Yes, it’s true – none other than yours truly came close to doing hard time recently.

What’s that, you say?  A nice boy like me, running afoul of the law?  Impossible! 

A bit of background info is in order. 

As most of you know, I recently moved to San Francisco from New York, where turnstile “jumping”on the subway is an arrestable offense.  To anticipate a question, no, I did not make a habit of that nefarious deed in New York.   I did, however,  see one unfortunate person hop right over the turnstile, only to be pounced upon by a plainclothes member of New York’s finest.  To my consternation, he was handcuffed and led away.  Doubtless he’s still rotting in prison, and we can all sleep soundly knowing he’s off the streets.

Fast-forward to the present day.  In San Francisco, the MUNI (our version of the subway) runs both under and above-ground.  When one enters at an underground stop, it’s necessary to pay the requisite $1.50 before the turnstile will let you enter.  This is normal, and just like everywhere else in the universe.  Where San Francisco differs, however, is at the points where one can board MUNI above ground:  There is no turnstile to pass through; rather, one enters through the front door, and it’s the honor system in terms of whether you pay.  Some people have monthly passes or transfers, but there’s no requirement to show it to the MUNI operator.   Again, the honor system. 

So the other day I was rushing from work to a party.  It was one of those “important” events that I couldn’t be late for, and I was running behind.  I approached the MUNI platform (of the above-ground variety, which is significant here) just as a train was approaching.   Relieved that I wouldn’t have to wait twenty minutes, I boarded right away.  As the train departed, I went to the front to pay . . . only to realize I only had twenties in my wallet.  They don’t make change!

Well, I reasoned, it won’t hurt to cheat just this once.  Being the stand-up citizen that I am, I even promised myself I would pay twice next time.   No problems, right? 

Wrong.  We came to the first underground stop, and to my utter astonishment and abject horror, in walked two uniformed police officers.  Monthly passes and fare receipts! they demanded, and began their way up the aisle, checking the law-abiding subway riders one by one.

My heart stopped.  I saw my plans for a pleasant evening evaporate, replaced by visions of police stations and posing for mug shots.  The shame of it all!  How would I face anyone ever again?  Who could I call to post my bail?  I wouldn’t, I vowed.  No, rather than suffer that shame, I’d tough it out and take my sentence like a man. From there, my thoughts turned to images of bars, razor wire and a tattooed cellmate.  I thought of my poor, long-suffering mother, and how disappointed she would be that her only son had been sent to prison for such a needless crime.  How much time would they give me? I wondered.  Five years? Ten?  I’d be an old man before my time was up . . . .  

The officers arrived just as we were pulling in to my stop.  As fate would have it, they reached me just as the doors opened, but before I could escape.  Monthly pass or fare receipt! the Bad Cop barked. 

I couldn’t tell you what I said.  I do know that tears weren’t far away, and that when I opened my mouth, there spewed forth a torrent of verbal vomitus that caught both officers off guard.  I just moved here from New York, I babbled.  Then something about my poor, poor mother, then I yammered about how dreadful prison would be  . . . at one point I flashed my twenties to demonstrate my ability to pay, despite my criminal actions . .  . then there was something about how my life was now ruined, thanks to one stupid mistake . . .society would be better off without me, what with my atrocious failure to keep adequate change on hand, when everyone else could manage it just fine . . .  I think I might have even blubbered about the gods and their capricious justice.

A look came over the Good Cop’s face, conveying at once bewilderment, pity, and contempt.  Oh yes, contempt, which was what saved the day:  Go home, he said.  Just go home. Doubtless he couldn’t bear the thought of running me in, blubbering all the way.  Bad Cop nodded his head in agreement, eyeing me with a curious brand of pity and disgust.

No sooner had I left the train – still a free man! – than my sense of relief turned to righteous indignation.  I think I would have done just fine in jail!  Did they think I couldn’t take it?  Hmph! 

But just to be safe, I now always travel with $5 in quarters.  Prison tattooes aren’t my thing, you know?

 

Thanks to Mark for the pic of my would-be new home!

 

 

  

Posted on January 31st, 2008 by Thomas
Filed under: San Francisco