When I went to court for the parking lot mishap, I sat down with the Assistant District Attorney. The ADA didn’t think that I was actually guilty of leaving the scene of an accident. She couldn’t prosecute me for having no insurance (the law had no effect on private property at the time, and Lakewood High School’s parking lot qualified as private property.) She dropped the unregistered vehicle (it wasn’t my car) and reduced the 16 point moving violation to a 3 point ticket. All I had to do was pay restitution.
Heck…I had brought all of my $27 fortune with me. How much could it cost to fix a tiny little scratch? At least that was my thinking…until the judge set the restitution at $200.
$200?
That was just crazy talk. $200 dollars might as well have been $200 trazillion…I was never going to have that much money at one time in my life. I lived occasionally with my mom, worked a minimum wage job sporadically. I really only chanted nam-myoho-renge-kyo for world peace and hung out with my friends—and that didn’t pay much at all.
Still, $200 was the court’s assessment. I worked hard in those six months to earn the money. That is to say that I worked two or three days in those six months to raise the money. When I returned to the courtroom I had a list of excuses to accompany my empty pockets. Before I could deliver up any of my half-assed rehearsed excuses, a new judge stepped up to the bench. Apparently my regularly scheduled judge was on vacation, and this guy was just postponing court dates for six more months. I had another chance to find the money.
I had left (or rather been encouraged to leave) my job in the mountains, but still had no job in the city. I didn’t see where working at McDonald’s was ever going to earn me the money that I needed. It was really just a waste of time…and I would smell all greasy. No, I needed a high end office job, but no one was hiring me. I went to a few interviews and told them that I was a writer who needed to pay the bills.
What did I write? Poetry, letters, the beginnings of some short stories, stunted novels.
I lowered my aim to apply for jobs behind store counters. I found a couple of opportunities to sell art at private parties, or china in people’s homes, or cutlery. But to really thrive (after the training session) I would have to buy the products and then resell them. I really do feel that I could have been a good art dealer (by “art” I mean limited edition lithographs and silk screens) if I had the $15,000.00 to get started.
Oh well.
The china seemed the best bet, but no one wanted to buy my china. I’m sorry that I didn’t have a nice car, or nice clothes, or bathe regularly, or short hair…I just wanted the china to sell itself. The training people said that the product did practically sell itself.
I worked for my grandpa for a couple of afternoons planting garden beds at the apartments that he managed. I got paid in lunch at the Ogden St. South. It wasn’t actual money, but the gyros there are pretty dang good. So it was worth it. I got to enjoy those flower beds for only a couple of weeks as a big hail storm came and wiped them out.
At five months and twenty-nine days I started to feel the pressure of my lack of monetary worth. I woke up that morning thinking that I must have something worth $200. I gathered my scanty belongings and canvassed some pawn shops. Here is about what I was worth in August of 1990:
Heck…I had brought all of my $27 fortune with me. How much could it cost to fix a tiny little scratch? At least that was my thinking…until the judge set the restitution at $200.
$200?
That was just crazy talk. $200 dollars might as well have been $200 trazillion…I was never going to have that much money at one time in my life. I lived occasionally with my mom, worked a minimum wage job sporadically. I really only chanted nam-myoho-renge-kyo for world peace and hung out with my friends—and that didn’t pay much at all.
Still, $200 was the court’s assessment. I worked hard in those six months to earn the money. That is to say that I worked two or three days in those six months to raise the money. When I returned to the courtroom I had a list of excuses to accompany my empty pockets. Before I could deliver up any of my half-assed rehearsed excuses, a new judge stepped up to the bench. Apparently my regularly scheduled judge was on vacation, and this guy was just postponing court dates for six more months. I had another chance to find the money.
I had left (or rather been encouraged to leave) my job in the mountains, but still had no job in the city. I didn’t see where working at McDonald’s was ever going to earn me the money that I needed. It was really just a waste of time…and I would smell all greasy. No, I needed a high end office job, but no one was hiring me. I went to a few interviews and told them that I was a writer who needed to pay the bills.
What did I write? Poetry, letters, the beginnings of some short stories, stunted novels.
I lowered my aim to apply for jobs behind store counters. I found a couple of opportunities to sell art at private parties, or china in people’s homes, or cutlery. But to really thrive (after the training session) I would have to buy the products and then resell them. I really do feel that I could have been a good art dealer (by “art” I mean limited edition lithographs and silk screens) if I had the $15,000.00 to get started.
Oh well.
The china seemed the best bet, but no one wanted to buy my china. I’m sorry that I didn’t have a nice car, or nice clothes, or bathe regularly, or short hair…I just wanted the china to sell itself. The training people said that the product did practically sell itself.
I worked for my grandpa for a couple of afternoons planting garden beds at the apartments that he managed. I got paid in lunch at the Ogden St. South. It wasn’t actual money, but the gyros there are pretty dang good. So it was worth it. I got to enjoy those flower beds for only a couple of weeks as a big hail storm came and wiped them out.
At five months and twenty-nine days I started to feel the pressure of my lack of monetary worth. I woke up that morning thinking that I must have something worth $200. I gathered my scanty belongings and canvassed some pawn shops. Here is about what I was worth in August of 1990:
This was it. This was all of the wealth that I had in the world, plus loose change on the floor of my beat up Subaru: twenty-three dollars and no more. Even written out, it didn't look like much money.
Now I know that many would say that I could have sold my car…but my girlfiend’s stepfather had just given it to me so that I could get to Buddhist activities all over town. It represented the physical benefit, the proof that chanting was working, so I had to keep it.
I had learned a lot in that year about quasi-hard work and my own worldly value. I didn’t make the $200 exactly, but I was pretty sure that the judge would be pleased by my personal growth. Maybe in another six months…
I drove myself to court the following morning. I was early on the docket, just one case before me. Some guy was following a family around with a video camera, and they wanted a restraining order put on him. He sure did talk back a lot to the judge. He got that old judge worked up into a tizzy. I mean, one really should not talk back to a judge like that…even I knew that.
The bailiff took the guy to jail (oh, yeah, the judge gave him two days in jail for contempt of court), and they called my case. I stood, and it went like this:
“Mr. Justus…where is the $200 you were ordered to pay a year ago?”
“I don’t have it, your honor.”
“So you’re telling me that in an entire year, you couldn’t make $200? What have you been doing?”
“Well I tried to pawn some things, but I’m not worth that much. I worked some day labor jobs, and tried selling stuff door-to-door, but it wasn’t really enough to cover my small expenses. I worked for my grandfather, but that was mostly just service stuff for lunch. I just don’t see how I’m ever going to make that much money.”
“You have had a year to pay a very small fine. The ADA dropped some charges which, frankly, I don’t agree with. You are disrespecting me and my court—“
“No, your honor, I am not—“
“Did you just interrupt me?”
“I...uh—“
“I could throw you in jail for contempt of court: contempt for interrupting me, contempt for disrespecting my court. I could put you in jail on work release until you pay off that fine. I’m sure that a couple of weeks of county labor jobs would pay the $200. Is that what you want?”
“Actually…uh…no…but it would pay the restitution.”
“I’m being serious here. Why won’t you take this seriously? For not paying the $200 in the past year, I find in you in contempt and fine you $500—“
“Your Honor, it don’t think that‘s a good idea. If I can’t find the $200, than I doubt that I can pay $700.”
“Mr. Justus, I have a plan to help you find the $200: you will stay in the Jefferson County jail facility for no less than 10 days while you think of where you can find that money. NEXT CASE!”
I only remember that repartee so well because I played it over and over in my mind as I lay on my concrete slab, dressed in my scratchy orange jump suit, and missed preseason football. Still, the solid walls echoed so nicely when I chanted for my early release, great fortune…and world peace.
Now I know that many would say that I could have sold my car…but my girlfiend’s stepfather had just given it to me so that I could get to Buddhist activities all over town. It represented the physical benefit, the proof that chanting was working, so I had to keep it.
I had learned a lot in that year about quasi-hard work and my own worldly value. I didn’t make the $200 exactly, but I was pretty sure that the judge would be pleased by my personal growth. Maybe in another six months…
I drove myself to court the following morning. I was early on the docket, just one case before me. Some guy was following a family around with a video camera, and they wanted a restraining order put on him. He sure did talk back a lot to the judge. He got that old judge worked up into a tizzy. I mean, one really should not talk back to a judge like that…even I knew that.
The bailiff took the guy to jail (oh, yeah, the judge gave him two days in jail for contempt of court), and they called my case. I stood, and it went like this:
“Mr. Justus…where is the $200 you were ordered to pay a year ago?”
“I don’t have it, your honor.”
“So you’re telling me that in an entire year, you couldn’t make $200? What have you been doing?”
“Well I tried to pawn some things, but I’m not worth that much. I worked some day labor jobs, and tried selling stuff door-to-door, but it wasn’t really enough to cover my small expenses. I worked for my grandfather, but that was mostly just service stuff for lunch. I just don’t see how I’m ever going to make that much money.”
“You have had a year to pay a very small fine. The ADA dropped some charges which, frankly, I don’t agree with. You are disrespecting me and my court—“
“No, your honor, I am not—“
“Did you just interrupt me?”
“I...uh—“
“I could throw you in jail for contempt of court: contempt for interrupting me, contempt for disrespecting my court. I could put you in jail on work release until you pay off that fine. I’m sure that a couple of weeks of county labor jobs would pay the $200. Is that what you want?”
“Actually…uh…no…but it would pay the restitution.”
“I’m being serious here. Why won’t you take this seriously? For not paying the $200 in the past year, I find in you in contempt and fine you $500—“
“Your Honor, it don’t think that‘s a good idea. If I can’t find the $200, than I doubt that I can pay $700.”
“Mr. Justus, I have a plan to help you find the $200: you will stay in the Jefferson County jail facility for no less than 10 days while you think of where you can find that money. NEXT CASE!”
I only remember that repartee so well because I played it over and over in my mind as I lay on my concrete slab, dressed in my scratchy orange jump suit, and missed preseason football. Still, the solid walls echoed so nicely when I chanted for my early release, great fortune…and world peace.
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