Gotta Court Date?

I was scheduled to work at Queensland (QLD) Police. And, no, this was not court mandated “Community Service”, QLD Police is one of our clients. Since driving to work and paying for public parking requires a small chest of gold coins, and public transportation from where I live now is a major pain in the ass, I decided to walk to work, as usual. Because Brisbane is bloody hot in the summer, and I had a 50 minute walk and nowhere to change before getting to work, I decided to dress in the minimal amount of clothes for my walk in and was wearing a skirt with a singlet (“tank top” for you Americans) and then would put on a decorative top over the tank top, replace my tennis shoes (“runner’s” for you Aussies) upon arrival. As I neared the QLD Police headquarters, I stopped to get dressed. I was just pulling the top over my head when I heard someone speaking to me. As I tugged down the shirt, careful to check that I had not put it on backwards or inside out, as I am quite frequently prone to do), I turn to see who is speaking to me. A scrappy looking gay guy repeated himself, with, what I thought was going to be a variation of “brother can you spare a dime”, or more like “sista, can you spare a $20?”, but instead, he said “Gotta court date?”


It took a moment for me to register that:


     a. we were standing in close proximity of the QLD Police headquarters and
     b. that there was some sort of Magistrate court there.


I responded with:


     “No, I am actually going to work, although, I must admit, I have been to court a few times in my life, just not in Brissie.”


His earpiece buzzed and he response to someone on the other end:


      “I am on Roma Street and heading your way now”, and then clicks off the call.

      “Girl!” he flicks his wrist at me, “I been to court more times than I can count!”

      “A home away from home, ah?” I respond.


About this time, we see a group of coppers (“Cops”, for you Americans), heading toward the entrance. My new companion says:


      “Ohhhhh, look what’s headed our way! (When did he and I become a “we”? fleetingly crosses my mind).
     “That’s ok”, he continues his monolog. "I am just carryin’ a box. A box wrapped in brown paper, that’s all. They can’t stop me and search me for carryin’ a plain ole box wrapped in brown paper.”


It then registered that, indeed, he was carefully carrying a box, wrapped neatly in brown parcel paper. We walk on in silence for a few moments, and I say:
     “A box, ah? I bet it’s a special box.”

     “Yes”, he responds, “it’s a special box”.


As we continue to walk, directly towards the cops, I say: “I bet it s a very special box….”

He responds:
     “Yes, it is a very special box”.

     “And I bet that very special box, contains some very special magic fairy dust”.

     “Yes, this very special box does indeed contain some very special magic fairy dust”.
We looked at each other and grinned.
As we were all nearing the entrance, the cops from one direction, us from the other, I wished him well.   He continued down the street carefully carrying his special box, speaking to his connection on his earpiece, and I headed inside and then stopped to ponder:


      • Why do only gay men approach me and not the straight ones too?


      • Do I really look like a criminal on the way to a court date?