I drove to court yesterday to settle some outstanding tickets. I had been negligent in keeping my vehicle up to date with pollution laws. I was early. I drove to the top of the parking garage in Rolling Meadows and sat there for thirty minutes listening to the radio. Two chuckleheads on the local sports station were interviewing a Japanese sidearm pitcher for the White Sox.

I went into the courthouse. It seemed quiet. On traffic court days there are usually long lines and lots of impatient shuffling. Odd. Where are the latinos that clutch their beltless pants as they pass the metal detectors? Where are cologne soaked leather jacket wearing hair-gel encrusted former jocks? Where are the fat old men with cabbie hats and mustard stained t-shirts?

Something was wrong. My uneasiness deepened as I approached the my courtroom. Nobody else was waiting for entry. All was dark inside. I dug my crumpled ticket from my pocket and unfurled it before my eyes. That damn officer had bad handwriting. I decided the 3 was a 5. I'm here on the wrong day. Fuck.

I went back to work. I haven't explained that I need to go back tomorrow yet. I feel dumb. 9:04 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm