The insomnia gnomes reared their ugly little bestockinged heads again, so this morning I got to an early start. While I don’t love not sleeping, I do love observing this little town in the wee hours, just as it’s waking up. Especially on the empty downtown strip. There’s such an air of expectancy, of waiting; it’s as if the pavement has absorbed the energy from the thousands of people who walk it during the day, and stores it up carefully to warm itself during the evening hours. It’s a far cry from walking about in, say, a dead urban area, in which not even the ghosts of past pedestrians linger.

So I was walking along, generally of cheerful disposition (despite the lack of sleep and the slight headache from last night’s bourbon), when I came across the most terrifying tree I have ever yet encountered in my travels.

A pale rendition of the subject in question. The actual thing can be seen at the corner of 9th and Kentucky, in front of the old Lawrence Arts Center.

I noticed the bird first, and faded fears of avian flu quickly revived. The flu fears dissipated, however, when I looked up at the sprawling gorgon of a tree crouching eagerly over its fresh kill. Clearly, the bird had not died of natural causes (and I shall not count murder by tree as something that generally occurs in nature).

Now, as I have discussed previously at great length, I am no fan of birds. I generally cheer their demise. Still, I found I could not quite root for the tree on this battle.

Ah, the towing notice: the Scarlet Letter of cardom. Sealed indelibly to the glassy surface, it screams of VIOLATION, in angry black capitals, as if the car in question has been implicated in some manner of terrible sex crime, of which there is damning evidence. Oil stains on the abused parking space, eyewitness reports, etc. Clearly, taking advantage of innocent asphalt is a most egregious crime, which demands prompt reparation via the Hook and Chain of Justice.

But what then, swift Justice, if the accused is innocent?

As many of you may already know, the reliability of eyewitness testimony has come into serious question these days. Now, I would not want to malign the good reputations of my neighbors, who engage in charmingly wholesome pastimes including “decorating the stairwells with half-filled cans of Natural Lite and piss,” “egging / strawberry yogurt-ing my roommate’s car” (no doubt during the previous activity), and “grunting male choral practice from 11:00p.m. - 4:00 a.m. on Tuesday nights.” Also, to be fair, it is rather difficult to see the pale, diminutive identification permit, obscured by the aggressive tint on the upper curve of Bertha’s windshield. Pristine, ice-mountain-free parking spots are hard to come by, even without brazen misuse by strange vehicles.

But does not Bertha’s stalwart presence in the parking lot community, since the beginning of August, mean anything to these people? Over winter break, when the lot was an empty desert of ice and frozen Miller Lite cans, nary a vehicle was to be found, except for Bertha. She has always been considerate, staying well within the demarcated white lines, something that cannot be said for some cars. Never have her doors scratched or marred the surface of her neighbors. Should her reputation be maligned thus? Must she face the dire threat of ill treatment at the rough claws of the unfeeling Tow Truck of Justice, all because of faulty eyewitness testimony, combined with a singular lack of empathy on the part of the apartment management and tow truck company employees?

Does my Bertha really deserve that inextricable Orange Sticker of Shame?

I would argue most decidedly not, but admittedly I have a bias in the matter. So far the petition to free Bertha has one signature. Please, if you value justice, innocence, and all that is right with the world, show your support by commenting on this post. It’s not too late; time remains to evade the grasp of the (c)law. Bertha is innocent! Viva la Bertha!