It was a dark and stormy night…
No, actually it was a sunny, warm, mid spring afternoon. There was a pall over the city because we’d lost Prince that week and my Mom and I were in mourning.
Yes, my Mom. You have to remember, this is the woman who once made all her grandkids come in the house to listen to one of the greatest songs of the rock era: Baba O’Reilly.
My Mom, who was raised on Beethoven, knows a great piece of music when she hears it.
She adored Prince.
She thought he was sweet, well-mannered, charming and a wonderful representative of Minnesota. She knew he was a genius, not just musically but the way he handled Sony with his name change stunt. She likes lots of his songs, most notably 7, Starfish and Coffee and Kiss.
Who doesn’t like Kiss?
She admits it was an over reach when she tried to get Dad to watch Purple Rain but that’s what enthusiasts do…
Anyway, we were in Shakopee and I was wearing a purple button down blouse with a crocheted fringe at the hem in honor of our musical icon.
We’d spent a very productive afternoon at Junkapalooza or Junkfest or whatever…it was an event in which vendors manned hundreds of booths filled with repurposed stuff. I’m talking all kinds of furniture and art made from the cast off pieces of things big small, rough, shiny and bent. Garden statuary made of old silverware, furniture made of farm implements, antiques made of old junk. It was wonderful.
I bought a gorgeous brindle cowhide with the idea that it would make a great new cover for the wooden throne I’d inherited from Uncle Bruce. I was very excited.
For a few minutes at a time, we managed to forget that we were bereft.
Traffic was heavy as we set out for home. I was driving my minivan, the cowhide rolled up in the rear, when disaster struck in the guise of Superman.
The light had just turned green, I moved into the intersection, looked left, right then left again…
What’s that? My goodness that Superman in front of Culvers is doing an interesting dance. And look at that long black hair! Is that a Superman or woman?
It took no more than two seconds for those thoughts to cross my mind.
I looked back to the front only to find that as I crossed the intersection, the next light had turned red, causing traffic to stop in front of me.
Right in front of me.
I learned that one needs more than 15 feet to bring a minivan to a complete stop, even if one is only doing 20mph.
Just like that, I was a criminal.
Damn Superman and his mesmerizing dance.
Mom was fine, of course. She survived a tumble down marble steps at Versailles without so much as a bruise a few years back: an abrupt stop at 20mph couldn’t make her spill her piping hot coffee.
I immediately put the van in park, hit the flashers and dashed out to be sure everyone in the car I’d bumped was okay. They were. The bumper on her car was not. My front end and hood were crumpled. No ones’ air bag deployed, which gives you an idea of how slow I was going.
I was writing down my insurance info for her when the police arrived and ruined our good time.
Advice: If you’re going to have a fender bender, don’t do it on a main artery with cops cruising the area every few minutes. You’ll regret it.
I got a ticket. Obviously: I rear ended someone, I deserved a ticket.
Advice: If you’re going to get rear ended, make sure you’re a licensed driver with up to date insurance.
Yeah, I kinda dented her car but I really wrecked her day.
The whole event was very hard on Mom, who summoned all her reserves of strength to keep from storming out of the shotgun seat and coming to fisticuffs with either the poor gal I hit or the police officer, who was very professional, understanding and patient as she did her job.
Mom just gets really territorial when any of her kids are involved.
Twenty minutes after the initial impact, I’ve given over all my insurance info and the police officer was asking the other driver about her nonexistent license and insurance when suddenly there’s this skinny woman with a long gray (I could actually hear Joe Soucheray’s voice saying ‘prematurely gray’) braid and glasses, poking her face into our little contretemps.
“Did you see the accident?” the police officer politely asked her.
“No but Black Lives Matter!” she brayed.
“Please step away.” The officer advised.
“Get outta here.” I think I’m the only one who heard the low, menacing voice from the front seat of my van.
Busy bodies are everywhere and this one will never know how lucky she was that Punchin’ Punkin didn’t unbuckle. Not that my mother has ever needed to throw an actual punch to decimate anyone. She can still make a referee cry from nine rows up.
Thanks for reining it in, Mom. I know that was hard for you.
Despite its crumpled front end, I was able to drive the van home and to the mechanic’s the next day.
My poor victim had to watch as her car was towed away to the impound lot, locked up till she could show proof of insurance and get a licensed driver to bring it home.
Citations don’t give you all the information anymore: you have to go online to find out what the fine is. I did that right away and couldn’t find any info: turns out that the website lags real time by about ten days so I was informed to check back then to find out what Shakopee considered my pound of flesh.
Before the ten days were up, I got a letter informing me that my transgression was so serious I would not be allowed to pay by mail: the Shakopee Court insisted on seeing me.
Okay, that was bad enough but I figured I hit another car: I could have hurt someone. I was guilty, I deserved to have a judge lecture me before levying a fine. What really sucked was that I wasn’t due in court for two months.
Two months.
All cars had been repaired, insurance paid out and I’m assuming my victim got her license long before I was allowed to put all this behind me. Instead, my entire spring was marred by the big red letters on my calendar, reminding me that Shakopee wanted to see me in court at the end of June.
As anyone who knows me knows, I hate having things on my calendar. Even fun things, like weddings and parties just oppress me, knowing that at that particular time in the future, I’d be expected to show up at a particular time and place. I’m not good with that kind of structure.
We looked up my transgression and it seems the maximum penalty for a petty misdemeanor is $300.00. I can stand that: I put the money aside and tried not to think about my court date.
I brought Josie home from school, celebrated Mother’s day, Father’s Day, our 35th wedding anniversary…summer was great and every time I caught sight of that note on my calendar, thought, ‘well, it’ll be over soon enough.’
It was a dark and stormy night…
No, it was a bright and sunny Monday morning in late June when I went to court, intending to plead guilty and pay my fine…
Turns out since I damaged someone’s property, my crime was not a petty misdemeanor but a regular misdemeanor. The court wasn’t asking me to pay my debt to society, they wanted to schedule my trial.
My trial.
The maximum penalty for what I’d done was not $300.00 but $1000.00 and/or 90 days in jail.
I always assumed that if I went to jail it would be for something I’d done on purpose. It’s so disillusioning when one’s dreams go up in smoke.
Despite knowing that everything that happened on that fateful day in April was my own fault Damn that Superman and his captivating gyrations!! I pled not guilty.
Actually, the way it was explained to me was that the purpose of all this was so that my victim could make claims of restitution beyond what my insurance paid. Like, say she had a case of wine glasses on the seat of the car that fell to the floor and broke when I bumped her. I immediately thought of the tow and impound charges. I was at fault for the accident and my insurance covered the repairs but if she tried to hit me up for the cost of driving while unlicensed and uninsured, I was ready to take it to the Supreme Court!
I also figured if the Shakopee justice system was going to threaten me with three months in jail, they could meet the burden of proof.
Mostly I was just confused as to what the Hell was going on.
So the prosecutor filled in Not Guilty in the ‘plea’ box and asked me if I’d prefer 8:30 or 11:30 court time at the end of August. She was very polite.
The end of August??
This damned event had already loomed over my schedule (and bank account) for two months and the court didn’t have time for me for another two months?
Turns out Shakopee only does this stuff on Mondays, so a month to them is like four days. Shakopee is awesome.
So I went home, marked up another calendar date with big red letters and tried not to think about it for the rest of the summer.
Friends and relatives came to town, we had excursions and get togethers, we celebrated my parents 60th anniversary, we found out we’re going to be grandparents again…summer progressed and every event contributed to making 2016 the Best Year Ever!
Except when I caught sight of those big red letters at the end of August and thought ‘yuck’.
It was a dark and stormy night…
Nope, another gorgeous sparkling Monday morning in Shakopee.
I tried to dress like a person who didn’t look like a threat to anyone. Not the way I usually look; no paint splatters up my arms, no nail polish on my finger prints, hair all going in the same direction, shoes with closed toes, neither tears nor sequins on my shirt, no fanny pack and not my new purse featuring Malcom Reynolds and the word “SHINY”… someone the court would feel safe to unleash back into society.
My daughter came with me, not as my lawyer but for emotional support. She came all the way to Shakopee traffic court, where no one has ever been jailed for a fender bender because the firm where she works told her only a terrible daughter would let her mom go to court alone. She’s not a terrible daughter and even lawyers love their moms.
I’m glad she was there.
Turns out, this was not my trial either. I have no idea how long this ordeal could have continued to play out but when the prosecutor looked over my file and said no claims for further damages had been submitted, I immediately changed my plea to GUILTYGUILTYGUILTY AS HELL!!
“Okay.” the prosecutor checked the ‘guilty as hell’ box on her sheet. “With a guilty plea, you’ll pay the $88.00 court filing fee. Is that okay?” she asked me. I nodded. “for your offense, I’ll fine you…$50.00. Does that sound okay?”
It was okay with me.
I brought my new plea up to the court clerk to file. She looked it over and said “It’s actually going to be $3.00 less than this. Is that okay with you?”
I said I could live with that.
Katie and I went downstairs to the administration desk so I could finally, four months after allowing my attention to drift for that fateful two seconds, pay the price for snarling up traffic on a Friday afternoon in Shakopee.
“Okay,” said the administrator. “$135.00. Would you like to pay in full or make a payment schedule?”
I paid it in full.
Katie and I walked out into the late August sunshine, relieved that my criminal career was finally over. It was not quite ten in the morning and I was a free woman. Convicted of a misdemeanor, yes but free nonetheless.
Two things I never thought I’d be: Convicted of a misdemeanor and immune to rabies. Life is weird.
But Shakopee really is awesome.