(no subject)
Jury Duty: Day 1
Waiting
7:30 am - I grab my messenger bag from the floor and get ready to leave for the courthouse. Suddenly the thought occurs to me. There are metal detectors there. The security guards will probably check my bag. I rummage through the pockets to make sure there’s nothing that could be construed as dangerous. I find a crusty fork. A fork could do some damage in the wrong hands, especially a crusty one. I take the fork out and throw it in the sink, then head for the door.
8:00 am - After circling the court building a few times I find a place to park about a block away. I turn into the parking lot and a lady walks directly in front of my car pushing a baby stroller. I stop for her and realize that the stroller is full of plastic bags. I’ve noticed during my few minutes of circling that the people in the area seem accustomed to walking. Most of them are completely oblivious to the traffic, seeming only to understand things from the perspective of the walker, never from the perspective of the driver. Maybe this way of thinking becomes a necessity whilst constantly traveling on foot. I walk down the block and stop at the intersection behind a guy who looks like he crosses this street often. When he crosses I follow close behind him. There are some cars turning right on the red light, but my lead walks in front of them, so I follow. They can wait.
9:00 am - Inside the jury pool lounge, a judge comes over the loud speaker and welcomes everyone to jury duty. He tries to keep things light by making jokes. The room is full. Everyone waits. There is a digital clock with a red number 12 displayed. When it counts down to zero, and all of the courts have concluded for the day, we will be set free.
10:00 am - After an hour or so of reading Sandman: Preludes and Nocturnes, I begin to feel adventurous. Adventurous is a new feeling this particular day. Before adventurous, I mostly feel self-conscious. I am one of the youngest people in the room. The lady across from me is reading a biography of John Adams. I’m reading a fantasy/ horror comic with depictions of hell and two drawings of partially naked women within the last twenty pages. I stand up, stretch, and glance over at the red numbers. Already down to 10. For the past hour, I’ve been continually pulling in my feet as people shuffle past. I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m some kind of jerk who sprawls his feet out into the middle of the isle. My fears are assuaged, however, as I make my way towards the front desk and everyone must pull there feet in to let me through, but I still feel like a jerk for making them move. I approach the sign-out sheet and fill out the information. Name: Peter Athas. Destination: Snack Bar. I find it humorous that I just filled out this official courthouse form with the words “Snack Bar,” and I smile to myself.
Up on the first floor I exit the elevator and peek down the hall to the right. To the left is the door that I entered through, security guards and all. There’s no escaping that way. The receptionist did say that the snack bar was on the first floor didn’t she? I walk down the only other available hallway and am encouraged by the faint smell of bacon and eggs. When I reach the snack bar, I take a look at the menu. I see ham and egg sandwiches for $3.25. I have no money. In an attempt to avoid looking like a guy who thought the snack bar was free, found out it wasn’t, and immediately left, I pause and examine the vending machine nearby. The words “SNACK ATTACK” scroll in blue across the small screen, followed by a shark that subsequently eats them. I exit the snack bar and head back downstairs.
10:10 am - I hate coffee, but I’m bored, stiff, and tired, so I make my way to the kitchen area in the back of the room. I pour a cup of coffee and add sugar and non-dairy creamer until the coffee looks sufficiently sweet and creamy. I see a partially opened package of Swiss Miss hot chocolate powder on the counter. I add some of that too. The concoction is surprisingly delicious.
10:30 am - The number board still reads 10. The lady next to me is a jury duty veteran, and she talks to the surrounding people about her experiences.
“They don’t let nobody out of jury duty. When I reported to get my schedule this time, one man said he was a mental patient. The man that work here told him, ‘Well, you got one month to get a note from your doctor then.’ They got mental patients on the jury!”
10:45 am - The number board remains the same. The judge in court 10 needs to get his shit together. I pretend to go to sleep to avoid talking to people.
11:15 am - We’re down to circuit #4. The receptionist announces that the judge will need a fifty-person jury. She begins to call names and my pulse suddenly quickens. I don’t fully understand my own nervous reaction. The first woman called slaps the armrest of her chair as she rises. It’s as if we’re being called to our execution, but I get a pardon. All fifty names are called and the wait continues.
12:15 pm - There is one circuit court left, but they have not decided whether they need a jury yet. We are dismissed for a one-hour lunch break. I realize the futility of traveling to the snack room again, so I remain seated. An elderly Asian man begins to talk to me. This conversation, if it can be called that, lasts for about five minutes, during which time I understand 3-5 sentences maximum. I just nod frequently and say “yeah.” In order to escape this uncomfortable situation, I travel back up to the first floor. As I exit the elevator this time there is a heavyset lady sitting on the wooden bench across from the elevators. She is singing loudly. I can’t make out the song, but she sings beautifully, a fact, judging by her volume, of which she seems quite aware.
“Snack bar?” she asks, looking up from her newspaper.
“Yes,” I reply, and she points the way.
I have no desire to return to the snack bar, but I pretend to so as to appear that I have an actual reason for coming upstairs other than to escape awkward conversation. The woman begins to sing again, and her voice echoes after me as I travel down the hall.
I sit on a wooden bench across from the snack room. Next to me is a dilapidated set of copper colored water fountains. Inside one of the bowls is a puddle of water that has clearly been there for some time. White foam floats on the top, spit perhaps, and throughout the water there are little brown bits--a miniature cesspool in the middle of the otherwise stately courthouse. I think of the Oregon Trail and slide farther down the bench. You died of dysentery.
1:15 pm - The final court decides it is not in need of our services and we are released for the day. As I shuffle out toward the parking lot with the rest of the jurors, we pass one last security checkpoint. The room smells like lunchmeat.
“Take off your juror badges, folks,” one of the security guards says with a mouth full of sandwich. “It’s for your own safety. You don’t know what them crazy people are liable to do.”
How reassuring.
“See you Thursday,” I say, and walk out into the heat and sunlight.
Waiting
7:30 am - I grab my messenger bag from the floor and get ready to leave for the courthouse. Suddenly the thought occurs to me. There are metal detectors there. The security guards will probably check my bag. I rummage through the pockets to make sure there’s nothing that could be construed as dangerous. I find a crusty fork. A fork could do some damage in the wrong hands, especially a crusty one. I take the fork out and throw it in the sink, then head for the door.
8:00 am - After circling the court building a few times I find a place to park about a block away. I turn into the parking lot and a lady walks directly in front of my car pushing a baby stroller. I stop for her and realize that the stroller is full of plastic bags. I’ve noticed during my few minutes of circling that the people in the area seem accustomed to walking. Most of them are completely oblivious to the traffic, seeming only to understand things from the perspective of the walker, never from the perspective of the driver. Maybe this way of thinking becomes a necessity whilst constantly traveling on foot. I walk down the block and stop at the intersection behind a guy who looks like he crosses this street often. When he crosses I follow close behind him. There are some cars turning right on the red light, but my lead walks in front of them, so I follow. They can wait.
9:00 am - Inside the jury pool lounge, a judge comes over the loud speaker and welcomes everyone to jury duty. He tries to keep things light by making jokes. The room is full. Everyone waits. There is a digital clock with a red number 12 displayed. When it counts down to zero, and all of the courts have concluded for the day, we will be set free.
10:00 am - After an hour or so of reading Sandman: Preludes and Nocturnes, I begin to feel adventurous. Adventurous is a new feeling this particular day. Before adventurous, I mostly feel self-conscious. I am one of the youngest people in the room. The lady across from me is reading a biography of John Adams. I’m reading a fantasy/ horror comic with depictions of hell and two drawings of partially naked women within the last twenty pages. I stand up, stretch, and glance over at the red numbers. Already down to 10. For the past hour, I’ve been continually pulling in my feet as people shuffle past. I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m some kind of jerk who sprawls his feet out into the middle of the isle. My fears are assuaged, however, as I make my way towards the front desk and everyone must pull there feet in to let me through, but I still feel like a jerk for making them move. I approach the sign-out sheet and fill out the information. Name: Peter Athas. Destination: Snack Bar. I find it humorous that I just filled out this official courthouse form with the words “Snack Bar,” and I smile to myself.
Up on the first floor I exit the elevator and peek down the hall to the right. To the left is the door that I entered through, security guards and all. There’s no escaping that way. The receptionist did say that the snack bar was on the first floor didn’t she? I walk down the only other available hallway and am encouraged by the faint smell of bacon and eggs. When I reach the snack bar, I take a look at the menu. I see ham and egg sandwiches for $3.25. I have no money. In an attempt to avoid looking like a guy who thought the snack bar was free, found out it wasn’t, and immediately left, I pause and examine the vending machine nearby. The words “SNACK ATTACK” scroll in blue across the small screen, followed by a shark that subsequently eats them. I exit the snack bar and head back downstairs.
10:10 am - I hate coffee, but I’m bored, stiff, and tired, so I make my way to the kitchen area in the back of the room. I pour a cup of coffee and add sugar and non-dairy creamer until the coffee looks sufficiently sweet and creamy. I see a partially opened package of Swiss Miss hot chocolate powder on the counter. I add some of that too. The concoction is surprisingly delicious.
10:30 am - The number board still reads 10. The lady next to me is a jury duty veteran, and she talks to the surrounding people about her experiences.
“They don’t let nobody out of jury duty. When I reported to get my schedule this time, one man said he was a mental patient. The man that work here told him, ‘Well, you got one month to get a note from your doctor then.’ They got mental patients on the jury!”
10:45 am - The number board remains the same. The judge in court 10 needs to get his shit together. I pretend to go to sleep to avoid talking to people.
11:15 am - We’re down to circuit #4. The receptionist announces that the judge will need a fifty-person jury. She begins to call names and my pulse suddenly quickens. I don’t fully understand my own nervous reaction. The first woman called slaps the armrest of her chair as she rises. It’s as if we’re being called to our execution, but I get a pardon. All fifty names are called and the wait continues.
12:15 pm - There is one circuit court left, but they have not decided whether they need a jury yet. We are dismissed for a one-hour lunch break. I realize the futility of traveling to the snack room again, so I remain seated. An elderly Asian man begins to talk to me. This conversation, if it can be called that, lasts for about five minutes, during which time I understand 3-5 sentences maximum. I just nod frequently and say “yeah.” In order to escape this uncomfortable situation, I travel back up to the first floor. As I exit the elevator this time there is a heavyset lady sitting on the wooden bench across from the elevators. She is singing loudly. I can’t make out the song, but she sings beautifully, a fact, judging by her volume, of which she seems quite aware.
“Snack bar?” she asks, looking up from her newspaper.
“Yes,” I reply, and she points the way.
I have no desire to return to the snack bar, but I pretend to so as to appear that I have an actual reason for coming upstairs other than to escape awkward conversation. The woman begins to sing again, and her voice echoes after me as I travel down the hall.
I sit on a wooden bench across from the snack room. Next to me is a dilapidated set of copper colored water fountains. Inside one of the bowls is a puddle of water that has clearly been there for some time. White foam floats on the top, spit perhaps, and throughout the water there are little brown bits--a miniature cesspool in the middle of the otherwise stately courthouse. I think of the Oregon Trail and slide farther down the bench. You died of dysentery.
1:15 pm - The final court decides it is not in need of our services and we are released for the day. As I shuffle out toward the parking lot with the rest of the jurors, we pass one last security checkpoint. The room smells like lunchmeat.
“Take off your juror badges, folks,” one of the security guards says with a mouth full of sandwich. “It’s for your own safety. You don’t know what them crazy people are liable to do.”
How reassuring.
“See you Thursday,” I say, and walk out into the heat and sunlight.