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On this Wednesday, December 9th, I was in court.

Nothing serious; an arraignment for traffic court. Naturally, I planned on pleading not guilty and taking it to trial.

Now, I’m not one to complain about our courts – be it traffic court, small claims, or jury duty, we are fortunate that a morning is the only thing we have to worry about losing in our service of justice. But those folks at the Stockton traffic court are really testing me.

Traffic court starts at 1:30 pm – good. Great, actually. But before going to court at 1:30pm, you must sign in at 8:00am.

This is the kind of thing that irks me. Is it really necessary to have a 5 hour window between signing in and starting court? What, exactly, takes 5 hours to do? It’s not like they’re ordering hors’ devoirs or making up the master suite. It should be sign in, roll call, court starts. Bam-bam-bam. 15 minutes. But no, five hours.

So I drove to Stockton, signed in while adorned in my pajamas, drove home, went back to sleep for a while, and then drove back this afternoon. Blah!

Traffic court is relegated to the basement, and reached by descending a very old and poorly lit stairwell. Torches would have been an improvement. The steps were worn precariously smooth, and the rubber toeholds commonly found on stairs in government buildings had long ago degenerated into barely noticeable stripes of brown discoloration. Two middle aged bailiffs spun keys around their fingers as we marched past, and I had a sudden urge to place my hands on the shoulders of the person in front of me.

We were funneled into the court room by a third bailiff – a portly Latina woman named ‘Rosaria’ (pronounced Roh-SAR-ee-uh, which, tell me if I’m wrong, clearly looks like Rose-uh-REE-uh). We were informed that no breaks were possible for the first half hour, which, of course, meant that my parking meter would expire before I could feed it.

As I wedged myself into the child-chair provided to me by an agency funded with my own dollars, the smell hit me. I wasn’t sure which direction it was coming from, so dodging and reeling weren’t an option. It was something like morning breath, with notes of old eggs and cabbage.

I wasn’t sure if The Smell was smuggled in by one of my courtroom companions, or if it was skulking under the seating, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting defendants. It’s possible that The Smell had been there a long time, maturing and gaining complexity by augmenting itself with bits of chewed gum and shoe scrapings. There was almost an intelligence to it, a wavering cadence wherein The Smell would be strong and then distant, as if it were swirling slowly around the room and plotting something nefarious.

While acclimating myself to my new and pungent friend, the room was filled with an ancient, crackling recording of Commissioner something-or-other informing us of our rights. What the tape did to my ears was eerily similar to what The Smell was doing to my nostrils – a sort of teasing, just at the edge of comprehension effect that was undeniably hypnotic – like a Pink Floyd light show.

The Tape told us we could plead Guilty, No Contest, Not Guilty, or, my favorite, Guilty With An Explanation. Many will note that there is absolutely no difference between Guilty, No Contest, or Guilty With An Explanation. I suppose it makes it easier to fess up to your crime when you’ve got a menu of guilty selections to choose from. “Hmm, I did it, and I know I did it, and the judge knows I did it… But I’ll plead ‘No Contest’ to make it look like I’m not really sure that I think I did it. That’ll fool ‘im, stupid judge!”

Of the 72 people in traffic court this morning (I counted twice), I was the only one to plead Not Guilty. This amazed me. The overwhelming majority opted for Guilty With An Explanation. Thing is, there were some excellent excuses out there. I think a good number of my fellow infractors could have gone with Not Guilty and gotten off clean.

I wanted to huddle the room together and start calling plays like a Quarterback. “Pedro – they say you were speeding. I say you were having a stroke, and you lost control of the right side of your body. If you speak with a slur, they can kiss their fine goodbye. Aaaand BREAK!”

Finally, the stenographer butchered my name and it was time to spring into action: “JewBull MacMillion?”

“Good afternoon your honor.”

Commissioner so-and-so inclined his head toward me and squinted over his bifocals. For some reason, his mannerisms, raspy voice, and busy fingers reminded me of Albus Dumbledore.

“Hmmm lesseehere… Mmm… Mmmhmmm… It sez here you weeeeeerrrree… Passing on the right?”

“Yes sir. Not Guilty, court trial, time waived.” A murmur rippled through the crowd behind me.

“Ah good, good. Very well, Mr. Mcmeellion. Date set forrrrr… Februarryyyyyy fourth. February fourth?”

“Very good, your honor. See you then.”

“Mmm… Mmmhmm.” He deftly ruffled a stack of papers and slapped them into the hand of the passing bailiff without looking. I suspected that this doddering-old-man shtick was merely stagecraft for the local rubes – the whizzing whirligigs in his head were surely sharper than most. I also got the feeling he was wearing sweatpants under his foreboding black robe.

My paperwork complete, I ascended from the dungeon and stepped out of the Courthouse. I was greeted by sunlight and odor-free air, and appreciated my freedom no less than any Shawshank escapee.

But I was hungry.

With a flat hand to my brow I scanned the local offerings – Subway, Quiznos, a shady taqueria, and a small cart with a massive red and yellow sign promising the availability of “Tast-E Dogs”. Uninspiring. My feet pointed toward a stoplight, so I ventured forth and crossed a street or two. Rounding a corner, I found myself faced with a bright placard over darkened windows that read “Spaghetteria”. Intriguing.

Upon entering the establishment known as “Café Amore”, I paused. There were no other customers. The tables were simple flat glass over red and white tablecloths, with paper napkins and plain wooden chairs. A single hostess wearing a Twilight t-shirt greeted me with a nervous smile, and invited me to find my own table. I chose one next to the window, hoping to get some reading done. Had I known what was to come, I would have left my book in my car.

The menu was threadbare – a soup, a salad, two appetizers, a handful of pasta dishes. My hostess suggested the lasagna special: includes soup or salad for only $9.75! What a bargain! As she retreated to the kitchen in search of coffee, the proprietor came forward with a basket of bread.

Javier was in his fifties, with a receding hairline and more than his share of smile lines. The basket contained squares of fresh focaccia, accompanied with balsamic vinegar and oil. He bid me “salud” with a curt nod and turned on his heel to the kitchen. Quite good, the bread. I congratulated myself on my culinary navigation.

Moments later, the salad I had ordered arrived, topped with the homemade cilantro dressing that I had been assured was very popular. As I took my first bite, the world shrank around me.

Amazing! Cilantro, certainly, but so much more! How could they pack this much punch into a simple puree? Unheard of! With my mouth agape and my pupils dilated, I noticed Javier grinning to himself from behind the open counter. Wry, spry old man! What clever sorcery is this? Undeniably the best salad I’ve ever had. I crunched through it in record time.

My lasagna arrived, and it was just as intoxicating as the salad. Not acidic at all, not too much meat or cheese, perfectly balanced, and scrumptious beyond all reason. If you’re ever in Stockton, anywhere near 40 N Sutter street, do yourself a favor. Café Amore.

The hostess, who I learned was Javier’s daughter, waved goodbye to her father and headed off, leaving the two of us alone in the cavernous dining room. Javier approached and inquired on his efforts. My response was most enthusiastic and, unfortunately, punctuated with a shower of unfinished morsels that landed on the table. I raised a napkin to my mouth in horror, but Javier laughed and began telling his story.

A corporate man for 26 years, he had been laid off a few years back and opened his Café. His daughter, clearly his muse, preferred his cooking to anything else, often driving clear over from the college she attended to wolf down a meal before rushing back to study.

Alas, times are hard, and the empty tables frowned at us as he shrugged and smirked. “What can you do? Business is business.” We nodded and commiserated over the remnants of my lasagna. I left him a generous tip, and formally introduced myself as I left. His handshake was firm, and I promised to return. To 40 N Sutter Street in Stockton, CA – just off the 4 freeway, take the Stanislaus exit.

My ride home was uneventful, aside from the occasional belch and belly pat, until I reached the 120 interchange. After the shuffling of a lane merge, I found myself slotted behind a hearse. A glance into the rear-view showed a line of headlights behind me. I felt like an intruder. I did the only thing I could; I turned off my radio and flicked on my lights. Just after I did, the truck behind me flashed his high beams. I’m not sure if it was from appreciation or anger; if he was thanking me for my respect or if he was angry at what could be construed as mockery. I shall believe it was the former, since my intent was noble.

I found myself wondering about the person in front of me – was it a man or a woman? How old? What family did they leave behind? What mark did they make on the world? As my turn approached, a gentle tug of curiosity bade me continue on with the procession, but the feeling was fleeting, and I took my exit.

On the last leg of my journey, I reflected on something my grandmother used to tell me when I was in the throes of childhood boredom: “bored people are boring”. She was correct. On this day, faced with the most tedious of tasks – a traffic court arraignment – I had an adventure that challenged my senses.  I found a world of sights, sounds, tastes, and smells the likes of which I’ve never seen before; some of which I hope to never experience again, but some that were most welcome.

She also used to tell me “life is what you make it.”

If I could offer one piece of wisdom this holiday season, it is a simple reminder that your happiness is not determined by what happens to you, but by how you choose to react. I think grandma would approve of my reiteration.

I miss my grandmother, her doting and cheek-pinching, her front porch swing and ice-cold root beer. But mostly I miss her Christmases. The candy-cane shaped boxes of M&Ms, the stale fruit cake, the stockings full of widgets.

The wisdom of her little sayings was lost on me as a child, and I was often vexed at how she insisted on repeating them. But now I know why – because I remember them.

Wherever she is, I hope she has a Merry Christmas.

And a Merry Christmas to all of you, as well.