There’s nothing that triggers my fight or flight quite like the sight of a Metdog on public transport. Their telling vests, embarrassing undercover outfits, and those Myki-checking devices which are always brandished and holstered like weapons (this is completely normal and fine).
It was a sultry December morning, frighteningly bright, already hot at 9am. I was running late to volunteering, with a 40-minute trip to Footscray hanging over my head. Skipping breakfast and coffee, my housemate and I cut our losses and caught a bus. I had no money on my Myki and no time to figure out where the fuck anyone tops up their Myki in the deadzone that is Carlton. No cash on hand to top up with the bus driver, despite it being 2019 not 2009 – what do you mean I can’t pay on card? My housemate chose to fare evade in solidarity. We were on a bus after all, just one teeny trip.
Oh, cruel fate stays full of surprises.
What greeted us as we alighted at Footscray station? ‘Twas a gaggle of Metdogs, of course. Did I immediately put my head down and run through their squad crying, “I’m late to volunteering, I’m late to volunteering” in a vain effort to escape? Allegedly! Did I run head first into the beefy chest of a cop? Absolutely.
Fines are funny things. They always seem to pop up just when you’ve blown all your money on Christmas presents for the family. A friend of mine had been to court over Myki fines twice before, both times he’d successfully avoided paying. The idea was alluring to me. I didn’t have a spare $250 to pay the fine. I would take it to court!
I never heard back. Thinking it a Christmas miracle, I lived my silly little life.
Eleven months later, a hefty envelope arrived in the mail. I had been served. I cried.
My friend who had been to court told me to stop having daily meltdowns.
“It’ll be ok, it’ll be a weird day,” he said.
“When they read out your charge, ask for a sentence indication. They’ll say, ‘if you plead guilty we’ll waive the fine but the offence will go on your record’. Then plead guilty.”
Wait what? Plead guilty? Record? My Elle Woods fantasy – mentally, the only thing between myself and the gaping void of despair – ruptured.
The court date wasn’t until April 2021. Five months of agonising anxiety. The thought of that fat little summons document, with its detailed account of my poorly executed escape attempt, triggered my gag reflex. When the Authorised Officer had asked why I didn’t try to top up with the bus driver, I’d eloquently expressed, “I don’t know.”
Incriminating. Embarrassing. I was done for.
“Why didn’t you just pay the fine?” my friends asked. At this point I wished I had.
A year and a half after that fateful December morning, the day arrived. I’d spent the entire week panicking, trying to figure out what would possibly go down. What to wear. Whether to plead innocent or guilty. What the hell a sentence indication even was. Practising saying “your Honour”. Crying.
@rariferrarriFor legal reasons isssss a ✨joke✨ #realhotgirlshit #anarchist♬ Perfect (Exceeder) – Mason & Princess Superstar
It was a 35 degree day, and I had to dress conservatively for the courts. Stressed and sweaty, I Ubered in. I went through the airport-style security process, and, when finally asked what I was doing there, confidently announced, “I have a court date”.
The clerk stared at me. “Which court do you need?”
“The Magistrates’ Court,” I beamed.
Wrong building. I was in the County Court.
As it turns out, I wasn’t even due in the Magistrates’ Court. They were conducting all hearings remotely via teleconference. I’d missed the memo. I went home.
Picture the most confusing, inane Zoom classroom you’ve ever experienced. Court over teleconference was much worse.
People were logging on at random moments during other people’s sessions, yelling, “Hello, can you hear me, hello?”
The magistrate couldn’t tell who was who. “Whoever said that, can you please mute your microphone?” The prosecutor kept reading the wrong charge descriptions. It was utter chaos.
“Hi, I’m sorry, can you wait a moment, I’ll just go somewhere with less noise.”
“Dave, are you seriously attending your court date from a Starbucks?
We were all in there for transport offences. Everyone, whether they pleaded guilty or innocent, was allowed to tell their side of the story. All were classic cases of Metdoggery. One frequent traveller had left their Myki on the train and had been fined despite Authorised Officers telling them they wouldn’t be. Another was on a call with a friend, and didn’t take a moment to tap on with their phone before they copped a fine.
Everyone was having very casual chats with the magistrate, who was having casual chats with the prosecutor. It was all very confusing.
All eight defendants before me had their cases dismissed.
When it was finally my turn, I asked for a sentence indication.
The magistrate looked at me like I’d grown another head. I don’t think it’s the done thing for transport offences. I pleaded guilty, said I was sorry, and chatted with the magistrate about the many failings of the system. My case was dismissed.
Should you do it? It’s up to you, but I’ll say this: The system is fucked and everyone knows it. If you’ve got no record, you’ll be ok.
Was it worth it? Nothing beats the pure elation of having your day in court, keeping your record clean and that sacred $250 in your pocket.
Would I do it again? Abso-fucking-lutely not.
Arielle Richards is an arts and culture journalist based in Naarm. For all things cursed, cute and chaotic, she’s on Instagram and TikTok @rari.ferrarri
