It's gonna be a long one tonight, folks. I've got wine, 60s European funk and the apartment all to myself. There's a lot to say.I've been a scooterer for over a year now...could be considered an old hand even...and it's taken me all this time to become comfortable with the Scooter Code. Yes, such a thing exists. It's rarely witnessed and often whispered about. Like the Amish. But it's alive and well amongst a certain set. And by "set" I mean people who own scooters. The biggest and first rule is that scooterists give each other a little wave when passing in the opposite direction. It's kind of a "Hey, I see you're naked to the elements as well. Rock on".
I'm not much for waving at perfect strangers. I show very little affection towards people I actually know, so why would someone who has nothing in common with me but the fact that we're both too cheap to buy a car inspire any different? That's rhetorical. The most I do is that "what's up" nod with my heavily helmeted head. Which can look like bowing if I'm not careful. I don't want that either. But every time I do the head bob and they do the wave, I feel guilty. If they have the balls to wave at me, I should, in turn, grow a nice, if feminine pair and wave on back. But I never do. At least until now. I feel as though I might have turned a corner today. The "what's up" nod action on the way home felt especially shameful today. I think maybe I'm ready to graduate. I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday I had jury duty. It was my first time. Ever.
I reported to the court house at 7:55. I had a laptop, book, iPod and anything else I could possibly think of that I might use to keep myself awake. Immediately upon passing through the heavily guarded doors, I sent my bag through the x-ray scan at security and set it off. Turns out I forgot to take the pepper spray (that has lived in that bag for the last year and a half) out. Apparently this is considered a "weapon" and isn't allowed in the County Courthouse. It's not LISTED in the posted LIST of weapons...but a weapon it is. Qu'elle surprise. I had to go back outside, throw it away and come back through security. With my cheeks BURNING the entire time.
Quick orientation by a judge. Explanation of what "evidence" is. Congratulations on the important role we're playing in this greatness we call Democracy, blah blah blah. The next 20 years (6 hours) of my life were spent fighting to keep my eyes open in what felt like a stationary airplane. Except the rows were longer. I will say this about the Jury Room, it's a great place to meet guys. I mean, I didn't actually meet any of them, but there were several fine looking young lads fighting to keep themselves awake all around me. If only I hadn't been so very ill tempered and resentful about my even having to BE there, perhaps I would've seized the opportunity to make some friends. But I didn't. And now I have to live with that for the rest of my life.
At 2:00 PM the elderly woman that had been calling 15-18 names for different trials throughout the day once again stood at her little podium with an announcement. It's the last trial, and they're requesting 30 jurors. The rest will be able to leave early. Guess who's name was number 28. Fuckers.
Once seated in the court room we learned that the defendant was accused of possession of cocaine. They needed 12 jurors. But they needed to ask us all some questions first. 9 to be exact. So I sat there (next to a Chatty Kathy who needed a right hook in the kisser, I'm telling you) and listened to the life stories of 29 average assholes. I learned their name, where they live, what they do, what their spouses do, if they drive, whether or not they had friends or family in law enforcement, what their degree is in, if they'd been in a court proceeding, if they'd ever been a victim of a crime and WHAT THEIR FUCKING HOBBIES WERE. I spent most of this time staring at the clock or out the window. Once I locked eyes with the prosecution and yawned defiantly at him.
An hour and a half passed and they still weren't done questioning us. Every once in a while a philosophical discussion would break out about the morality behind mandatory sentences or what "guilt" actually means. There were stories about friend's brother's uncle's grandpappys who were treated mean by a cop back in the Civil War and how it's shaped their opinion of law enforcement today. Christ. Then the judge decides that we can all use a break. She sent us into the "jury room". That meant the deliberation room...meant for 12.
So 30 of us stood uncomfortably close to each other around a table in a tiny room designed for the purpose of deciding the futures of dumbasses everywhere by a select few. It was very hushed...except on either side of me. Two elderly (well...oldish middle age) assholes were flirting. FLIRTING over my head. Consequently, she does fused glass and he refurbishes old microscopes or something. I was furiously text messaging my imminent suicide to everyone I knew. 15 minutes of poorly circulated hell.
Back in we went...and some more questions! Do you have a problem with authority? What is your opinion of meth? Raise your hand if you've witnessed injustice. Raise your hand if this might affect your ability to judge the facts of this case. Raise your hand if you've ever been to Arbys. Raise your hand if this might affect your ability to judge the facts of this case. On and on. And on. I yawned at the defense attorney. It was 4:15.
And then...then I heard "Does anyone here think that marijuana should be legalized?" And my hand shot up.
FREEDOM!
I got out at 4:30. I don't have to go back there for another 2 years, minimum. I expressed my relief as I checked out with the Jury Room clerk. "You didn't want to serve on the jury, then?" She seemed surprised. I explained to her that I didn't feel the defendant deserved my boredom. Not when his freedom was at stake. She laughed. I think she understood. We're kindred spirits, she and I.
Then I went home. Roommate made me dinner. I KNOW! I'm keeping him.
See...I warned you. Lengthy.
But worth it...no?
(lie if you must)
