Evan rode shotgun. But the judge had no interest in talking to him. Speeding down 7th Street, she rotated 360 degrees.

“Sheila, now where are you from?” No, not this again.

“Judge, I grew up in Virginia,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time.

“No! No! No! You’re from Pakistan or something!” Deep breath. Namaste.

At least five people had honked at her. She didn’t care. Honk. Oh no, a blond girl in tight jeans just flipped her off. Window down. Miniature lady peering out window.

“Do you even know who I am!!??? You should not make that gesture to a FEDERAL JUDGE.” Crouching clerk, hidden Pakistani in the back. Giddy judge and Evan in front, cackling, excited by demeaning, then nearly killing, nice pedestrian girl. As it turned out, said pedestrian didn’t give a shit if it were Judge Judy who’d nearly killed her. She gave the bird to the federal judge again.

We sped off. I was actually going to die there and then. The judge was drunk-with-power driving. Surely that was illegal. Judge suddenly had interest in her cohort. Turning to Evan, she extended her right arm to touch his chest: “You’re bllaaaack.” He took it as a compliment and smiled.

“Yes, Judge. I am black,” he boasted. It wasn’t like the dude had penned the great Dr. King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech. Thankfully we were approaching the corner of 12th and Spruce.

“Judge, you can just drop me off here,” I muttered from the back.

“No! No! No! This is where all the gays and druggies are,” she exclaimed.

“This is where I live,” I explained, hoping she’d realize that the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

“No, no. This is a bad area. You just can’t live here.” She put the pedal to the metal, attempting now to move me from my apartment. The buck stopped there.

“Judge. I really live back there,” I insisted. We were at the corner of Spruce and Broad, three blocks past my humble home. Maybe she really was kidnapping me and Evan was in on it, too. Torture for having done a less than stellar job on the Nelson memo.

“Fine. But you do realize you live amongst prostitutes and drug dealers,” she announced with disgust. Evan nodded in disapproving horror. But I couldn’t be bothered. She’d finally stopped and I was out of there faster than you could say Independence Center.

Walking back, I noticed my overalled friend talking to a handsome middle-aged man in a BMW sedan. He was always talking to men in cars. Come to think of it, there were always skinny guys lurking around the corner. And my neighbor upstairs always had men coming and going from his place. I’d just figured he was way more popular than me. I guess I’d never considered why he was more popular.