I just got back from City Hall, where I spent the morning trying to get myself thrown in jail. Or the "hoosegow" as we lawless jailbird-wannabes like to call it.
Here's what happened.
Back in January I decided to rent myself an office because — HELLO — I cannot get any writing done at home.
You know how it is when you're the mom. Nobody takes you or your time seriously, except for five whole minutes on Mother's Day, when the leaders make you stand up in church so that the youths can lob a potted geranium in your general direction.
Anyway, I rented an airless, cheerless little room in an airless, cheerless little building during the first week in January, and I have been going there a few hours each day ever since, so I can (mostly) stare at my computer screen and hope for a literary miracle.
SO! I went to my office yesterday, where (in addition to my blank computer screen) I found a little notice from the city saying it was going to fine me for operating a business without a license. BTW, the notice said, if I didn't get myself a license and pay my fines for all that illicit writing I've been doing since January, I could expect to be fined $1,000 and/or be THROWN INTO "THE JUG" FOR SIX MONTHS.
OK. I was seriously, seriously ticked.
A license? To write? Who knew?
The whole thing was STUPID beyond words. Hey, it is NOT like I am making anything but majorly minor ducats doing this. Which is why I hauled my non-compliant, as well as non-licensed, rear end downtown first thing this morning to have myself a brawl.
On the way to City Hall, however, I started thinking that it might actually be a smart idea to get myself thrown into "the pokey." For one thing, it's sort of glamorous to have a rap sheet if you're a writer. I know a few local nature writers, for instance, who've gotten themselves tossed into "the joint" for protesting nuclear weapons. Or maybe it was for carrying concealed nuclear weapons on their persons . . . Something like that anyway. And everybody thinks they're WAY hot and sexy. So why not me, too?
More important than the sexiness factor, however, is that I'm convinced I could actually get some writing done while doing time in "the gulag," especially if I'm allowed to take my laptop to "the slammer" with me.
This is because I won't have to do the following things while I'm there.
1. Cook for my cellmate.
2. Wash my cellmate's clothes.
3. Pick up my cellmate's dirty socks.
4. Take my cellmate to baseball practice.
5. Help my cellmate complete her science-fair project.
6. Do my cellmate's paper route.
7. Answer the telephone for my cellmate.
8. Groom my cellmate's dog.
OK. So, maybe I'd have to spend an hour or two a day doing "jail crafts," such as hammering out license plates. But so what? Big deal. Que sera sera. Hey nonny nonny. I can keep up. I know how to do crafts. I learned how to in Relief Society.
Besides, everybody knows that after you get your crafts done for the day, the time is yours to play cards or trade cigs or plan jailbreaks.
Me, I'll just sit undisturbed in a corner of "the clink" and write my weekly column for the Deseret News, thank you very much.
So, anyway, I strode into City Hall with a plan. I was a man with a plan. Figuratively speaking, of course.
I went to Room 218, where I tangled with city employees who shall remain nameless. (Hey, it wasn't their fault a nutcase named "me" walked through their door.)
ME: I'm supposed to apply for a business license.
THEM: Very good.
ME: But I'd rather get arrested. What do I have to do to get myself thrown into "the hen pen," baby?
THEM: Fill out these papers. Make out a check to Salt Lake City Corporation for $70. We'll process everything and send you your new business license in four to six weeks.
ME: HELLO, girlfriend! I don't want a license. I want to get my rear tossed into "Club Fed." Call the cops. Cute ones. With mustaches.
THEM: They all have mustaches. Next, please.
ME: OK, Sister Sunshine, tell me exactly how you license a writer? What if I wake up one morning and start writing badly. Like Danielle Steele, for instance. Will you "send me up the river" then?
THEM: We do not regulate bad writing. We do, however, license it.
OK. So they didn't arrest me. NOT YET, anyway.
Give me time.
E-mail: acannon@desnews.com