The numbers in play are as follows: 50, 35, B176, 90 and 2.
Their meanings: How fast, in miles per hour, I was traveling on Rancho Drive near Washington Avenue on the night of Aug. 7 when I was pulled over by a Metro officer; the posted speed limit, also in miles per hour, on that stretch; the number I was assigned this morning at Municipal Court when I attempted to pay my fine; the number of minutes I spent waiting to be summoned to the counter; and how many court visits (so far) required to clear up this matter.
This all started with the unmistakable spinning red-and-blue lights atop a patrol unit (or, if you will, “car”) on Rancho, followed by a flashlight-toting Metro officer asking me, “Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?” I answered, “No, not particularly.” Which was true. I was going somewhere, but had plenty of time to get there. I was moving at the rate of traffic, illegally as it turns out. I was told that I was pulled over because I was exceeding the speed limit and doing so in full view of this officer, who happened to be driving behind me at the time. Going 49, I guess.
The officer, aware that he had not exactly corralled one of America’s Most Wanted, explained to me that Rancho had become a “point of emphasis” for Metro attention because of all of the speeding on that road. That night I spotted at least a half-dozen other Metro vehicles on that road. I agreed that Rancho is dangerous – it’s a veritable Red Rose Speedway in both the 35 and 45 zones and the only way it would be more dangerous is if it were strewn with land mines -- and I was going 50 where the speed limit is 35. Fine, fine me.
But the real problem was that I could not find my registration and proof of insurance. During my manic groping for that information I was able to retrieve three-year-old receipts from Discount Tire, an inoperable tire gauge and a Valentine’s Day card from 2005, but not my registration/insurance information, which I had thoughtfully clipped together and placed … somewhere. I finally found the documents, pushed deep into a flap in my sun visor. But by the time I pulled those papers out, my ticket had been written. The officer said that it would not be a big deal, as he believed I was both registered (as the owner of the vehicle, I mean) and insured. All that would be required of me was an appearance at Municipal Court on Aug. 28 to show my paperwork, pay the fine and return to work, where I would of course petulantly blog about the experience.
Well, the courthouse was hopping with an appearance by Lynette Boggs (and I thought all those TV news vans were for me) and parking was at a premium. It took about 15 minutes to find a spot, and naturally I needed to make change for the meter because I don’t usually carry enough quarters to park downtown for more than an hour, which takes a lot of quarters -- enough to play Orbiter 1 for a month at the Pinball Hall of Fame. I shed my belt and moved through the security detector in good shape and was issued ticket No. B176. I looked at the board on the wall displaying numbers – LoserVision, I call it – and we were at B110. Oof. So I sat and absorbed the ambiance, observing unique parenting techniques (a crayon and a metal chair can keep any 2-year-old occupied for several minutes) and noting a lot of bloodshot eyes with wildly dilated pupils.
I was finally called to window No. 22. I had everything in order: My ticket, which clearly stated I was required to appear at Municipal Court on Aug. 28; my registration and my proof of Geico. But the woman at the counter, no doubt emotionally calloused after dealing with scores of bad motorists lacking proper paperwork, narrowed her eyebrows when she saw my ticket.
“When was this issued?” she asked.
“On August 7,” I said. “About 8 o’clock. In time for the 11 o’clock news.”
“We might not have this in our system.”
“But I have it in my system.”
“We don’t. It has not been filed in this office yet. I can time-stamp it. What you can do is call this number in a week to make sure we have the information. Then you’ll need to come back and pay the fine.”
She suggested I arrive on a Friday at 7:45 a.m., just as Municipal Court opens.
“This is an unusually busy day,” she explained.
“I can see why,” I said, “if you are requiring people to be here who don’t actually need to be here.”
I made several impertinent points: that I was following all the rules, written and otherwise; this entire process was an imposition; I would have to take time off from work to make yet another trip to the courthouse; and I was cranky because I had not had a chance to have my morning bowl of Cinnamon Coated FiberClusters.
“Sorry, sir,” she said, and handed me a slip with the Municipal Court phone numbers, which was unnecessary because all of that information was printed at the bottom of my ticket, just above the officer’s entry ordering me to be at the courthouse on Aug. 28.
So next week I will call Las Vegas Municipal Court and ask if, in the view of the authorities, this infraction actually occurred. It’s a good thing I still have the ticket, as proof of the incident. Otherwise, it would all seem like a bad dream.
**
PL8 in my head: ITZ HIP on a Nissan Sentra.
Fabulous Las Vegas appears at this Web site. John Katsilometes can be reached at 990-7720, 812-9812 or at [email protected]