January 21st.

I opened my eyes to the staggered atonal din of three separate alarm clocks set for three different times. And no snoozing. Not that day.

I was to meet Elaine, incidentally for the first time, at the Criminal Court in the Bronx at 10 am. A subway ride on the 4 would take roughly 45 minutes from Union Square. I left at 8.

There was something about my being a graduate student listening to a new iPod on a Bronx-bound subway car to face a misdemeanor reckless driving charge brought about in a vehicle not technically belong to me that, then as now, embarrassed me as I realize precisely how rottenly spoiled I am.

I arrived at 161st Street in plenty of time for a change, and rather awestruck at the area that unfolded towards the horizon. Freed from Manhattan’s skyline, the morning sun no longer needed to hide behind buildings for warmth or any other reason; it braved the elements and made its slow escalator ride as any dutiful party would.

The largest building in sight had no visible address but had the columns and carved noble aphorisms of a courthouse. The pride I felt in our American legal system was soon mashed into a pulp by the pink summons I held in gloved hand. Live by the sword, die like a fucking mosquito in a washing machine.

I walked as legally as possible through the revolving doors that kept the cold air out and the justice toasty and fresh.

Approaching the metal detector, the hundreds of dollars of electronics on me, the timekeeper that enslaves my day, the tunebox that fills my ears and subtracts a sense, all, all were tossed into a plastic shoebin that earlier had surely held the personal effects of criminals and judges alike.

I retrieved the summons and confirmed with a guard that this was indeed the Bronx Criminal Court.

Only it wasn’t.

I slouched across the street to the criminal courthouse that looked as if a public library in a strip mall or a dwarf stripper – you don’t quite believe your eyes but can only accept the reality of the situation.

The building, lacking the dignified columns of its neighbor, was an ordinary white box that inside held an array of ramps, glass partitions, staircases, velvet ropes, and criminals. As a white male with a maroon scarf, a brown imitation pea coat and a high center of gravity, I marveled at the calmness with which most of my counterparts approached their impending judgments. Perhaps some were repeat offenders and had grown accustomed to the procedure; some others were as disinterested in a courthouse as they were in the outside world, where citations are handed out for certain behaviors. Some just knew they did it and didn’t dwell like some overeducated occasional depressive might. Some knew each other.

I crossed through the metal detector once more – their safety ensured – and entered the waiting area at just a few minutes before 10.

A carnation in my lapel was the missing part that would have completed the blind date scenario. Elaine knew my description so she could spot me, but I didn’t really know hers. For no particular reason I imagined her with dark hair and a no-nonsense look, larger than not with a face slightly wrinkled from sternness, not smiles.

I knew it was her when I saw her.