Breaking the Law and a Character of Misinterpreted Benevolence

A month or so ago I found myself standing out in the late November chill in front of the Fillmore Theater with a bunch of over intoxicated and probably doped up groupies after a concert who, I’m assuming, were waiting for a band who's name remains unknown and inconsequential to this story to appear after the show in the back alley.

My motivation wasn't to catch a glimpse and an autograph of some under talented and over appreciated rock star. I had been hit by a vehicle, a taxi, while trying to make my way in my car through the over crowded intersection this concert hall sat on. I was desperately trying to get his paper work jotted down so I could escape the east coastish cold and into my marginally warmer apartment that awaited me a few blocks down.

Fast forward a month and a couple of days and you'll find me making my way downtown in my mildly banged up and definitely underappreciated Honda Civic to the Denver County Court House where a State vs. Crutchfield case would soon take place.

Turns out my license and insurance cards had expired and while I did have insurance at the time of the accident, it meant a mandatory court date.

What joy was mine.

I've never been to court. I didn't know what to expect. I hadn't even been inside the court building much less on trial there. I wondered what it would be like. Would there be a long under lit hallway with a solitary bench where usurpers of the law sat to await slightly delayed trials and the summons of an overly stiff and self-proclaimed, under-appreciated judge who, with a deeply trenched, wrinkle laden face, would tell me exactly what I should have done differently while writing down the letters that would spell out certain damnation or at least inconveniently scheduled community service appointments?

Would they use language that existed only in dictionaries? Never meant to be issued from the tongues of men or at least uttered in the presence of common folk. Vernacular of the courts, a spoken mystery to the masses. Phrasing damning questions in such a way as to intimidate the broken hearted & crushed in spirit. Drawing confessions from the innocent like water from a leaking well; maneuvering judicial vocabulary in such a way as to leave no room for excuses or defenses. Only apologies, confessions and a languid acceptance of any and all consequences for infractions on the law whether performed by the accused or not?

No man shall be innocent – all will be guilty, none spared type of thing.

Anyway, once I found the right building and having gone through a quick pat down and security scan I was in.

I made my way down the stairs and into a crowded mess of confused families, shady characters who probably belonged in jail not to mention on trial and many non-English speaking people of all nations and walks of life. I imagine it looked a lot like heaven in this regard minus the shady folk, security guards posted everywhere plus the overall atmosphere of potential judiciary reprehension that was lurking behind any and all corners of this monolithic image of justice.

So this is where the long hard arm of the law came crashing down on those unfortunate enough to cross it.

As I made my way down a hallway that I assumed to be the right way according to my ticket a loud and shrill voice caught me in mid stride on the broad, wooded floor. I say "shrill" but this was probably the most obnoxious voice I had ever heard in my entire life. Think scratching on a chalk board encapsulated in human vocal cords. I turned and found a small, slight man looking up at me with coke bottle glasses and - I’m going by memory here - buck teeth, a misshapen suit that demanded to be cleaned or at least touched up by one of Parke Central Cleaner's steam cleaning Asians and a disheveled look about him in general. Unkempt hair and an ill fitting tie completed the visage of this legislative, chalkboard voiced, mouse of a man.

I can’t remember what he said exactly from that point on, in light of the invasive headache that manifested itself in my thoughts and head at that very moment but I could tell I was going the wrong way and that I needed to follow him in order to find my destination of interest. The point was made clear by his it’s-a-matter-of-national-security expression that I had gone astray and I figured it was the only appropriate thing to do.

He guided me to a nearby directory that explained in no uncertain terms that all traffic violations needed to go to courtroom 105.

Is that really who I am? A violator? That was my name in this place. I was surprised I wasn’t given a number in replace of my birth name upon entering the building.

“Excuse me Sir, take this piece of paper. It has a number that's issued to you and will be used to identify you from here on out during the length of your visit here. Should you be sentenced to a state penitentiary today you will use this number for the length of your sentence.”

“Cool, thanks. Aren't I supposed to get an orange uniform?”

”We’ve got a dressing room downstairs where you’ll be able to try on what we have right now...we get new shipments in every day so if you can’t find your size write down your number and we’ll contact you as soon as your size comes in.”

“Cool. How will you know where to find me?”

“Oh. We’ll know.”

The government knows everything about you I guess...especially when they strip search you, tell you where you’re going to eat, shop and live.

At this point I could truly say I had found a point of commonality with Bonnie & Clyde in light of our apparent affinity for all things less than savory by the United States court's standards.

I found my courtroom, walked in and, to my unbridled horror, realized that I was late for the role call. They’re on the “Ls!” They had already called my name!

All I could think about was prison food.

I sat down in hopes that they would make another go of the role call. They did, asking if they had missed anyone. After giving my name to the guy who sits in front of the Judge’s seat I sat down with the rest of my brothers in crime. Some had the I'd-rather-shoot-you-than-look-at-you expression but most looked like me. Probably a little confused and somewhat bewildered at the present circumstances they now found themselves knee deep in. Wondering how their lives could spiral down into the abysmal, criminal existence they now called their lives.

Orange? I’m more of a red kind of guy.

I used to think my old studio apartment was a bit cramped but I really do enjoy sitting on the pot with the comforting thought that, “no one else can see me right now." I'll leave the drawbacks to having a shower in prison to your imagination.

Anyway, that evening was incredibly fascinating. The most interesting social observance I’ve had in a long while. The expressions on people’s faces, the nervous twitching, the quick shifty eyes of the accused. Of those common “violators.”

I developed an affinity for these people. It was us vs. them. This was my fight alone no longer. These were my people and I was there’s. Together we would stand up together with fists of unflappable defiance and eyes burning with the resolution of our rebellious forefathers. Brandishing courage like shields and the declaration of our freedom like swords. We would not back down. We would fight until the last waning drop of our court house revolution was wasted on these grounds that would hold our impending defeat for the history books to find. Knowing that we would not fall here today with a number but a name; pressing forward with said resolution and the affirmative voice declaring that whether we are wasted here today or find tomorrow's embrace with breath in our lungs our spirits shall not be broken!

Not here, not now, not ever!

Images of an empassioned George Washington, Abraham Lincoln as well as other dignitaries and political martyrs of US history made their way through my criminal mind, knowing that without a cause we would all be lost. Without heros we would certainly perish.

Individuals all over the court room who's last names started with the letter "A" began standing as they were summoned to meet the unwavering stare of this black cloaked figure of justice. As men and women of quiet resolution. Knowing a foe that held the high ground but possessing the voices of many like them who carried the inner strength of urban, traffic-violating, warriors. Track jackets were our cloaks, briefcases our quivers. Brandishing the styles of our time like the uniformed soldiers of old.

"Basker"
"Bennning"
"Boon"

B's began popping up all over the court like weeds on a mid-summer afternoon in Georgia . I new my time was near. No longer did my ignorance strike a cord of fear in my heart. For I had a band of urbanite hoodlums standing firmly behind me. No matter what happened here, I knew I wouldn't be alone.

And then, with what seemed like a loud, booming voice the judge called my name. Fear seized me bodily and what resolve I had melted away into a puddle at my feet. My turn had come to administer a plea. I made my way to the podium. His bald head shimmering in the brilliant light of that court of appeal. It might as well have been the high beam of a Mack truck. The way I stood there like a deer staring down the resplendent throat of death baring down on me.

He asked a question and to my dismay I understood what he was asking...I answered. He asked for paperwork that proved I had insurance and a current driver's license. I brought the documents to his seat of power. Strategically placed in a position of dominance at the corner of the room.

He looked at my updated paperwork and then at me. I don't remember his stare very well to be honest. I think I was looking down at my feet. Perhaps in shame. A shame brought on by the understanding that I deserved all that would come down on me here, now. The fines, sentences, orange jumpsuits and prison time. All music of my own making.

But with judiciary splendor what he boomed next astounded even the court's audience. Amidst, I'm sure, the gasps and awes from the motley crew that sat behind me his assessment of my irrevocable innocences was issued for all to hear. Free. Without a fine, judgment or stray word of damnation.

That's it? There must be more. The slow realization that not all was lost took hold of my mind. That I would inhale another day's breath as a free man.

I started moving.

And without a second thought of the derelict desperados I was leaving behind to uncertain doom, I left with, had I not known better, a skip in my step. I suppose I was just happy to be out of there without a wardrobe consisting of and or limited to the color orange. Hallelujah, I’ve got a private bathroom with built-in walls and a fart fan!

For always it has been and ever shall my name be Nathan James Crutchfield and you can keep your damned numeric identification system!

Assumed Truth

Assumption: Music as an art form, communication form, form of expression has an emotional effect on the listening audience. Music is by it’s very nature manipulative.

Assumed Conclusion: Worship within the context of music is inescapably manipulated whether to a very minute or flagrant degree. Willfully and/or subconsciously.

Assumed Problem: If one’s idea of worship is limited to what is experienced in a musical setting, the potential for misunderstanding the nature, catalysts of and/or outcome of true worship is greatly increased - potentially leaving a deficit in the individual’s worshipful existence.

Thoughts Consisting of Today

1) The Bible exists, in part, to stimulate thought. Not to be a substitute for it.

2) Poetry is pretty philosophy.

3) Philosophy is man wrestling with his humanity.

4) I think I may have a cavity on my right upper molar.