Excuse me, Miss, i know this is embarrassing, but i couldn't help but notice the tan lines...on your shirt...
Jury Duty, the last bastion of a free society. Or so they kept telling me at Jury Orientation.....
Jury Duty is your right as a citizen!
Jury Duty is your job as a citizen!
A job that, by the way, pays ten dollars a day and ten cents a mile.
But they already have your information, so dont try and doctor the milage chart.
It's in the computer.
And everyone has their own bar code, their own number. My number, 1002457; my name LUCAS M HOWELL.
Bold capital letters, there it is. There's your identity. There's your bar code.
No need for an picture ID, it's all in the computer.
We are happy to answer any and all questions in a condescending manner regarding your Jury Duty sentence.
Today, i went in for jury duty. I tried to get out of it, i really did. I called the lil number so that i could say that i wouldnt be able to make it.
You know, in case of illness or family emergency.
Against all advice, i chose illness. Because if i said i would be out of town because of a family emergency...well........they might ask me to phone back when i get to where i'm going. Then they'd see i'm calling from my residence. And lying.
Because they have my residential phone number in their computers.
The illness i chose, against common sense, was Strepp Throat. I thought, shit, this is the season, isnt it?
My other choices were Pink Eye and the Flu.
Pink Eyea good one, it's contagious and all, but it's not debilitating.
The Fluit's going around and it's contagious. It's somewhat debilitating, but if you take stuff, yr good to go.
But strepp throatthat's all those and more!
It's the best of all sicknesses! It's amorphouscept having to do with the throat and all.
Best of alli wouldnt be lying completely.
You see, i have a thing about lyingi dont do it. Or, if i do, i make it rather obvious.
Or rather subtle. A tiny lie...like winning a Pulitzer, or fucking Dakota Flemming.
Subtlety, after all, is the genesis of art.
So, anyway, i've been slightly sick with a throat thing. Therefore, not a complete lie.
The thing i over looked, is that strepp throat is something diagnosed by a physician. And when i called in, the lady told me i needed a Doctors Excuse to get out. When i said i wouldn't be going to a doctor, that i dont have money for it, there was a long pause before, Then you're going to have to come in...
So now, i had two choices, waste money on an arbitrary doctor's visit where maybeMAYBEi could get the guy to say do have strepp throat.
Or going in and serving as a potential juror.
So i'm sitting in this big room with a bunch of people i dont know, listening to MSNBC on one of the two televisions hanging from the ceiling.
I'm sitting in the back next to, what to me looks like, a really cool looking homeless guy. He's to my right. To my left is two housewives and a hunter, they're sitting at a table drinking coffee as if they know one another.
They never say a personal word to one another.
As if they know one another.
One of the housewives, the one wearing a pink sweater, she's writing in either a day planner or a diary.
If it's a diary, it's probably something that's been suggested she do by a psychiatrist, because her husband wont fuck her any more and the kids, ages eight and ten, are a drag. She's barely 38, but feels tired all day and wants to leave this life behind to become a chef somewhere. But she's comfortable where she is, it's familiar where she is. Even if she's in hell.
There's comfort in familiarity.
That's what Hitler said, kids.....
The other housewife, she's wearing a blah coloured long sleeve something. Hair freshly cut, freshly dyed, makeup freshly applied. She's older than the Pink Sweater Lady, maybe late 50's, early 60's. Her hands are tired and worn. Her kids are grown and out of the house, her husband is loving but distant. She wants someone to talk to, she wants someone to listen to what she's saying.
Even if it's just about volcanos.
The guy sitting at the table, the Hunter, he's an alcoholic. He's wearing a camouflaged hat and has a short trimmed, black and gray peppered beard. He's wearing sunglasses, smoked, probably prescription. He keeps making snide remarks about having to leave his truck in This Part Of Town, but never specifies what that means. He has a wife, most likely, that's obese and naggy about him being out all night, drinking with his friend, Ken.
When she badmouths Ken, she gets smacked, which confuses her. She has no formal education, the Hunter knocked her up at 14 and she had to drop out of school. But that was cool with her, she dont need no schoolin' no way.
What she doesnt realize, though, is she gets smacked for shitting on Ken because Ken is more than the Hunter's hunting buddy, he's also his drunken lover.
Or so the situation played out in my head.
To my right, the homeless looking guy is pretending to be asleep. He's wearing a duster and a big cowboy-looking hat. He has long dirty hair and a long dirty beard.
I immediately feel close to him.
And after we were done, we went outside and smoked whilst i awaited my ride.
His name is Ben, and he's badass.
There was this girl there, three tables away from the housewives and hunter. She was either in college or recently graduated. She's somewhere between 22 and 27. Hard to say. Dirty blonde, lots of freckles, a fake tan. Or so it would seem.
She's constantly chewing on her nails whilst reading her book. It's not a romance novel. She kept looking up at me and giving a faint smile, which made me think we'd met once. But i doubt it. I would have remembered her.
She also had a habit of picking at the corner of her eye, like there was an eyelash there. Some sleep she forgot.
She had tired eyes, old eyes, which made it hard for me to determine an age.
She was wearing dark blue jeans, black shoes and a lightish blue/metallic gray sweater of which the collar was large and long and swung around the back, sagging, the way it was made to.
She had a French Manicure.
When i was outside smoking with Ben, she walked by and we exchanged His before she went on her way, smoking, to the corner of Main and Jefferson where she crossed.
None of us, me, her, or Ben, were called to be jurors today. We go again tomorrow for another chance.
I hope to see her again tomorrow. I hope to say something.
I'm kinda looking forward to tomorrow, for another chance at being a juror.
After all, it's my civic duty, my job, my right as a citizen of this free society.
Jury Duty, the last bastion of a free society. Or so they kept telling me at Jury Orientation.....
Jury Duty is your right as a citizen!
Jury Duty is your job as a citizen!
A job that, by the way, pays ten dollars a day and ten cents a mile.
But they already have your information, so dont try and doctor the milage chart.
It's in the computer.
And everyone has their own bar code, their own number. My number, 1002457; my name LUCAS M HOWELL.
Bold capital letters, there it is. There's your identity. There's your bar code.
No need for an picture ID, it's all in the computer.
We are happy to answer any and all questions in a condescending manner regarding your Jury Duty sentence.
Today, i went in for jury duty. I tried to get out of it, i really did. I called the lil number so that i could say that i wouldnt be able to make it.
You know, in case of illness or family emergency.
Against all advice, i chose illness. Because if i said i would be out of town because of a family emergency...well........they might ask me to phone back when i get to where i'm going. Then they'd see i'm calling from my residence. And lying.
Because they have my residential phone number in their computers.
The illness i chose, against common sense, was Strepp Throat. I thought, shit, this is the season, isnt it?
My other choices were Pink Eye and the Flu.
Pink Eyea good one, it's contagious and all, but it's not debilitating.
The Fluit's going around and it's contagious. It's somewhat debilitating, but if you take stuff, yr good to go.
But strepp throatthat's all those and more!
It's the best of all sicknesses! It's amorphouscept having to do with the throat and all.
Best of alli wouldnt be lying completely.
You see, i have a thing about lyingi dont do it. Or, if i do, i make it rather obvious.
Or rather subtle. A tiny lie...like winning a Pulitzer, or fucking Dakota Flemming.
Subtlety, after all, is the genesis of art.
So, anyway, i've been slightly sick with a throat thing. Therefore, not a complete lie.
The thing i over looked, is that strepp throat is something diagnosed by a physician. And when i called in, the lady told me i needed a Doctors Excuse to get out. When i said i wouldn't be going to a doctor, that i dont have money for it, there was a long pause before, Then you're going to have to come in...
So now, i had two choices, waste money on an arbitrary doctor's visit where maybeMAYBEi could get the guy to say do have strepp throat.
Or going in and serving as a potential juror.
So i'm sitting in this big room with a bunch of people i dont know, listening to MSNBC on one of the two televisions hanging from the ceiling.
I'm sitting in the back next to, what to me looks like, a really cool looking homeless guy. He's to my right. To my left is two housewives and a hunter, they're sitting at a table drinking coffee as if they know one another.
They never say a personal word to one another.
As if they know one another.
One of the housewives, the one wearing a pink sweater, she's writing in either a day planner or a diary.
If it's a diary, it's probably something that's been suggested she do by a psychiatrist, because her husband wont fuck her any more and the kids, ages eight and ten, are a drag. She's barely 38, but feels tired all day and wants to leave this life behind to become a chef somewhere. But she's comfortable where she is, it's familiar where she is. Even if she's in hell.
There's comfort in familiarity.
That's what Hitler said, kids.....
The other housewife, she's wearing a blah coloured long sleeve something. Hair freshly cut, freshly dyed, makeup freshly applied. She's older than the Pink Sweater Lady, maybe late 50's, early 60's. Her hands are tired and worn. Her kids are grown and out of the house, her husband is loving but distant. She wants someone to talk to, she wants someone to listen to what she's saying.
Even if it's just about volcanos.
The guy sitting at the table, the Hunter, he's an alcoholic. He's wearing a camouflaged hat and has a short trimmed, black and gray peppered beard. He's wearing sunglasses, smoked, probably prescription. He keeps making snide remarks about having to leave his truck in This Part Of Town, but never specifies what that means. He has a wife, most likely, that's obese and naggy about him being out all night, drinking with his friend, Ken.
When she badmouths Ken, she gets smacked, which confuses her. She has no formal education, the Hunter knocked her up at 14 and she had to drop out of school. But that was cool with her, she dont need no schoolin' no way.
What she doesnt realize, though, is she gets smacked for shitting on Ken because Ken is more than the Hunter's hunting buddy, he's also his drunken lover.
Or so the situation played out in my head.
To my right, the homeless looking guy is pretending to be asleep. He's wearing a duster and a big cowboy-looking hat. He has long dirty hair and a long dirty beard.
I immediately feel close to him.
And after we were done, we went outside and smoked whilst i awaited my ride.
His name is Ben, and he's badass.
There was this girl there, three tables away from the housewives and hunter. She was either in college or recently graduated. She's somewhere between 22 and 27. Hard to say. Dirty blonde, lots of freckles, a fake tan. Or so it would seem.
She's constantly chewing on her nails whilst reading her book. It's not a romance novel. She kept looking up at me and giving a faint smile, which made me think we'd met once. But i doubt it. I would have remembered her.
She also had a habit of picking at the corner of her eye, like there was an eyelash there. Some sleep she forgot.
She had tired eyes, old eyes, which made it hard for me to determine an age.
She was wearing dark blue jeans, black shoes and a lightish blue/metallic gray sweater of which the collar was large and long and swung around the back, sagging, the way it was made to.
She had a French Manicure.
When i was outside smoking with Ben, she walked by and we exchanged His before she went on her way, smoking, to the corner of Main and Jefferson where she crossed.
None of us, me, her, or Ben, were called to be jurors today. We go again tomorrow for another chance.
I hope to see her again tomorrow. I hope to say something.
I'm kinda looking forward to tomorrow, for another chance at being a juror.
After all, it's my civic duty, my job, my right as a citizen of this free society.
(seriously, they really do have juries. I think the reason I've never been on a jury is that since I turned 18 I've never held a job or an address for more than a year. The government just can't catch me.)