like you used to get when you were called to the principles office… and assigned to courtroom 3.

When I got in, it looked like the employee lounge for a taxi company. Lot’s of bored, slightly irritated looking Dominican’s reading their newspapers. The judge was an old Jewish man, balding with a bushy white mustache. He wasn’t wearing a robe, but a cheap beige suit and was doing what I can only describe as schtick. “We aren’t trying murder cases here… this isn’t as exciting as law and order… mostly I get open containers and public urination. If you’ve got open container, it’s $25. Public urination is $50. Remember, it’s cheaper going in than coming out…” Some of the mothers there with there sons chuckled. Most of us weren’t really interested. The Public Defender was running late, and when he got there the judge was busting his balls, calling him Tardy Timmy. One by one they called the names and offenses. A mixture of TLC violations (taxt drivers), honking, no taxi license, etc., public urination, open containers. All the Black guys either had taxi violations… some of them 2 or 3… or public urination… all of them got off with $25-$50 fines, some of them wanted to fight those, and most of them that plead guilty filed for extensions. The 2 or 3 white guys in there had open container tickets, and were visibly relieved to get the hell out of there for $25. Me and one other guy were the only ones with weapons violations, both of us popped for carrying knives. He was called before me and claimed he needed it for his work at a homeless shelter… not for protection, but for breaking down boxes of donations. The judge was skeptical, but said if he could produce a note saying he used the knife at work, he’d dismiss the whole thing. That gave me my second glimmer of hope of the day, but it was dashed just as quickly as the first one was. 2 dockets later, I was called, and I swear I heard animosity in the tone of the farm-boy bailiff. I limped up in front of the judge, confident I’d get this all straightened out.

“Why did you have a knife?” He asked.

“I’m a cook your honor” I said, sure that he’d accept this from a humble clean cut white boy.

“So exactly why can’t you leave it in the kitchen?” He shot back, again I swear I picked up some anger in his tone… as if he somehow expected better from me.

“That’s a valid point your honor… I simply forgot I had it with me… it’s just habit” I replied.

“Alright, $100 dollars and a guilty plea, or you can come back for a trial” he snapped, clearly annoyed.

Now I was the one who was annoyed. “Fine, I’ll pay right now.” I glared at him, but caught myself when I saw the meathead bailiff eying me with contempt.

“Guilty of a violation, wait outside.”

I started to limp into the hallway, but one of the other bailiffs, a motherly, pleasant black lady told me I could sit if I wanted.

“Thank you so much.”, always the gentleman.

After a brief wait, me and my fellow criminals were lead to the cashier window where we paid our debts to society. For some reason, that sort of broke my heart. All of them pulled wads of $20 bills… some neatly folded, some crumpled… bills that you could just tell the got from the check cashing store that morning. Some of them counting them over and over, as if to make sure they could really bear to part with that $25 today. It seemed almost routine for them. Just part of the deal, get paid, get drunk, pay a fine… some kind of terrible cycle of poverty. Or maybe that’s just my bleeding heart…

a work in progress

Well friends, it’s happened again… yup, I’m depressed. Much as I’d like to think that an idle life is the one for me, it’s becoming increasingly harder to swallow… and to finance.  For the first time in a while, I’ve had the apartment to myself. The wife is at work, the roommate off at another stage (or for my friends outside the culinary world, a job interview/audition). Maybe it’s the emptiness that makes my spacious (by New York standards) 2 bedroom with hardwood floors seem so desolate… maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had the funds to buy a TV to provide the requisite background noise we so often take for granted… I’m sitting in a plush bed… the only furnishing… wishing I’d laid out for that Ikea couch I saw a few weeks back. The apartment is “cheery” in that it’s well lit by lots of windows… windows I haven’t covered yet… making me feel something like a fish in a bowl.

I took a walk through my fashionable little neighborhood… avoiding the hipster moms driving  danish made storllers… stopping off for “happy hour” at the saddest, diveiest bar on the drag. There are no happy hours in here. The time passes slowly and without joy for the few old men I’m coming to know as regulars and the collection of equally pitiable bartenders. When I walk in, shattering the comfortable gloominess with a burst of natural light, I’m greeted with a knowing nod before these veterans of long forgotten wars turn their attention back to their bottles of beer. A toddler is crawling on the dingy green felt of the pool table in back, his mother squeezing in a few last moments of playtime before his grandmother whisks him away and she begins her evening shift. I’m on my second shot of Jack, only $5 with a beer, wishing that it was 6pm on the west coast instead of here so I could watch game 7 of the Hornets vs. Spurs series. As it stands now, at 7:30, I’ll be to drunk to venture out somewhere with a television to watch it. It’s just as well, as I really shouldn’t spend anymore money today.

When my $2o dollars ran out, after a buy-back from the barkeep who mothered the little bastard from the pool table, I made my way back home. I stopped off for a six-packof MGD, a tribute to my friend Brain who used to drink it religiously, a half pint of warm Jack Daniels, and I returned to my bed. So here I am, wondering why I always deal with depression in such a stereotypical and destructive manner. Tomorrow I’ll have things to do, so the exile I’m feeling from the normal world won’t sting so much. I’ll be heading to the city for a shave and a haircut, preparation for my court date on Wednesday. Did you know you can still get a Straight Razor and Hot Towel shave? I didn’t either, but you can at a select few places in New York. It’ll be the first time a razor has touched this face in over a year… I’m hoping it makes me feel a little less like a bum. Then Wednesday is the court date at last, and we’ll see if I can beat the rap for carrying a pocket knife. I’m hoping the sight of me limping in on a cane, dressed in a suit and tie will lend the judge a little sympathy, but I’m not exactly counting on it. At most, I’m looking at 5 days and a $1000 fine. I’m not real excited about the prospect of either of them, but at this point 5 days will cost me a lot less than $1000.

After that, I’ll be back to business as usual such as it is. I’m going to have to secure the services of an attorney for this workman’s comp case… it’s been over a month now, and still not one cent has been paid. The law states payments are due within 18 days, the insurance company admitted it was true, but said I’d have to take that up at the hearing… whenever that ends up being. Along with the daily harassing phone calls I’ve been placing to my boss, the insurance company and The State Workman’s Comp Board, I should keep busy enough that I don’t find myself in a funk like this for at least a few more days.

For now, I feel a little better now that I’ve vented… it’s as if just putting into words all the frustration and sadness makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. I’m going to accomplish one more thing before the day is over, and that’s killing this half pint and sixer. Cheers.

M.I.A.

I haven’t really been doing much of anything lately. We moved into our new place last weekend, which is good. We made sure to get a bed right away, but as of now that’s all we have in the way of furnishings. We’re thinking about getting a TV this weekend, but aside from Playoff Basketball, I haven’t really missed it. Besides, I probably really shouldn’t be stimulating the economy with my stimulus check, I should probably save it for rent or food or something like that… especially since the workman’s comp board is taking their sweet time in getting my case settled. We’re at a month so far, and I haven’t received a dime… isn’t the whole point to provide for you while you’re unable to generate income? At this rate, I’ll be back to work before the checks kick in.  Who would have thought a big government bureaucracy would be so inefficient?

Physically, I’m getting better. Doc says I’m healing faster than normal… if I had a normal job I’d be back to work in maybe 2 weeks… but since my line of work involves standing for 12-14 hours a day, he thinks 8 weeks is more realistic. I’m in a hurry to get back, but not enough of a hurry to risk permanently disabling myself. Fuck it, they can keep paying me until I’m 100%, assuming they ever pay me at all.

I’ve got a meeting with a very shady sounding lawyer on Monday. I’m not really interested in pursuing a lawsuit, I just think maybe someone with a little more knowledge of the system might be able to expedite the process and get me whatever I’m entitled to. It’s hard to negotiate all the red tape when you aren’t really sure what the proper channels are. Hopefully he can help… or maybe he thinks he can get me a settlement of some kind… I’ve never been the plaintiff in a court case, so I’m not really sure what it’s like to be on the other side. I’m also not willing to give up much of whatever I have coming, because I don’t think it’s all that much to begin with… still, I guess there’s no harm in hearing the guy out and seeing what he can do for me.

Really, things are pretty uneventful. My roommate is still looking for work, but he might have a lead on a few good places. I’m off my crutches and onto a cane, which suits my style so much more. In fact, I’m thinking of making it a permanent part of my ensemble, even after I’m healed. I mean, who doesn’t look fucking classy with a cane? No one, that’s who. Plus it totally suits my bitter old man tendencies. I’m already using it to point and wave at people. It’s MUCH easier to hail a cab with one, and I can’t wait for the opportunity to smack someone upside the head with it. Also, it’s easier to walk around on, so I’ve been strolling around my new neighborhood a bit.

So for anyone who was wondering, all is well… mostly.