Paying Fines is Shithouse

There is something that instinctively irks me about bureaucratic hoop-jumping. Centrelink, taxes, court dates, fines, rent, uni enrolment; it all seems so over-complicated and every time one of these makes an appearance in my life I find myself walking down the streets muttering swear-words and sulking. Today, this happened.

A month and a half ago I was the unhappy recipient of a fine from the transport people, whatever they like to call themselves, for resting my feet on the seat of a train as I made my way out to Footscray to hit up a comedy gig. I gave them my ID (SA Driver's License) with my Adelaide address on it, and the conductors explained to me that if I just contested the fine as soon as it arrived then everything would be sweet and I'd be let off with a warning. That all seemed well and good at the time, but when Mum Dawgz called me the other day to let me know that my fine for two-hundred and seven Australian Currency Units had arrived, I shuddered with bilious anger at the fresh realisation of the exercise in futility that I was about to embark on – I was shaken from my peace.

I trudged into town, infringement notice in hand, to fix this shitiness – I am not paying a two-hundred and seven dollar fine for putting my feet on a fucking chair, this is the future and I REFUSE to be needlessly oppressed. First stop library: I went in to print my carefully worded letter at the library as my home, inhabited as it is by four young drifters, each in varying stages of emotional decay, does not have a printer. The letter contained phrases like: “to whom it may concern”, “excused having regard to exceptional circumstances”, and the always convincing, “I apologise for any inconvenience and I hope that this matter can be brought to a satisfactory close.” Filthy grovelling, really. I felt dirty, I still feel dirty in fact. I wrote those things, and I can't un-write them now... also I forgot the data cable to connect my phone to the printer, so things weren't looking up.

After obtaining a library printing card, putting a dollar of credit on it, re-typing the letter in notepad in a font that resembled a Soviet military dossier, and printing the thing off, I asked how to work the scanner. “Sorry, you can't scan straight to the photocopier, you have to scan to a USB and then print a copy from that.”
“Why?”
“That's just how it is.”
That's just how it is dude, just leave it – my internal monologue, always the voice of reason – that's just how they do things here. Just let it go... twitch... shudder... *%### … ok, so I left the library and went around the corner to Officeworks where I got another printing card, onto which I put another dollar, and printed off a scanned copy of my drivers license (my excuse for contesting the fine is “I'm from Adelaide, and I didn't know that 'feet-on-seats' was an offense here”... details, details). Armed with my two pieces of contesting evidence, I walked with purpose to the post office, arms swinging, eyes burning, and coins jangling in pocket.

After making it to the post office, past the big red sign hanging on the corner of Little Bourke and Elizabeth that says 'Shopping as Usual' (I could vomit a lake of dark sludge and still not be purged of my deep hatred for this consumerist placard, but that's neither here nor there is it) I wrote the address on a postage-paid envelope and sealed my letter within. I considered not paying for the envelope, but then I thought that maybe when you pay for the envelope they put some special stamp on it which validates it – what if I don't pay? My thingy won't reach the place this will all have been for naught!! – so I paid, because I'm a pussy. Turns out I was right, they do stamp it. Crime doesn't pay kids, stay in school.

I flushed it down the chute of the red mailbox after performing one last OCD-check and then it was gone. Finished. Now begins the extended waiting period while my appeal is processed and re-processed through the dripping annals of the machine before being rubber-stamped by some hooded beetle-man behind a desk in the Transport Department. Hopefully my name will be cleared and I will be merrily released from debt. I guess if I do eventually escape a two-hundred and seven dollar fine then all that running around and frustration at having to deal with the mind-numbing inefficiency of a system where appeals have to be submitted in written form and reasons are called 'excusory clauses' and and every telephone is answered by the same machine... if I get to keep my money then all of this hoop-jumping will have been worth it. I can't help being angry though, even though, if we're honest, it's my fault for not following the rules. What's so fucking precious about those train seats anyway?

Peace, Taco.