At the San Francisco Hall of Justice where I've appeared in criminal matters since 1969, I made a court appearance on a matter and stepped into the hall, where I needed to record the return date into my calendar book, having already written it onto the cover of the file folder. This way I show up when and where needed, on-time, every-time, with very few exceptions over the years.
So I stepped over to an alcove in the wall next to the booth for the pay-phone (remember those?) where there was a shelf I could open a date-book on. Nearby were other people. Court corridors are where most of the business is done, actually. By the time you see something happening in court, it's all worked out and we're just putting the agreed-upon disposition on the record.
Prosecutors and defense attorneys confer in the halls. Defendants (those not in custody, anyway) and their families confer. News reporters button-hole defense attorneys to get their side of the story. Court corridors can be a lot more interesting than what happens inside the courtroom, where, if everything is going right, all the moves are wired in advance.
So I step over to the shelf in the alcove to write down the next court date and suddenly one of the standees in the corridor backs up without looking and I get bumped into. There was a group of three or four young black men and women conversing and I'd apparently stepped behind one of them.
"Yo, Dawg! ...My bad!" the young man says, looking around and patting me on the arm.
He didn't mean to step into me.
I didn't mean to step behind him.
That's how you say, "Pardonnez mois!" in another culture, or "Excuse me," in ours, or some of ours, at any rate.
You say, "Yo, Dawg!...My bad," and pat the other fellow on the arm.
Seems right to me.
"Dawg!" Tha's me.
I"m hip.
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