It's 2am, and I can't sleep, so like any responsible inter-nerd, I'm posting. Here's a short story to explain the title:
On August 2nd, Sonja called me to say that
Aaron had just called and was in town. She said it was a weird phone call, because he introduced himself as Aaron Siskow, which is weird if you already knew that Sonja and Aaron have met many times before, and she even starred in
"Billings & Spivey II." (That makes no sense to people who didn't go to ISU.)
Anyway, when I called him back, I learned that he and
Woodsie were in Kansas City for the evening while doing a shoot for Aaron's job at
Pioneer, and Woodsie was freelancing as a grip for the shoot. They wanted to meet up if I had the time, which I did.
I was in the middle of my last week working at
KCTV (and hating it), and was days away from a trip to Gettysburg for the Corcoran Family Reunion.
I picked them up at the Holiday Inn, and we headed north towards old Overland Park, because Aaron wanted to go to a bar called "The Other Place." I should note here that there are at least 3 bars in KC that are called "The Other Place," one of which I visited last Friday with two coworkers and our boss. (Another story for another time.)
I had to call Sonja back at home for directions to the particular "Other Place" that Aaron wanted to go to, because I'd never been there. At least not while conscious. On the way there, Aaron mentioned another drinking establishment in downtown KC that I was more familiar with, plus it has a patio on the roof, so we changed our plans.
I drove up I-35 towards downtown, moving at a pretty good clip, as is my nature. We rounded the gradual bend near Union Station, where a dark blue KCMO police cruiser was sitting on the shoulder. The driver, who had been standing outside the car, watched me pass and then jumped behind the wheel.
Crap.
The last time I got a speeding ticket (or any ticket) was either 3 or 4 years ago, and I had to go to two "Driver Improvement" seminars as a result, because it was my third moving violation in 12 months. I had to spend two Monday nights sitting for 6 hours in a classroom at
DMACC with 20 other delinquents, most of whom had committed much worse offenses than myself. The ticket that sent me there was 79 in a 70mph zone just across the Minnesota border. That's nothing compared to my first-ever speeding ticket: 96mph in a 55 zone. I was a dumb kid. (Some might argue that 'was' is not the right word to use there.) (I might agree.)
I quickly exited the interstate hoping that I was far enough ahead of the cop that he wouldn't see it, but he did. For the sake of time, I'll summarize the ticketing procedure: There were 3 cops in the car, but only one spoke. The other two kept a close eye on my passengers. At one point, after looking at my license and insurance info, Officer Talky asked me who's car I was driving. This may be standard procedure for police, but it caught me off guard, and just seemed like a stupid question. Do I look like a car thief?
They went back to the patrol car to run my ID and apparently also take a nap, because it seemed like an eternity before they were back at my window. The cop gave me a ticket to sign, which "doesn't mean you plead guilty, it's just a record of the stop." Great, whatever, you're a moron.
The ticket was for 67 in a 55. I honestly didn't know that it was a 55mph zone, but it's not like 67 is ludicrous speed. (My car is capable of that, though.) When I signed the stupid ticket, I noticed that the cop handed me a felt-tipped pen. I also noticed that there was no fine information on the ticket. He said that would come later in the mail. Shortly after that, he gave me a copy of the ticket and sent us on our way.
Then I noticed that, since it was a carbon copy and since he used a felt-tipped pen, there was
no information on the ticket about the stop, except for my signature. Stupid cop.
I put the ticket in the glove box and headed to the bar. The night was so humid that my beer evaporated before I could finish half a cup, and soon I was soaked with sweat. We left around 1:30 (I think), and I dropped them off at their hotel. And I forgot about the ticket.
Two weeks later I was digging through my glove box looking for a deposit envelope when I came across the yellow ticket. I checked it again for a fine and a date, but even if it had been written on the ticket, it wouldn't have been legible. Later that day, I called the number on the back of the ticket to check on its status. The woman I talked to was polite and helpful, but couldn't give me much information. She told me that it was "in the system," but didn't know the fine. She said I would probably receive it in the mail in a day or two. So I forgot about it again.
A week later, I came across the ticket again while searching through the piles on my desk. Again, I called the number on the back. This time, the woman I spoke to (a different one from the first call) wasn't very helpful at all. She said that it was in the system, and that I should have received it by then. I asked if I could pay it over the phone or come downtown and pay it, and she said, and I quote, "You don't wanna do that. That would mess it up more than it already is. It'll probably come in the mail today or tomorrow." So, I gave up. And I forgot about it again.
Now it's Friday, September 24th, almost 2 months since I got the ticket. I picked up the mail and noticed a letter from the Kansas City, Missouri Courthouse (or something like that) and thought my ticket had finally arrived.
Wrong. Inside was a bench warrant for my arrest. If I was "found operating a motor vehicle on the streets of Kansas City, Missouri," I would be "arrested and my vehicle impounded." Say it with me now: WTF? According to my warrant, I had 45 days to pay the ticket, and since I didn't, I was considered a fugitive by the state of Missouri.
A wanted man.
Since it was past 5 o'clock, I called the only two people I know of with extensive experience with the law. One, now ironically a law student in Chicago, told me that I may need a lawyer. The other, told me he knew a lawyer and that he'd call me back with the guy's name. I barely slept at all that night, especially when there were already plans to go to the opening of the
Apple Store on the Plaza the next morning in...DOWNTOWN KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI.
I drove like a nun (who knows how to drive), and except for one close call with an Overland Park cruiser, the weekend passed without incident. With nowhere else to turn, I called my dad Saturday afternoon to get his advice. I had resisted telling him about it because he has always (correctly) suspected that I drive too fast. Surprisingly he took it rather well, and assured me that I wouldn't need a lawyer, but I may have to go before a judge.
I've only been before a judge once before, and it was for my 96mph speeding ticket. I was a junior in high school, and I was scared to death.
On Monday morning. I slowly got out of bed. Not knowing what else to do, I called the number on the ticket again. This time, I was put on hold, which didn't help. I gave up after 5 minutes, and realized I'd have to go it alone. I put on a shirt and tie, and headed downtown.
After finally locating the right building (which took 2 tries and annoyed 3 security guards), I found myself in line for a cashier inside the Kansas City Municipal Building. The people ahead of me only spent 2 or 3 minutes at the counter, and then left. I had a bad feeling, however, that as soon as I got to the window, the cashier would sound the alarm, and guards would swoop in from all sides and drag me off to a holding cell with a big bald guy named Suzie.
When my turn finally arrived, I presented my bench warrant and my blank speeding ticket. The lady behind the counter takes one look at it and said: "Hundred eighteen fifty."
That's it? All I have to do is write a check? Surely there would be more drama. I looked around, but the security guard in the corner was more interested in something on the ceiling. I pulled my checkbook out of my leather legal pad holder ($10 at any office supply store, and a must-have for pulling off the
"I'm an honest taxpayer, this is all just a big misunderstanding" look), and wrote out a check for $118.50.
The cashier gave me a receipt to sign, which was another carbon copy, and handed me a felt-tipped pen. I pressed as hard as I could when signing my name, which resulted in a signature that would have looked more appropriate had it been in crayon. "Next," she said.
And that's pretty much where the story ends. I paid my fine, I didn't get arrested, but for a weekend, I knew what it was like to be on the run. To always be looking over your shoulder for The Man. And you can tell your friends that you once knew a fugitive.
As a final note, I found out later that same day that, all along, I could have paid my ticket
online 3 business days after the traffic stop. This seems incredibly convenient, which must be why no one I talked to told me about it.
Well, now it's 3:17am, so I'm going to take another shot at getting some sleep, but before I do that, I think I'll rip those little tags off the mattress...
