I'm Thankful for Life in the Weird, Weird West

I could live somewhere else. Somewhere with trees. And rain. And public transportation. Maybe somewhere with an exciting nightlife. Maybe somewhere with any nightlife. I could live somewhere that I could get a meal after the late movie.

I could.

But, seriously, why would I want to?

I had court hearings in both district courts at the same time on Tuesday. Two revocation hearings on two of my people in one court (Both got slammed. They'll be eating Stovetop Stuffing courtesy of the Institutional Division of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice this Thanksgiving.) and three guilty pleas in the other court.

(Revocation Hearing: When a person is placed on felony probation they are sentenced to prison and that sentence is suspended as long as they complete the probation. If they screw up, a warrant is issued for their arrest. They sit in jail - no bond - until the Court hears their case. The State presents evidence, which usually consists of the probation officer's testimony and the defense makes a case for extenuating circumstances. Then the Court decides whether to continue the probation or to impose the original sentence.)

Luckily the defense attorney for the three cases in the second court had an early morning plea in Big Flat City, so those hearings were going to be delayed an hour or two, allowing me to be in two places at once. After my revocation hearings ended, I made my way to the other courtroom to join the wait.

When I got to the arena, most of the players were already on the field The bailiff and court reporter were there, as well as the Assistant District Attorney assigned to this court. The three defendants were seated on the front pew, wearing matching orange jumpsuits and shiny silver shackles. The sheriff's deputy who'd brought them up from the jail sat next to the door, his chair tipped back on two legs and head resting against the wall. I threaded my way through the gathering to my chair next to the DA at the prosecution's table.

We chatted back and forth for a while. The court reporter told me her brother's book has just been published. Her twin is one of four Texas State Archaeologists. (Did you even know we had state archaeologists?) He just wrote a book about the Red River Indian Wars that took place in this part of the state.

The DA and the deputy were arguing about football.

There was no joy in Mudville this week, since the Raiders from Big Flat City laid down for those Oklahoma hicks in last Saturday's game. The DA is a rabid Raiders fan and the deputy is a life-long traitor to his roots. His house is adorned with Oklahoma memorabilia. He told us how he won two shirt bets and a hat bet he had riding on the game. He also won $40 from another deputy - who vows to pay him in pennies.

The more he gloated, the more the DA grumbled. The rest of us joined in the discussion - this is Texas after all. The longer we waited, the more we talked and eventually the boys in orange even got in on the action.

The main topic of discussion was how the die-hard University of Texas fans were actually rooting for Oklahoma in this game, which is no doubt one of the precursors of the Apocalypse.

One of the defendants was an especially vocal UT fan. The longer the conversation continued, the more he felt the need to contribute. The deputy, who was thoroughly enjoying the situation, egged him on. After one final comment from the crook on how, essentially, the Raider's loss was just a matter of the universe setting right the cosmic hiccup that had resulted in the Raider's victory over UT just a few weeks before, the DA slammed a case file down on the table top, whirled in the chair and favored the soon-to-be convict with a steely glare.

"Do you want a longer sentence, or what?!?"

The assistant DA...is a woman.



Who wouldn't want to live here?

I went to college for this?

"I drink too much. The last time I gave a urine sample, it had an olive in it." - Rodney Dangerfield

We did surprise drug tests this morning. At the city's recycling center, which is the fancy name for the big, stinking barn where probationers sort trash into piles of the reusable and the disposable. There's no heat in the big tin barn. Only a cavernous expanse of trash. No air conditioning either. I'm so glad I don't have to do community service.

You can imagine the lovely restrooms they have there. They're clean, thanks to community service workers, but the toilets are rickety and wobble back and forth, making the concrete floors a damp and sloppy mess. The paint is peeling off the walls and the sink sported a huge green pattern of crusty water deposits that covered the bowl as a result of an ambitiously leaky faucet. The bare bulb over the sink lends a certain Alcatrazish sort of ambiance to the whole scene.

We had one woman who just couldn't go. There's always one. It wasn't that she'd been drinking or using drugs and her urine was going to be 'dirty'. She just can't pee on command. I don't blame her. I can't do it either. And I certainly couldn't pee with a stranger standing over me, watching to make sure I don't dip the cup in the toilet water or try to cheat by some other even less pleasant means.

Of course it was cold this morning -- only a few degrees above freezing and sitting on the pock-marked toilet seat must have felt like sitting on a penguin's nest. We'd tried twice already and now the rest of the crew was all done and she was the last to go. She'd drunk half a gallon of water and I had the faucet in the sink trickling suggestively onto the porcelain. It was working - for me, if not for her. The woman shivered and chattered while pushing and straining to fill the cup.

"Relax," I said, hopefully soothingly. "Just relax your muscles and let it flow." Where on my resume should I list 'Can talk urine out of a turnip'?

She tried and tried and strained and pushed. Then I heard an unmistakable noise. I bit my lip and feigned deafness. Her shoulders slumped.

"I farted," she said, totally unnecessarily.

"Keep trying, hun," I sighed. "We can't test a cup full of fart."

This is such a glamor job.