$242 later, I have enough for 360 words.

I’m a law-abiding man. I keep my nose clean. I wipe my feet on mats and look both ways before crossing the street. But I only heed “No Turn on Red” signs 99.999% of the time.

The corner is right by my apartment, a place I pass through each morning on the way to work. I sit at that red light with my blinker on, waiting sometimes a full two minutes before legally making the turn.

And by NOT honoring such a request, I buy myself a date in traffic court.

___

Unfortunately, that date was also the morning I played visiting professor at Bradley University. I give my spiel to the sleepy masses, lecturing on the ups and downs and sideways of Twitter and other new media, then awkwardly rush the whole presentation to a close 15 minutes earlier than scheduled. There’s no good way to say that you need to leave for court.

Room 121 looks like a Monday morning, a multitude of transgressors looking for absolution. I check in with the bailiff, take a seat in a crowded pew (yes, the symbolism!) and await judgment. This won’t be quick.

Since cell phones are off limits, one is left with classic time diversions – like eavesdropping. The cases are divided between those with suspended licenses and the petty thieves. The capital offenders are given face time with an honest-to-God judge, while I’m delegated to an assistant state’s attorney. My pew-mates are a ragged bunch, bit characters from Little Shop of Horror’s Skid Row. They’ve been here before, but avoid holding my hand.

After 90 minutes, my name is announced formally and clearly. I enter through the swinging doors and am presented with 3 options:

1. I have the right to a trial.

2. I can pay a $200 fine, but the offense will be added to my driving record.

3. But wait, that’s not all! For two Jacksons more, I can skip my way out of here with no lasting effects.

Ready as I am to fight the power, the promise of immediate freedom forces my hand. They have me where they want me, wallet open and willing.

And I’m a better person because of it.

While the rest of the world enjoys a romantic night out, my parents will be together on another quiet evening in their Wichita home.

Valentine’s Day has double meaning for them, you see. This High Holy Day of Love is also their wedding anniversary.

I’ve never asked them why. This feels odd as I sit in the newsroom, a place where answers are gathered as daily routine.

Some might go through great effort to plan such a coincidence, but I doubt my parents are the type. So on their 31st anniversary, I decide to finally do a little reporting. My dad picks up the phone. I wish him a happy anniversary and start interrogating. Why today?

“We didn’t set out to get married on Valentine’s Day,” he says.

“We were trying to do it before Lent,” my mom yells from the background. She’s been tipped off, somehow.

“It was by default,” my dad confirms.

This was merely a day when marriage would work, a time and place that wouldn’t conflict with the schedules and cares of the world.

February 14, 1981.

My dad notes that no red hearts were present at the ceremony or reception.

___

I’m sure that my parents consider going out for dinner, but most years they jointly agree to avoid the crowds. They’d be competing with the Hallmarks and American Greetings of the world.

“We could do an early bird special with all the other old people,” my mom jokes. They do actually like to eat early, for the record.

Instead, this happened: She woke up this morning, walked into the bathroom and found a pile of candy. She went to the kitchen after that, and again, discovered another pile of candy.

My dad doesn’t think much of this small act.

“I was always kind of a slug,” he says. “Don’t be like me, son.”

But my dad is mistaken, even absolutely incorrect. He realizes that love can’t be adequately measured in chalky hearts, or anything else for that matter. It’s the other 364 days that prove it true.

This title shouldn’t be possible. I mean it; those letters shouldn’t spell out the words in that order.

Last week, I met a coworker for sushi. It had been a rough week at the paragraph factory, some sort of unrelenting, multi-headed hydra – and I really hate snakes.

Soon after we begin eating, my friend Ashley and her boyfriend arrive and take a table next to us. I say hi, accidentally talk too much about matters of media, then concentrate on avoiding leftovers. Meanwhile, in Florida, election databases are being populated at a rate that won’t allow me time for desert.

A group of young women on the other side of us finish their meal, but before leaving, start toward Ashley. I should mention that she’s a TV reporter/anchor. They meekly interrupt her, say something forgettable and fawning, and I expect them to leave.

Peoria-Bloomington is the 116th largest television market in the U.S., according to Wikipedia.

But they’re hungry. For a photo.

Ashley is mortified, or very close to it. But she’s also gracious.

Their camera doesn’t work the first time.

More fumbling with the dumb camera, her boyfriend sitting patiently like some sort of decorative centerpiece.

A bite of sushi remains between her chopsticks.

They will get that photo. One on each side of her, obsessed sentries.