Do It For The Story…

…which isn’t exactly why I found myself in District Court today, but it made good sense in my head.

When you get a speeding ticket, that’s considered a traffic violation. But when you get a summons for not having a lifejacket present on your kayak in the middle of Moriches Bay, that’s a navigation violation — which sounds way cooler. Too bad it won’t be on my record, because my case was promptly dismissed.

I must admit, I wasn’t too pleased when the Bay Police officer handed me my summons, because I consider myself to be an experienced sailor; some of my earliest memories involve being on a boat. I’m a competent swimmer, I have some form of a boating license, and, to be honest, I’ve done worse on the water than not have a PFD on my craft.

Still, I had to make an appearance in District Court along with two of my friends who had also been summoned. Seeing as we couldn’t circumvent the law, we decided to make the best of the situation.

I in my far out-of-style tweed suit, my fellows in their respective pink dinner jacket and black vest with a tie proceeded into the Federal Court Building.

As we were escorted through security, we were asked to remove our belts. One of my friends was wearing suspenders, and in the interest of saving time the court officers decided to let him wear them through the checkpoint. However, in order to inform the other officers of the incoming metal-bearing visitor, they shouted down the line:

“This one’s got suspenders!”

The call was answered by another officer, who passed it on to a third, until we were all successfully injected, inspected, detected, infected, neglected, and selected (to quote Arlo Guthrie). It was like the beacon lighting in The Return of the King.

Of course, after all this process (and nearly walking in on a new citizenship ceremony), we discovered we were in the wrong building.

We promptly exited and crossed the lawn to the Distric Court, where a kind clerk directed us to room D-43. There we found our names on the calendar and stepped inside. With little seating available in the modest court room, myself and the lad with the suspenders were separated from the third.

All sorts of folks addressed the cast of characters present: the public defender, a short, gaunt woman in a floral dress; the bailiff, who looked like Mark Wahlberg after ten years of neglecting his body; and some other third party, who I don’t entirely recall. At that point it was starting to get warm and, seeing as everyone was already about an hour behind, I was growing impatient.

Still, we sat through the next half hour’s proceedings and waited to be called to the stand. A man with three kids came in and was promptly told to exit; he would be summoned in by the bailiff when the time came. A fella who had just graduated from some program meant to reduce recidivism or something was met with what was almost proud applause from those present. A woman who had “created a dangerous environment” without any excuse kept her head down while she was fined $120. It was quite a show.

Finally, my friend in the vest was called forward. The two of us who remained seated tensed; this was the moment of truth.

Some sort of jovial exchange occurred between him and the public defender, and he was dismissed. Just like that. With a thumbs up and a wry smile, he exited the courtroom.

Next, it was my pal in the suspenders. His outfit, which I described as something a rumrunner might wear at a dinner celebrating a successful smuggling, attracted the attention of the judge, bailiff, public defender, and other inhabitants of the bench, garnering more than a few snickers, even after he left. Needless to say, he was also dismissed.

Then it was my turn. Before I even got to the bench, the judge produced an almost respectful chuckle and muttered, “Good, another kayaker.” I was handed the summons I had mailed in, as per the issuing officer’s request (which proved false). I looked around at the faces present, all far more amicable than they had seemed an hour before, and everything sort of went quiet.

“Oh you can go — you’ve been dismissed.”

I smiled at the judge. “Thank you, your honor.” I turned to the public defender, who laughed and sent me on my way. I thanked her as well, turning on a heel and walking tall out of the courtroom.

In the hall outside, I was reunited with my partners in crime. A successful caper pulled off, we headed out to breakfast. Coffee and spinach pie made for a mighty celebration in honor of the $100 none of us had to pay.

As with the incident in which I threw a textbook in my pool (take a look at my last post if you’d like), sometimes life hands you a situation from which it seems no good can be derived. However, as a writer, I feel that is never the case. If you bring your brand of, well, you to whatever you’re roped into, there will always be a story.

Never forget that in everything there is a tale to be told. Sometimes its handed to you, more often its broken over your head, but you can always alter it to end in your favor. By that I mean:

Do it for the story.