These Claims Of Yours, They Are Not Small
Ladies and gentlemen, the legal system is broken. There is no joy in Lawville. Matlock has left the building.
Take your pick.
I recently took a head-spinning trip through the twisting, turning, rabid squirrel-infested Enchanted Forest of Small Claims Court. I won't bore you with the details of what got me there, other than to say it involved myself, a slightly older lady, the most minor of car accidents, and one of us -- bonus points for guessing correctly -- claiming injuries several months after the fact.
I will not recount the accident itself, because (a) it has no real bearing on anything, (b) it has little intrinsic comedic value, but mostly because (c) retelling a Car Accident Story falls somewhere between the retelling of a Dumped By a Girl in the Parking Lot of a Dokken Concert Story and the retelling of a Trying to Pee in a Big Gulp Cup on a Long Road Trip Story. It's right around there in terms of unsavory details.
Needless to say, I don't get sued all that much. In fact, aside from the time I stole a piece of Root Beer Barrel hard candy from a Brach's Pic-N-Mix display at the age of 6, I have never run afoul of the law. (And for the record, yes, I burst into tears upon leaving the establishment, and wailed to my unsuspecting Mom about how I had committed a serious offense. I was ordered to march back into the store and replace the candy. I consider myself very lucky. If we were in Thailand at the time, I would now be nicknamed "Lefty." Or perhaps even "Lefty One-Eye McLimps-A-Lot.")
So, this world of legal entanglements was just all so freaking new to me. But let me tell you... there is no rush quite like the first time you are served with papers. Man, it's great. Okay, maybe by "great," I mean "embarrassing." And maybe by "embarrassing," I actually mean, "wholly and thoroughly emasculating." But let's not split hairs.
It was a lovely August morning. As I am unemployed, this means I was stumbling around the apartment in my underwear. Important decisions lie ahead of me on this day. Should I take a shower now, or later in the day? What? No shower at all? That's so crazy it just might work. So... how much celery in tuna salad, really, is "too much celery"? Yep, still unemployed. Are dark forces gathering strength, conspiring against me, gradually gearing up for a swift, undeserved karmic kick to the ballsack? Naw, can't be. Then, a knock at the door. Why, this could mean almost anything!
"Mr. Stevens?" chirped the non-threatening male voice behind the door.
"Uh... yes?"
"I have a package for you, sir!"
A package! For me? For me, "Mr. Stevens"? Golly! Whatever could it be?
I open the door, still in boxer shorts, mind you, and a clutch of paperwork is thrust inside. If you are not used to this, here's what will happen: your hand, under its own power, rises up to grab the thing being shoved at you. At 8:12 a.m., the brain -- not that it's any more dependable at, say, 3:47 p.m. -- will not be able to process things fast enough. So your hand shoots up and helpfully takes hold of the Legally Binding Issuance of Court Documents. Hey, thanks a lot, hand. Good job.
At this point, brain woke up, and as the owner of the non-threatening male voice turned and walked away, all I could do was let out a small, wounded sound, like a hamster having a nightmare. "Hernh--!"
Then came the rage. Yea! Don't need any coffee this morning! My old college buddy Rage has swung by for a surprise visit, at 8:13 a.m.! And as I watched the non-threatening process server skipping down my steps, I barked at him:
"A PACKAGE?!"
See, what made me even more angry than the sudden realization that I was being sued was that I was led to believed there was some kind of parcel involved. Process server turned, gave me a little smile, and said, "Yes, just papers... for small claims court." So... no gift, Barry? Barry, I expected more from you.
And then Barry skipped off, to ruin somebody else's Friday morning. I'm not a horrible person, and I realize that Barry was just doing his job. But when human civilization is finally, at long last, conquered by super-intelligent apes, I really hope Barry gets saddled with a job as Assistant Gorilla Ass-Wiper. And every time I pass him on the way to my new job as Human Writer/Producer on the The Late Ape Show with Chimp Chimperson, I will laugh like a four-year-old in the ball pit at Showbiz Pizza.
I spin off into a month-long period of anxiously awaiting the big day in court. I have numerous conversations with my Helpful Yet Affordably Priced Insurance Company. They're nice people. They try to help, really. Did I mention that they are affordably priced?
My insurance company calls me at least twice a week. They never really say anything I actually want to hear.
"Hi, Mr. Stevens. This is Janice over at A.I.S. I don't know how I found out before you, but you just won the 250 million-dollar Powerball jackpot!"
"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice at A.I.S. again. It appears that the plaintiff in your small claims case has been repeatedly struck by lightning. And her husband tried to follow through with the lawsuit, until he was crushed by a boulder. Weird, huh?"
"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice. Yeah, from A.I.S. For some reason, I've gotten numerous messages from your ex-girlfriends. They just wanted you to know that the guy they left you for is nowhere near as funny as you."
None of that. They just keep reminding me that (a) I am named in a lawsuit and (b) it's usually good if you show up on time to those things, and at the right location. And since I am (a) acutely aware of the impending lawsuit and (b) not a newborn baby, these calls are sort of unnecessary.
While I am a bit of a pessimist, I am not given to all-out despair. So, my interior monologue went into overdrive, trying to preserve my very tender ego. "Hey, nothing you can do about this, Champ. Just weather the storm. Look, Chief... these things happen. You are not being punished. See here, Chester... you will be exonerated. Is that even the right word? And really, was that 'too much celery'? I mean, come on."
Pathetically, my biggest concern the night before the court date was whether or not I should shave. Scoff all you want. When you're unemployed, you turn everything into a Potential But Not Very Lucrative Job. So at this stage, my latest job was growing a sweet mustache. And I gotta tell ya, it had just reached the sweet stage. It looked like I'd been cast in the lead role in "The Rollie Fingers Story."
I had already decided that business casual dress was the way to go. A full suit could come off as a hip, quasi-ironic, smart-ass statement to the judge. And my standard attire of cargo shorts and a mildly pit-stained t-shirt was unadvisable, as well. So, I had a dress shirt, khakis -- even a tie! -- all set aside. Because, hell, I gotta look respectable if I'm gonna try and call a middle-aged woman a liar in a court of law.
Thinking this much about what to wear to small claims court sort of reveals how obsessed I was with the whole situation. "Surely, the judge will see my blue tie and throw out the case!" And putting this much stock into outside appearances is a bit like assuming that the keyboard player from Prince & the Revolution could perform cranial surgery because he wore scrubs and a stethoscope.
Fearing severe judicial punishment, I sent my beloved mustache, screaming and crying, to the bottom of the sink. Sometimes, when pondering, I reach up to see what mustache thinks... and... and... he's not there. The wounds are still fresh, you see.
So, bitterly clean-shaven and mildly respectable-looking, I go to small claims court. There it sat before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division. What, no "Hall of Justice"? C'mon, at least make it sort of fun. Put some guys in suits of armor outside. Maybe a three-headed dog at the door. Something. Jeez.
In I go. If you need to see more wood paneling than existed in all of 1973, I have an address for you. Small claims court is designed to suck the fight out of you. Abandon free will, all who enter here. What's that? You have faith in the inherent decency of your fellow man? Well, just leave that in this plastic receptacle. You won't be needing it in here.
There's little to report about the actual case. I was sort of nervous. Public speaking, in an officious, accurate manner, is not my strong suit. I thought, nerves aside, that the blue tie would have my back. Blue tie let me down.
I lost the case. But I found out the next day, via mail, because they didn't want me to fly into a blind rage and tear up small claims court, I guess. "What do you want?! You want my blood?! TAKE IT!" I honestly harbored a fantasy of recreating the opening scene of "Superman: the Movie." (And, for that matter, the recap at the beginning of "Superman II.")
"You will bow down before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division! You will bow down before me, Judge Pro Tem Monica Feingold! No matter that it takes an eternity! You will bow down before me! Both you, and then one day, your heirs!"
Nope. No big dramatic pronouncements for me. No justice on that day.
But I remain unbroken, true believers. And should the shadow of frivolous injury claims ever darken your door, you look that lying middle-aged woman in the Toyota Camry straight in the eye, and you tell her -- you tell 'em all...
You tell 'em Mustache is coming back to town, and Goatee's coming with him! Yaaaarrr!
Take your pick.
I recently took a head-spinning trip through the twisting, turning, rabid squirrel-infested Enchanted Forest of Small Claims Court. I won't bore you with the details of what got me there, other than to say it involved myself, a slightly older lady, the most minor of car accidents, and one of us -- bonus points for guessing correctly -- claiming injuries several months after the fact.
I will not recount the accident itself, because (a) it has no real bearing on anything, (b) it has little intrinsic comedic value, but mostly because (c) retelling a Car Accident Story falls somewhere between the retelling of a Dumped By a Girl in the Parking Lot of a Dokken Concert Story and the retelling of a Trying to Pee in a Big Gulp Cup on a Long Road Trip Story. It's right around there in terms of unsavory details.
Needless to say, I don't get sued all that much. In fact, aside from the time I stole a piece of Root Beer Barrel hard candy from a Brach's Pic-N-Mix display at the age of 6, I have never run afoul of the law. (And for the record, yes, I burst into tears upon leaving the establishment, and wailed to my unsuspecting Mom about how I had committed a serious offense. I was ordered to march back into the store and replace the candy. I consider myself very lucky. If we were in Thailand at the time, I would now be nicknamed "Lefty." Or perhaps even "Lefty One-Eye McLimps-A-Lot.")
So, this world of legal entanglements was just all so freaking new to me. But let me tell you... there is no rush quite like the first time you are served with papers. Man, it's great. Okay, maybe by "great," I mean "embarrassing." And maybe by "embarrassing," I actually mean, "wholly and thoroughly emasculating." But let's not split hairs.
It was a lovely August morning. As I am unemployed, this means I was stumbling around the apartment in my underwear. Important decisions lie ahead of me on this day. Should I take a shower now, or later in the day? What? No shower at all? That's so crazy it just might work. So... how much celery in tuna salad, really, is "too much celery"? Yep, still unemployed. Are dark forces gathering strength, conspiring against me, gradually gearing up for a swift, undeserved karmic kick to the ballsack? Naw, can't be. Then, a knock at the door. Why, this could mean almost anything!
"Mr. Stevens?" chirped the non-threatening male voice behind the door.
"Uh... yes?"
"I have a package for you, sir!"
A package! For me? For me, "Mr. Stevens"? Golly! Whatever could it be?
I open the door, still in boxer shorts, mind you, and a clutch of paperwork is thrust inside. If you are not used to this, here's what will happen: your hand, under its own power, rises up to grab the thing being shoved at you. At 8:12 a.m., the brain -- not that it's any more dependable at, say, 3:47 p.m. -- will not be able to process things fast enough. So your hand shoots up and helpfully takes hold of the Legally Binding Issuance of Court Documents. Hey, thanks a lot, hand. Good job.
At this point, brain woke up, and as the owner of the non-threatening male voice turned and walked away, all I could do was let out a small, wounded sound, like a hamster having a nightmare. "Hernh--!"
Then came the rage. Yea! Don't need any coffee this morning! My old college buddy Rage has swung by for a surprise visit, at 8:13 a.m.! And as I watched the non-threatening process server skipping down my steps, I barked at him:
"A PACKAGE?!"
See, what made me even more angry than the sudden realization that I was being sued was that I was led to believed there was some kind of parcel involved. Process server turned, gave me a little smile, and said, "Yes, just papers... for small claims court." So... no gift, Barry? Barry, I expected more from you.
And then Barry skipped off, to ruin somebody else's Friday morning. I'm not a horrible person, and I realize that Barry was just doing his job. But when human civilization is finally, at long last, conquered by super-intelligent apes, I really hope Barry gets saddled with a job as Assistant Gorilla Ass-Wiper. And every time I pass him on the way to my new job as Human Writer/Producer on the The Late Ape Show with Chimp Chimperson, I will laugh like a four-year-old in the ball pit at Showbiz Pizza.
I spin off into a month-long period of anxiously awaiting the big day in court. I have numerous conversations with my Helpful Yet Affordably Priced Insurance Company. They're nice people. They try to help, really. Did I mention that they are affordably priced?
My insurance company calls me at least twice a week. They never really say anything I actually want to hear.
"Hi, Mr. Stevens. This is Janice over at A.I.S. I don't know how I found out before you, but you just won the 250 million-dollar Powerball jackpot!"
"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice at A.I.S. again. It appears that the plaintiff in your small claims case has been repeatedly struck by lightning. And her husband tried to follow through with the lawsuit, until he was crushed by a boulder. Weird, huh?"
"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice. Yeah, from A.I.S. For some reason, I've gotten numerous messages from your ex-girlfriends. They just wanted you to know that the guy they left you for is nowhere near as funny as you."
None of that. They just keep reminding me that (a) I am named in a lawsuit and (b) it's usually good if you show up on time to those things, and at the right location. And since I am (a) acutely aware of the impending lawsuit and (b) not a newborn baby, these calls are sort of unnecessary.
While I am a bit of a pessimist, I am not given to all-out despair. So, my interior monologue went into overdrive, trying to preserve my very tender ego. "Hey, nothing you can do about this, Champ. Just weather the storm. Look, Chief... these things happen. You are not being punished. See here, Chester... you will be exonerated. Is that even the right word? And really, was that 'too much celery'? I mean, come on."
Pathetically, my biggest concern the night before the court date was whether or not I should shave. Scoff all you want. When you're unemployed, you turn everything into a Potential But Not Very Lucrative Job. So at this stage, my latest job was growing a sweet mustache. And I gotta tell ya, it had just reached the sweet stage. It looked like I'd been cast in the lead role in "The Rollie Fingers Story."
I had already decided that business casual dress was the way to go. A full suit could come off as a hip, quasi-ironic, smart-ass statement to the judge. And my standard attire of cargo shorts and a mildly pit-stained t-shirt was unadvisable, as well. So, I had a dress shirt, khakis -- even a tie! -- all set aside. Because, hell, I gotta look respectable if I'm gonna try and call a middle-aged woman a liar in a court of law.
Thinking this much about what to wear to small claims court sort of reveals how obsessed I was with the whole situation. "Surely, the judge will see my blue tie and throw out the case!" And putting this much stock into outside appearances is a bit like assuming that the keyboard player from Prince & the Revolution could perform cranial surgery because he wore scrubs and a stethoscope.
Fearing severe judicial punishment, I sent my beloved mustache, screaming and crying, to the bottom of the sink. Sometimes, when pondering, I reach up to see what mustache thinks... and... and... he's not there. The wounds are still fresh, you see.
So, bitterly clean-shaven and mildly respectable-looking, I go to small claims court. There it sat before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division. What, no "Hall of Justice"? C'mon, at least make it sort of fun. Put some guys in suits of armor outside. Maybe a three-headed dog at the door. Something. Jeez.
In I go. If you need to see more wood paneling than existed in all of 1973, I have an address for you. Small claims court is designed to suck the fight out of you. Abandon free will, all who enter here. What's that? You have faith in the inherent decency of your fellow man? Well, just leave that in this plastic receptacle. You won't be needing it in here.
There's little to report about the actual case. I was sort of nervous. Public speaking, in an officious, accurate manner, is not my strong suit. I thought, nerves aside, that the blue tie would have my back. Blue tie let me down.
I lost the case. But I found out the next day, via mail, because they didn't want me to fly into a blind rage and tear up small claims court, I guess. "What do you want?! You want my blood?! TAKE IT!" I honestly harbored a fantasy of recreating the opening scene of "Superman: the Movie." (And, for that matter, the recap at the beginning of "Superman II.")
"You will bow down before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division! You will bow down before me, Judge Pro Tem Monica Feingold! No matter that it takes an eternity! You will bow down before me! Both you, and then one day, your heirs!"
Nope. No big dramatic pronouncements for me. No justice on that day.
But I remain unbroken, true believers. And should the shadow of frivolous injury claims ever darken your door, you look that lying middle-aged woman in the Toyota Camry straight in the eye, and you tell her -- you tell 'em all...
You tell 'em Mustache is coming back to town, and Goatee's coming with him! Yaaaarrr!
posted by Brad Stevens at 12:23 PM
<< Home