Steven Hunley
04-28-2010, 10:38 PM
The Orange County Courthouse
By
Steven Hunley
I’m writing this in the Orange County Courthouse while my son and I wait to go into traffic court. Later I’ll transcribe it and put in into Word.
The Orange County Courthouse is not the Compton Courthouse. There are white-folk here, not so many of color. It’s cleaner here in the hall and I bet, whenever I see them, that the bathrooms are not so tagged-up. (they weren’t)
There is, I notice, An Hispanic girl who has hair, if it was woven into rope, would be suitable to tie up the Queen Mary. (thick) (awfully thick)
An aging surfer (going bald) with faded jeans, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops, flip-flops by on the slick terrazzo floor. A large woman talks to a man wearing sunglasses on his head, who is squinging up her nose saying, “Nyana, nyana, nyana,” while gesticulating with her hand in a dismissive manner to explain to him the cop’s attitude when he gave her a ticket. A young Hispanic girl with short hair is staring at me with widened eyes thinking, “What is that old man writing anyway?”
An older woman walks by displaying a tee-shirt with the words “Super Mom” emblazoned in rhinestones. My son is standing behind a woman of color (black) with Ophra hair, who is reading a thick novel of some sort though I can’t see the cover. I suspect it is an Ophra-recommended novel.
A blond surfer girl (is there any other kind?) is reprimanding her boyfriend for getting yet another ticket. She sits while he stands in front of her. And he thought he’d be in front of only one judge today, I’ll bet.
“What could I do?’ he pleads, stating his case. Perhaps he’s only practicing for the main event in the court room.
A man glides by with a cart full of mail whose cuffs are as frayed as mine. He is followed by a janitor pushing a cart of cleaning supplies whose tennies are as worn and white as mine are.
The three people who are lined up in front of a door labeled “Criminal Operations K-100 are a varied lot. Criminals usually are. Three, no four lawyers walk by wearing rumpled suits they obviously slept in and carrying briefcases. Out of a door comes the girl with wide eyes that caught me writing. As I give her the once-over from top to bottom I realize as she walks past she’s got a nice butt.
A woman with a worried look walks past and smells of unidentifiable perfume. All perfume is unidentifiable to me. A man who wants to know where to pay a fine asks a lawyer for directions. He obliges, knowing that’s all he’s good for. When the girl at the end of the line (the one who smelled of perfume) turns sideways I realize at once she has a kick-*** figure. The cop that gave her a ticket was obviously committing a crime and should have arrested himself. (though they never do) No girl that fine ever deserves a ticket, even when she deserves a ticket. Know what I mean? I should have been a judge.
My son comes out and I have to stop writing. We’ve got a court room to find.
By
Steven Hunley
I’m writing this in the Orange County Courthouse while my son and I wait to go into traffic court. Later I’ll transcribe it and put in into Word.
The Orange County Courthouse is not the Compton Courthouse. There are white-folk here, not so many of color. It’s cleaner here in the hall and I bet, whenever I see them, that the bathrooms are not so tagged-up. (they weren’t)
There is, I notice, An Hispanic girl who has hair, if it was woven into rope, would be suitable to tie up the Queen Mary. (thick) (awfully thick)
An aging surfer (going bald) with faded jeans, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops, flip-flops by on the slick terrazzo floor. A large woman talks to a man wearing sunglasses on his head, who is squinging up her nose saying, “Nyana, nyana, nyana,” while gesticulating with her hand in a dismissive manner to explain to him the cop’s attitude when he gave her a ticket. A young Hispanic girl with short hair is staring at me with widened eyes thinking, “What is that old man writing anyway?”
An older woman walks by displaying a tee-shirt with the words “Super Mom” emblazoned in rhinestones. My son is standing behind a woman of color (black) with Ophra hair, who is reading a thick novel of some sort though I can’t see the cover. I suspect it is an Ophra-recommended novel.
A blond surfer girl (is there any other kind?) is reprimanding her boyfriend for getting yet another ticket. She sits while he stands in front of her. And he thought he’d be in front of only one judge today, I’ll bet.
“What could I do?’ he pleads, stating his case. Perhaps he’s only practicing for the main event in the court room.
A man glides by with a cart full of mail whose cuffs are as frayed as mine. He is followed by a janitor pushing a cart of cleaning supplies whose tennies are as worn and white as mine are.
The three people who are lined up in front of a door labeled “Criminal Operations K-100 are a varied lot. Criminals usually are. Three, no four lawyers walk by wearing rumpled suits they obviously slept in and carrying briefcases. Out of a door comes the girl with wide eyes that caught me writing. As I give her the once-over from top to bottom I realize as she walks past she’s got a nice butt.
A woman with a worried look walks past and smells of unidentifiable perfume. All perfume is unidentifiable to me. A man who wants to know where to pay a fine asks a lawyer for directions. He obliges, knowing that’s all he’s good for. When the girl at the end of the line (the one who smelled of perfume) turns sideways I realize at once she has a kick-*** figure. The cop that gave her a ticket was obviously committing a crime and should have arrested himself. (though they never do) No girl that fine ever deserves a ticket, even when she deserves a ticket. Know what I mean? I should have been a judge.
My son comes out and I have to stop writing. We’ve got a court room to find.