Last Friday, I went to court because I received a summons for urinating in public. The night I received the summons, I was sober. I was just desperate and sweating, and I did not want to waste money on a Boston Kreme doughnut from Dunkin’ Donuts for the sole purpose of being granted access to a toilet. At the time, peeing in a dark corner behind a wall certainly felt less public than wetting my pants and walking around the city. Frustrations aside, my subsequent court experience was remarkable.

I went down to the courtroom at 346 Broadway at 9 a.m. and was immediately surprised at how long the line was. It went down the block. I was glad that I had made sure to pee before I left my apartment.

As I walked down the sidewalk to the end of the of line, I smiled. I couldn’t help but look at the 80-some-odd people standing there and picture each one of them trying to pee discreetly behind a tree. There were more people than trees on the block, which made my smile bigger.

I could tell which people in line had been there too often; they were the ones wearing sweatpants and looking hung-over. By comparison, being a first-time offender, I was dressed like a young dad. I thought to myself, “You can pee a lot faster if you wear sweatpants.”

Some people were there with groups of friends, as if they made plans to meet up at courtrooms regularly. It was surreal. Behind me in line, a man was telling his friends about the time he was cross-dressing for “funny pictures.” Unfortunately, it turned out that he was too high to remember to put the wig on, but damn if he didn’t look good in makeup anyway. I wondered what overarching chain of life events had ultimately placed us in the same line this morning.

Despite being so long, the line moved steadily. Justice is swift when people owe Justice money. A man kept trying to bump me and take my spot in line. I bumped him back. Maybe he needed to use the restroom. I bumped him anyway.
Several bumps later, I finally got through the front door, where there was a security checkpoint, like an airport. We all emptied our pockets and took off our belts. After passing through the X-ray scanner, the man who had been trying to get in front of me didn’t take the time to put his belt back on, but instead sprinted ahead of me up the stairs. I saluted him in my mind.

At the top of the stairs, there was another line. Again, I felt out of place amongst the veterans. An old man in front of me had three court summonses. One was for trespassing. Apparently he was frustrated, because he had had trouble reading the warning sign. Another summons was for an open container. I had a feeling his inability to read the sign had something to do with his inability to keep containers closed.

After serving my time in this new line, I was assigned to “Courtroom 2,” where there was yet another line to keep me entertained. I witnessed a police officer let his buddy cut the line and go straight into the courtroom. I considered notching marks on the wall while I waited.

Finally, it was my turn to enter the room. When I entered, there was a judge at the far end, next to some clerks and an attorney. In the benches opposite the judge, there were about 30 people waiting to be called up to receive their punishment, and listening to everyone else’s crimes as they were called out. Talk about being judged by your pee-ers.

People were whispering while they waited. The same police officer from earlier yelled, “Hey, no talking in the courtroom!” Then his phone started ringing. Appropriately, he added, “And turn your phones off!”

The judge called my name, and I approached her.

I had done my research beforehand. My summons was for violation 16-118 of the New York City Administrative Code, and I knew that if I pleaded “no contest,” I would probably receive a $50 fine, and have no criminal record. The judge confirmed my prediction. The attorney repeated what the judge said, in double confirmation. She asked me how I pleaded. At that moment, the words “no bathroom” popped into my head. I bit my tongue and said I would pay the fine.

After waiting in another line down the hall, I reached the courtroom cashier window. I surrendered the $50. I wished that I had purchased a 50-cent doughnut instead, and used the Dunkin’ Donuts restroom that fateful night. The value of my urine was grossly overpriced in the courtroom.

The thought about doughnuts reminded me that it was about noon, and I was very hungry. I left the courtroom, glad that the whole ordeal was finally over. I stretched in the sunlight and felt like a free man. I walked a few blocks to a deli. I bought a sandwich, sat down at the counter, and ate while staring at a wall.

Halfway through my sandwich, there was a sudden commotion. A man ran into the deli, panting, straight to the door on my right. He turned the knob with his right hand, and wiped his brow with the left. As he opened the door, he turned, looked at me and said with a smile of relief, “Oh shoot! I made it! Pee, pee, pee, pee, pee…” and then disappeared into the restroom.