Are You A Wrench?

On a beautiful Bluff afternoon, I was standing on the trading post porch talking with Mark, our restaurant manager. As I explained my recent trip to Tempe, Arizona, to contest a traffic ticket, Mark asked, “Are you a wrench?” It was really a rhetorical question, because he already knew the answer; I am not just a wrench, I am a monkey wrench.

Mark’s question was the result of circumstances that were set in motion when Jana asked me if I wanted to go to the Heard Museum Indian Market with her. After clearing everything with all the general authorities at the trading post, we were set to go. Once the kids finished school Friday afternoon, we packed them into the pick up and headed south.

We arrived in Phoenix later that evening, and began our search for a hotel. Not just any hotel mind you, we had to have one with an indoor pool for the kids. After several failed attempts to locate suitable lodging, the pool thing kept getting in the way, Jana directed me to turn left at the intersection of McClintock and Broadway.

Having arrived at the intersection when the light was red, I stopped and waited for the left turn arrow to go green. When it did, I proceeded to make the turn. Unfortunately for all parties involved, I found myself still making the turn as the arrow went amber and then red. A young man who seemed in quite a hurry noticed his light turn green and failed to notice me still in the intersection. This resulted in much mashed metal and leaking fluids.

When the police arrived, they were relieved to find that not a drop of blood had been spilled and that all motorists were in a reasonably good frame of mind. After a few questions and completion of witness statements, the officers conferred. Much to my surprise, the illustrious panel of officers elected me the winning contestant, and I was awarded the prize for failure to yield to a stationary vehicle. After protesting that I was not the most qualified candidate and that my performance did not merit the award, I realized the officers would not be persuaded. I took my citation for unmeritorious action and left the scene.

When we arrived back home, I began the process which would confirm my status as a speed bump on the highway of Arizona justice. I collected statutes, cases, maps, diagrams, timing sequences, photographs and every other conceivable exhibit necessary to contest my traffic ticket. After a couple weeks I was ready to return to Tempe and convince the traffic court judge that I had been wronged.

I arrived at traffic court on the designated day at the appointed time, with the 30 exhibits I had collected. The offenders whose cases were called before me were obviously culpable, and the judge had no trouble pronouncing them guilty as charged, dispatching them to the payment counter and calling the next miscreant.

When the judge called my case, “People of the State of Arizona v. Steven P. Simpson,” I began to perspire. Then I thought, “Hey, they don't yet know they are dealing with the illustrious Trading Post Lawyer,” and my nerves calmed. As I laid out my exhibits, the judge immediately recognized that I was sure to be a wrench in his carefully oiled machinery, and that his tee time was in jeopardy.

As I labeled the photographs, maps and other items for my turn at show and tell, the judge cautioned me, “Mr. Simpson, please hurry, the officer doesn't have all day, and I may dismiss him if this takes much longer.” His foursome was probably already wondering where he was. I thought he would have an aneurism when I asked for a drink of water before beginning my presentation. “We don't have all day,” he exclaimed.

Once my exhibits were properly marked, and the judge had spent his patience, the officer got up, made a drawing of the accident scene, explained his version of the events and sat down. I asked a few questions, which greatly perturbed the judge and police officer, and launched into my case in chief. I carefully entered and explained each exhibit, discussed why I should not have been the winner of the citation lottery and asked the judge to rescind my award.

The judge, startling the officer from his light slumber, asked if he had any questions. “Oh. No your honor, no questions,” the officer replied. At that point I knew I had them. I was convinced the judge could not fail to see my point of view, and awaited his decision vindicating me. His response came as a crashing blow. “I'll take it under submission,” he said and hurried off to his golf game. It appeared he needed a few more days to mull over why anyone in his right mind would spend so much time and energy contesting a traffic ticket. This obviously would have to be considered over several days, and discussed in detail with his buddies. I would have to wait weeks for his decision.

The judge must have realized that wrenches must be carefully dealt with, lest they become bigger problems. He was probably also trying to decide whether there was any way he could have me committed for the rest of my life; thereby saving the general population many years of agitation.

After Mark’s comment, and my experience in traffic court, I began searching for the reason I had become a wrench. Although I take some responsibility for my actions, (After all the self-improvement books Jana, Cindy and Amer have given me lately, how can I do otherwise), I can only surmise that it is the local Navajo artists and the trading post that have really caused me to become what I am. The artists are all nonconformists, and they are always doing something unconventional. It was bound to rub off on me.

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