Fury Duty, Part 5

  So the mousy little judge recovers from the startling announcement that we have a wanted felon in the house, and she quickly instructs the confused police officer to take the questionable juror to another room for some private conversation. They trottle off to do so, and then the judge faces the rest of the room once again.

  “Does anyone ELSE think they have a good reason why they shouldn’t serve on a jury today?”

  Well, not really, not after discovering that Patty Hearst just pulled a trump card on all of us. Can’t really top that. The jerk who managed to get out of duty because he “had the sniffles” is still standing at the front of the room waiting to be excused, his head hung in shame as he refuses to make eye contact with those of us still in servitude to the Municipal Court. We glare at him anyway and try to make him burst into flames.

  The judge smiles primly. “Okay, then. Well, make yourselves comfortable and the bailiff will be in shortly with your assignments.”  Then she turns and walks out of the room to go do whatever judges do when they aren’t presiding over a trial.

  So now it’s a waiting game, that excruciating period where we all sit around forever, hoping that our name is never called so that maybe we can get out of here by noon. Or that our name does get called but by the time we tromp all the way to the courtroom, some type of agreement has been reached and we are dismissed. Whatever it takes. Just let us go home soon. Please.

  For the next two minutes or so, it’s actually very peaceful. There are a few pockets of quiet conversation here and there, but for the most part people are quietly reading or working on crossword puzzles or just sitting there and waiting for the hangover to pass. This is how it should work in a jury waiting room. You know it’s going to be boring, so you bring your own entertainment and you leave people alone. Nice. I pull out my book and open it to the next chapter.

  Right then, some skank in the front row jumps up, races over to the ancient TV, and slaps it on. She doesn’t even bother to mess with the channel or even analyze what our viewing options might be. She’s one of those sad and irritating souls who have been raised at the bosom of numbing television. It doesn’t matter what the program is. The TV just needs to be on. (This right here is why our society is doomed to failure at some point.)

  So now we have some crapfest daytime TV show blaring throughout the room. I’m one of those people who can’t read when annoying noises are taking place around me. So I sigh and close the book. Might as well try to get into whatever is being broadcast and hope it helps pass the time.

  It doesn’t. We are apparently watching a game show, a mystifying competition involving three contestants who ride around in a taxicab, with the driver throwing out trivia questions while navigating some serious traffic. They win money if they are right, they lose money when they are wrong, and there are special rules like bonus cash if the passengers answer a question correctly when the driver is at a red light.

  They’ve got to be kidding me with this. What moron producer gave a green light to such a bonehead idea? Hey, let’s shove some people in a car, and then do everything we can to distract the driver, what with hosting duties and a camera shoved in his face. This thing has potential death and expensive lawsuits all over it.

  And the woman who insisted on activating the TV so we would have to sit through this mess? She returns to her seat and immediately gets on her cell phone, babbling about some social faux pas that happened at a bar with the dubious name of “Snapper Jack’s”. Somebody’s pregnant and Baby Daddy ain’t steppin’ up.

  I involuntarily start grinding my teeth.

  Then some guy with bad hair stands up and marches toward the door, presumably intent on a personal mission of some kind. That would be fine and all, none of my business, if it weren’t for this man’s choice of footwear. He’s wearing some sneakers that apparently have thousands of suction cups on the soles. Each step he takes releases a squelchy, ripping noise that echoes around the room. I instantly hate and despise his very existence. He finally rounds the corner out of sight, and my sphincter relaxes.

  Two seconds later, Suction Man returns through the door and heads toward the “privacy room” on the left, his evil shoes pulling up half the floor tiles as he goes, creating a sonic cacophony that threatens to shatter our eardrums. Luckily, he mostly closes the door so that it muffles his pacing in the inner sanctum.

  From somewhere behind me: “Bitch better stay in there for a while. Can’t take that.”

  Suction Man doesn’t get the message. Four seconds later, he throws open the door and squelches back into sight. He then dumbfounds us all by circling the crumbling check-in table, twice, and then heading back out the main door. What is wrong with him? Does he really not hear the devil noises that his shoes are making?

  Incredibly, Suction Man marches right back in the room and continues with the sonic disturbance, insistently trying to make his mark on every square inch of flooring in the waiting room. This is so many kinds of wrong. He is clearly insane.

  From somewhere to my right: “Oh Sweet Jesus. Give me the strength.”

  But the madness doesn’t stop there.

  Two rows ahead of me, a woman pulls out a piece of paper and shows it to a temporary companion on her right. “Am I supposed to do something with this?” She’s holding her jury summons. This woman was in her seat way before both the administrative clerk AND the judge instructed everyone to place their summons in the bin on the crappy table.

  Her companion just looks at her.

  I just look at her.

  Then the woman in the front row who insisted on activating the TV suddenly turns around and throws in even more stupidity to the mix. “Hey, girl, I got one a those too. Does the judge lady need that?”

  Is there anybody in this room that made it past the third grade? Just wondering.

  And so it goes, for the next several hours. Every fifteen minutes or so, some waste of taxpayer dollars will discover that he or she still has their jury summons that they haven’t handed over. Every ten minutes something really loud happens on the TV that nobody is watching but still hasn’t been turned off. And every five minutes, Suction Man makes another run for the border. That last bit is the worst of all. The noise he is making is so beyond annoying that half the people are on suicide watch by the time another official enters the room.

  The new guy is the bailiff. He’s here to announce our specific jury assignments. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for, enduring agonizing torment for what seems like decades. Even the tattooed gang-bangers in the jury pool turn off their iPods to see what this man has to say.

  And he gets right to the point. “I want everybody on the back row to line up against this wall over here. You guys are going first.”

  Wow. That’s really kind of cool. The back row has all the people who didn’t take this seriously and showed up late. They deserve to go first, before the folks who did the right thing and got here on time. I kinda like this guy.

  Then he throws me for a loop. “Now I want everybody in the third row to line up behind these other people.” What? I’m still not affected, being in the fifth row, but things are kind of not making sense at this point. What’s going on?

  Then the bailiff gets even more random. “Any lawyers in the room?” One guy behind me raises his hand. “Get in line. Anybody work for AT&T? I had a problem with my bill and they really ticked me off.”

  Well, of course nobody’s going to raise their hand after that. But he keeps going. “How about Sprint? Anybody work for them? Time-Warner?” (He’s getting so close to my job with Verizon that I can barely breathe. If he says the V-word I’m crawling under my chair and curling up in a ball.) But he’s apparently done.

  “Okay, everybody lined up against the wall can go home. The rest of you are gonna be on a jury.”

  What!

  Then he laughs. “I’m just kidding. Everything’s cool, they don’t need any of you. Get your butts out of here and go.”

  Everybody leaps to their feet in a rapturous moment of release. As we slowly file out the door, the bailiff hams it up, cracking jokes and asking if anybody is going to Luby’s, cause he sure would like some fried fish.

  And he thanks every single one of us as we go out the door. That, right there, makes everything fine and good. I’ve whined and moaned during my entire stay, but this man has to endure whiners and moaners every day, and he still has a great attitude about his job. Lesson to be learned, right?

  As I wander down the hall, I hear one of the last people still in the room ask him a question. “Am I supposed to do something with this piece of paper?”

  There’s an odd, sharp sound, like someone being slapped.

  I just keep walking toward freedom.

Fury Duty, Part 4

  Jane Hathaway suddenly makes a squeak of discovery, releases my horrified arm, and races off to the comfort station that she has just spotted down the hall. I’m left standing there like Jethro, rope belt and all, trying to save what’s left of my dignity. Stupidly, I fail to understand what this really means and I waddle into the Jury Room while pawing at my crotch, trying to whisk away the remaining tidbits of paper towel. Very classy.

  Three steps into the room, and I realize that class is not part of this picture. This place is a dump. My inappropriate fondling is the least of the tragedies taking place in the hell that I have just entered.

  As mentioned previously, I’m used to serving jury duty at another building across town. They are very efficient over there. It’s a well-greased assembly line where they get the cattle moving through the chutes fairly quickly. Once you are processed and branded, you are then allowed to bide your time in a spacious waiting area with comfortable seats and lots of room to walk around when you get a little tired of sitting.

  It’s a different world over here.

  First off, there are no official representatives of the court system anywhere to be found. No one to tell me what to do or where to go. I’m on my own. And judging by the confused looks of the people already in the holding area, none of us are sure that we’re even in the right place. This is gonna be fun.

  It’s an L-shaped room. You enter at the top of the L, and you immediately encounter a decaying folding table with a bin sitting on the end closest to the door. It’s right THERE when you walk in, can’t miss it. (This becomes an important detail as the story progresses.) Taped to the bin is a little sign that says “Place your Jury Summons here.”

  Okay, that’s pretty clear. I get out my somewhat-wrinkled summons and gently lay it on the small stack. A very small stack. I glance back at the current occupants who are loosely gathered at the other end of the room, and something is off. There are way more people over there than there are jury summons over here.

  What’s going on? Why doesn’t everybody in this room have a summons? So my neurotic mind that over-analyzes everything starts to wonder. It’s already obvious, due to the crappy condition of the room, that the operational budget is tight in this building. Are they possibly keeping the jurors AND the defendants in the same holding area?

  Is my life in danger? Is there someone I can speak to about this? Anybody?

  Someone clears their throat directly behind me. Oh my God, it might be a killer of some kind, ready to put a cap in my ass because I’m wearing the wrong gang colors. I gulp and turn around to face my street-thug executioner, ready to plead for my life and swear that I will sell my body on the streets and give all the profits to him.

  And I find that I am facing a tiny, bird-like woman who is most likely a librarian that owns 47 cats and has never seen an R-rated movie. She smiles at me primly, just wanting me to move ahead a scootch so she can place her summons in the box like the little sign says.

  I make a mental note that it’s probably time for me to start taking the anxiety pills again.

  I smile back at Sister Christian, make a gesture to indicate that I’m so sorry I’ve kept her waiting and possibly delayed her eventual return to the Little House on the Prairie, and then turn back around. But not, I might add, before noticing that her chaste eyes briefly dart downward to observe my soaked and confetti-covered crotch.

  There’s no escaping it. I’m going to be defined by my wetness for the rest of the day.

  So I trudge forward to the part of the room where I’m supposed to sit and await my fate. I’m not pleased to see that the comfy chairs from the fancy courthouse across town are nowhere to be found in this discount judicial setting. Instead, we have these rickety red folding chairs jammed together in rows. Granted, they have cushions, but they are so stained and nasty that anything could be living in them considering the humidity in this town. I’d have preferred plain metal. The bacteria die more easily on a non-porous surface.

  I stagger past the first several rows, my journey made more difficult by seat occupants who apparently don’t have the strength to move their lazy legs out of the tiny aisle. It’s still early enough that most of the back rows are empty, so I hoof it down one of them and stake a claim as far from my fellow humans as I possibly can.

  Once ensconced, on a seat that only has minimal stains, I open my Stephen King book and try to give the appearance that I am so focused on Stevie’s latest literary effort that any attempt at conversation with me will prove pointless. I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t even try. Besides, I‘m still wet. I need people to stay away so the air can circulate and dry me out.

  So people slowly trickle in, and those of us who arrived in plenty of time have to gradually cede real estate to the late-comers. I don’t think this is fair. There should be a special section for the stragglers. Let the competent people remain masters of their domain. Still, I manage to keep two empty seats on both sides of me. (Might have something to do with the look of horror I gave anyone who paused at the entrance to my row.)

  Finally, the cut-off time arrives, and we have our fist appearance of someone who possibly might have some actual authority in the this place. A woman with a clipboard marches into the room and assumes a position in front of the imminent-death folding chairs where people are packed in like sardines. (I’m one of the few hold-outs, desperately doing the splits across five chairs in a pathetic attempt hang on to my kingdom. I’m not young anymore, and it hurts, but I tough it out.)

  Clipboard Woman wants to make one thing very clear. “We are NOT associated with Dallas County in any way!” Then her hate-filled eyes scan the room, daring anyone to have a problem with this.

  A ripple goes through the crowd. What is that all about? Why is she saying this? How does this affect us? Do we still get a lunch?

  As the gossipy buzz circles the room, my eyes drop down and I notice for the first time that all of the crappy red chairs in here have “Dallas Convention Center” stamped on the back of them. Clearly, there’s some kind of incest going on, because you wouldn’t have these chairs if it wasn’t for Dallas County. But I’m sure as hell not going to point that out.

  “Secondly,” barks Clipboard Woman, “if you haven’t put your jury summons in the bin on this table over here, you need to do that right now.” Not surprisingly, a third of the room stands up and shuffles toward the battered folding table, a march of shame and stupidity. How could you NOT see the sign on the table? It’s the only sign in the room. Okay, there are two signs, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

  Then Clipboard Lady has some final housekeeping notes. There’s a TV over there that you can turn on if you wish. (I will kill you if you do.) The bathrooms are out the door and to the right. (Watch out for that sink. And the perverts in the stalls. If you hear the phrase “That‘s Hot!”, run for your life.) There are magazines in this bookshelf that you can read. (Um, one of those magazines has a cover story that Jimmy Carter has just been elected president.)

  And there’s more. If you need to smoke, then you have to go outside and then come back through Security. (Hate you.) There are NO vending machines in this building. (Are you serious?) If you need some privacy, you can go into this little room over here and close the door. (I turn and glare at the woman behind me who has been on her cell phone since she walked through the door. She just looks at me blankly. Cleary, she has not seen the only other sign in this room, which states “Cell Phone Use is Prohibited During Orientation.” This is orientation, you clueless wretch.)

  Clipboard Hag ends with a final pronouncement. “The judge will be in shortly to speak with you.” Then she turns and marches off to attend another Bitter Nastiness seminar.

  Two seconds later, a police officer steps up to address the crowd. At least I assume he’s a police officer. He has a shiny badge of some kind, and that sure looks like a gun holstered on his hip. Either that, or it’s a really aggressive cell phone.

  “The judge will be in shortly to speak with you,” he mutters, then he wanders off as well.

  What’s up with the repetition? I think we got it the first time. Then I glance over at the still significant line of people who are trying to put their jury summons in the box that they blithely wandered past the first time around. Okay, I get it. You have to repeat things around here or the world will go up in flames.

  Fine. I open my Stephen King book once again and try to get through another chapter. Out of the corner of my eye I see someone attempting to take one of the chairs in my domain and I quickly bare my teeth. The startled woman gasps and then runs scurries other way.

  Endless decades later, the judge finally enters the room.

  She looks like the sister of the cat-woman librarian from my earlier brief encounter. There’s not a single cell in her entire body that appears to be the least bit intimidating. This room is going to chew her up and spit her out. Then go back for seconds.

  Judge Puny smiles timidly, adjusts her glasses that she’s been wearing since the seventh grade when she was elected secretary of the science club, and then explains that she is here to make sure that we are all qualified to serve as jurors.

   Hmm. Well, if you need to do that, I suppose it’s okay. But that jury summons thing had little boxes for you to check in case you weren’t qualified or required to serve. Can’t you just look at those pieces of paper?

  Apparently not.

  So Science Club Girl opens the bartering floor. Anybody have a child that they need to care for instead of doing their civic duty, despite the month-long heads up you’ve been given? Well, yes, we have two claimants. One is a relative youngster who gives the impression that she doesn’t have a sense of identity unless she’s pregnant. The other is a sixty-year-old woman who obviously hasn’t given birth since the Jimmy Carter magazine was placed in the jury library. The judge lets both of them go.

  Next, is anybody blind? We have an older gentleman on the right who has “the diabetes” and sometimes he can’t see. Well, he found his way here, doesn’t that make him qualified? I guess not. He joins the growing exodus.

  Then the judge stupidly throws it open for any excuses. There’s a guy on the front row who complains that he “has the sniffles”. Seriously, that’s his out. And the judge lets him go. Are you kidding me?

  But none of that mess compares with what happens next.

  As the crowd starts to get excited about the apparent fact that this judge will let you go home for any reason, there’s a commotion in the back of the room and one woman leaps to her feet in a frenzy of revelation.

  “I have an arrest warrant out on me!”

  All conversation in the room screeches to a halt, as heads swivel in the direction of the amazing individual that would actually march into a damn courthouse when she’s wanted by the law. Even the people on the banned cell phones decide this might be fun and quickly hang up. (“Girl, I’ll call you back.”)

  The judge’s face pales. The nearby police officer looks startled as he realizes that he might be called upon to do something. Folks shift in their seats so they can better see how this is going to play out. What has she done? Who did she kill? Will they tackle her? Are we going to be on the news? Where did she get that cute pair of jeans?

  I quietly set my book on the floor and discreetly nudge the volume under my chair. I loves me some Stephen King, but the dude ain’t got nothin on this. We just twisted off into a whole other realm of reality….


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Fury Duty, Part 3

  So I join the Death March of people trying to gain access to the court  building. Once inside the doors, I am confronted with the lovely sight of security personnel screening all visitors. Great. We have to go through all that mess.

  And of course, the people immediately before me in the line have apparently never had people ask them to remove personal items and place them in a plastic tray. They are totally mystified by this request and just stand there. The line comes to a complete halt.

  Actual conversation:

  Security Guard: “Ma’am, please remove your jacket and place it on the conveyor.”

  Idiot Woman: “Why? It’s cold in here.”

  Guard: “Please take off you jacket.”

  Idiot: “Why do I have to do that? I don’t have to do that.”

  Guard: “Everyone has to take off their jacket. So take off your jacket. Now. Please.”

  Idiot: “Is there a manager I can talk to?”

  Good gawd. This isn’t Denny’s where somebody screwed up your omelet. I’m praying that Jack Bauer will drop from the ceiling and shoot this woman in the head.

  And so it goes, with each person not paying any attention to what’s happening to the people in front of them, and then whining and moaning when it’s their turn to be screened. This goes on forever. I now understand why it takes so long to convict criminals of their crimes. It’s not the lawyers and the judges. It’s the morons in the jury pool who take six months just to get to the jury room.

  When it’s my turn to step up, I immediately take everything out of my pockets and hurl the load into the tray, rip off my jacket and add it to the mess, and then top it off with the Stephen King book that I’ve dragged along. I then glance at the sheep behind me (“THIS is how it’s done, people!”) and then prance through the screening gate.

  The alarm goes off.

  What the hell?

  Guard: “Sir, please take off your belt and try again.”

  So I back up, having to gently shove the woman behind me out of the way because she’s talking on her cell phone and probably doesn’t even realize she’s in a line. (Good luck with her, Mr. Security Guard.) I whip off the belt and try to place it in the bin, but instead the guard takes the belt and just holds it.

  What’s up with that? Is he planning to beat me with it for some unknown infraction? This unnerves me. I don’t like strangers being too familiar with my accessories. It’s just a thing with me.

  I walk through the screening gate with less attitude, and this time there are no beeps. Hallelujah. I gather up my things, and then glance at the guard who is still holding my belt. Can I have that now? He hands it over, but slightly delays in letting go when I grasp the leather. He then smirks in what he thinks is a sexy manner.

  You’re kidding me. Am I being hit on by a security guard in the same place where Lee Harvey Oswald took a bullet? This is surreal.

  He finally lets go and I scurry away from the station as fast as I can.

  Then I slow down when I realize that I don’t know where the hell to go. As mentioned, I’ve been called for jury duty many times. But it was always at another building across town. I’m familiar with that place. I know where all the bathrooms are and I know where you can smoke. Here, I’m at a loss.

  At this place, there aren’t any helpful directional signs like at the other courthouse, where they had huge billboards with arrows pointing the newbies to their destination. I whip out my jury summons to see if I overlooked some helpful detail. Nope. Just the address of the building. This is clearly an unprofessional piece of correspondence.

  Just then, a woman darts in front of me clutching the same type of summons. Maybe she knows where to go. Let’s follow her!

  And so I do, which proves to be something of a challenge because she walks very quickly for an old woman with a bad rinse job. Girl can move. I’m soon out of breath as I clatter across the marble and try to keep up. She suddenly ratchets off to the right in an unforeseen move. I almost lose her in the crowd, but then get another glimpse of her as she starts to ascend a stairwell.

  I lunge after her, nearly breaking my neck as I leap up the steps two at a time. Halfway up the stairs she slams to a halt, her shoulders stiffen, and she whirls around to glare right at me. Her face is not a kind one and her eyes are wild.

  Oh boy. Have I done something wrong? Is this considered stalking? Is she now going to scream for authorities to place me under arrest? (If so, please don’t let it be the security guard from downstairs. Things could get awkward.)

  Instead, this comes out of her mouth: “Do you know where the Ladies Room is?”

  What? Where did she come up with that? Why is she asking a total stranger who obviously doesn‘t work here? And why is she asking a man? Is my gayness now so apparent that people can sense it without even looking in my direction?

  My startled response. “Um… no, I don’t know where the-”

  She turns back around and races up the stairs, quickly vanishing in the hordes of people swarming the hallways of the next level. Fine. I still don’t know where I’m going, but maybe bitter Jane Hathaway has inadvertently pointed me in the right direction.

  I reach the second level, and my stalking efforts are rewarded by a tiny sign bearing the words “Jury Room” and a miniscule arrow pointing to the right. Good deal. However, there is another wisp of a sign explaining that the bathrooms are to the left. I glance at my phone to ensure that I still have plenty of time, and then head left. All this excitement has triggered my bladder and I need to pee.

  This turns out to be a nearly fatal decision on my part.

  I crash through the ancient door of the toilette (this place is really old) and I’m nearly killed when the door bounces off the wall and comes swinging back at me with a vengeance. I manage to leap out of the way as the heavy slab of metal slams shut. I haven’t even unzipped and I’m regretting this satanic comfort station.

  At first, I think the place is deserted. There’s no one in sight. Then I hear a startling grunt and realize that we do, indeed, have company. Two of the stalls on the left have doors that appear to be closed and presumably locked. The noises coming from one of the stalls indicates that someone or some thing is in the process of childbirth. I don’t want to be near any of that action.

  Then the smell hits me. It’s beyond unreal, beyond anything imaginable. Did they forget to bury Lee Harvey after the incident in the basement? But I still need to pee.

  So I head to the urinals on  the right. I just want to relieve myself. I don’t want to be an impromptu midwife.

  I walk to the last urinal on the wall. (It’s a guy thing. When given an option, you minimize social interaction in the restrooms whenever possible. Most people don’t like to converse in the midst of recycling, but there are a few chatty whizzers who don’t understand this and will talk about anything, breaking your concentration. Selecting a urinal with a wall to one side helps thin the herd of obnoxious people.)

  Once in position, I make the necessary preparations, and then wait for nature to take its course. At my age, it takes a bit longer for the pump to be primed, if you will. When you’re 17 years old, you can instantly get things started at any opportunity, even if your saintly grandmother is in the next room. As the body ages, you reach a point where patience and pleading come into play. (Can I get a high-five from my buddies of a certain age?) It’s not like things don’t work, it’s just not instantaneous, no matter how badly you need to go.

  So as I’m standing there, waiting for all parts of my body to receive the signal that this is, indeed, a certified launch, I hear something extraordinary from one of the occupied stalls behind me.

  “That’s hot.”

  I have no idea what can possibly be hot, or who this anonymous person is talking to, or if I even understood what was being said. Something is just not right with this picture, and I’m done. I squeeze out a minor contribution, then quickly lock things away, slap at the flush lever, and race over to the sinks.

  Where I make another unintentional move that jeopardizes my status in society.

  See, this building might be old, but there’s some serious water pressure going on in this place. I barely nudge the faucet handle, and suddenly gallons of liquid are pouring out with tremendous force, ricocheting out of the basin and splashing the front of my pants.

  I slam the faucet off within milliseconds, but it’s too late. The damage is done. I now look like I’ve wet myself. Just minutes before I enter a room where lawyers will eventually be making pronouncements concerning my ability to adequately serve on a jury.

  This can’t be happening. Seriously, what have I done to deserve this? I didn’t try to get out of jury duty like so many people do, I showed up willing to do my part, and now I have a wet crotch. How is this fair?

  I quickly grab some paper towels out of the crumbling dispenser on the wall, and begin pawing at the wet spots. Based on past experience (I have issues with public sinks), if you rub hard and fast enough, you can dry things out and normalcy might return. So I go at it like a Boy Scout trying to make fire, rubbing away like the Apocalypse is on the horizon. I’m amazed that my pants don’t burst into flames.

  Then I hear that odd phrase from the closed stalls once again: “That’s hot.”

  I’m out of here, wet crotch or not. I throw the shredded paper towels into the trashcan, wash my hands in the evil sink, and then race out the exit, giving myself a hernia as I shove the metal door out of my way.

  I thunder across the lobby and sprint toward the jury room on the other side, not caring who gets hurt or how many people might die. As I approach the mystical sanctuary where jurors live until called upon, I glance down and realize that little tufts of paper towel are peppered all over the front of my trousers, like my nether regions are producing aggressive dandruff that can punch through clothing material. Oh my GOD.

  I skid to a halt and begin whacking away at the demon crop of whiteness. In the midst of this harvesting, I feel a hand grip the elbow of my right arm. I pause in my efforts, and follow the hand up to the woman now standing before me. It’s Jane Hathaway, and she’s still on her mission. “Do you know where the Ladies Room is?”

  My mind short-circuits and I have no response. I can’t take anymore and I haven’t even officially reported for jury duty. This day is NEVER going to end…


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Fury Duty, Part 2

  So there I am riding the DART Rail, hunkered down in my seat as the car gently rocks to and fro, doing my best to avoid all eye contact with other passengers because I really don’t want to talk to anybody. To be really efficient at this societal avoidance, the best option is to stare out the window at all times. If you dare to look at anything inside the car, you run the risk of someone thinking you’re open to conversation, and here come the bunion stories.

  And really, the sights on the other side of the glass are fairly interesting (at least the first fifty or so times that you see them). This particular rail line cuts through a wide variety of Dallas neighborhoods, so you get a good picture of what this city is all about. Each rail station tells a story. You may not really care to hear the story, but it’s there nonetheless. It’s the history of Oak Cliff, a stand-alone city that was absorbed by Dallas proper in a frenzy of expansion, and then left to its own devices shortly after. Residents have been bitter ever since.

  The station we had just left, the closest to our house, goes by the moniker of “Hampton” station. (No need to take notes, it’s not like there’s going to be a quiz.) Back in the day, there was a apparently a bit of money in the area. There are some great 1920’s or so neighborhoods still standing, with varying degrees of success. There are also some questionable retail establishments where you can pawn your outdated big-screen TV and probably get a nice drug deal thrown into the transaction.

  As with any older neighborhood where the rose has somewhat faded, you get a mix of good and bad. You might have one house that is perfectly preserved and/or restored, thanks to older couples that refused to flee the city during the White Flight to the suburbs, or to younger generations that lovingly swooped in to pick up the pieces, brush away the cobwebs and make a house a home.

  Right next door to one of these glowing tributes, you might find a complete travesty where careless subsequent owners let things rot and fall as they may, completely oblivious to the treasure they are defiling. The bones are still good, because people used to build things to last, but the makeup and the hair have long-since faded, and the dress is in tatters. Breaks my heart to see this. Ruined finery. (10 points if you can name the movie I’m quoting with those two words.)

  Okay, getting a bit maudlin. Back to the rail journey.

  The next station is Tyler/Vernon, named for two streets that converge right where the station is located. (This converged street continues on, changing names so many times that you could lose your mind. This is another aspect of Dallas that makes the citizens psychotic and perpetually late for important meetings. Come on, people, give a street ONE name and keep it the same until the state line. Is that too much to ask?)

  Just to the south of this station is a massive complex owned by the Church of Latter Day Saints. I don’t know why they have an office here. It’s not really their demographic, to put it politely. But at least the buildings are pretty, and they apparently have a dedicated grounds keeping staff. Leaves are not allowed to remain on the grass for longer than 47 seconds.

  To the immediate southeast is a neighborhood planned in the 40’s, known as Wynnewood North, brimming with unique, spacious homes on large lots. Since the rest of Dallas looks down on Oak Cliff as a crime-infested hotbed of rampant addiction, sloth and teenage pregnancy, the property values have plummeted despite the treasures to be had. Which means you can get a good deal on some real estate, and therefore the gays have moved in and worked their magic. You always want the gays to move into your neighborhood. Ask any realtor. This place is booming.

  The next stop on the rail line is the Dallas Zoo station. This location doesn’t need any explication. All you need to know is in the title. And everyone on the train knew the Dallas Zoo was coming up, mainly because of a highly-strung little girl who had been bouncing off the walls of the train car for the last 20 minutes. She was clearly invested in seeing some animals in their non-natural habitat.

  Her mother was not nearly as jazzed about the animal thing. In fact, she appeared to be very tired, possibly still in shock that the bundle of joy that shot out of her womb six years ago could have so much uncontrolled energy. The child was on perpetual crack. As the doors slid open and little Emma dragged Mommy to her fate, the poor woman just grunted and shuffled along, resigned to the fates of Hell.

  Now, from this station to the next, we travel through some of the skankiest parts of Oak Cliff. We’re talking questionable houses where it’s a miracle that the things are still standing, and “mobile home parks” with the mobile homes being rusted relics where no maintenance has been performed in 30 years. Yet there will be a shiny BMW parked in the driveway. Go figure.

  Then we’re rumbling across the Trinity River, which sounds more exciting than it really is. The Trinity is not a massive river. For most of the year, it’s basically a stream that pitifully meanders through the middle of Dallas, separating the “haves” in the North from the “have nots” in the South. There are times in the rainy season when the creek becomes an actual river, but for the most part, there’s no drama. Move along, nothing to see here.

  Once across the quaint little brook, we arrive at Cedars Station. This is a part of town where they have been converting enormous former warehouses into hip residential enclaves. Lots of cool people are moving here. Nearly everyone who gets off at this stop is busy fiddling with an iPhone, if that helps you get the picture. There are restaurants where the proprietors will happily take your fifty bucks and reward you with a designer plate sporting a single asparagus spear and three little chunks of tofu.

  Next up is the Convention Center Station. If that name is not explanatory enough, this is where the Dallas Convention Center is located. If the Auto Show or the Gun Show or the Knife Show is in town, this place is swarming with humanity. If not, then tumbleweeds are blowing through the station.

  Now that we’re finally in downtown proper, the stations are one right after the other. There’s barely enough time for the train to build up any speed, and then suddenly we hit the brakes again and everybody falls to the floor. This is where lazy people start showing just how useless they really are. They will actually wait fifteen minutes for a train that will take them a mere two blocks over. Walk it people, get some exercise.

  This is also the point where you fully understand why deodorant was created. And that some people don’t know what that is. It’s bad enough that body parts of strangers are touching me in places that I don’t want to be touched. It’s another level of suffering to realize that those body parts are unwashed.

  We finally get to my station, and I spill out the doors in a squirt of people like an over-stressed toothpaste tube just blew a seam. I stand there gulping in the slightly-cleaner urban air while I get my bearings. Once I realize where I need to go, I brush past the outstretched hands of bums who are singing to themselves and apparently doing something very personal with the other hand. Life is beautiful, yes?

  Turns out that the “hoofing it” part of my journey is a piece of cake. It’s just a few short blocks to the municipal courthouse. I get there way before my report time, so I decide to relax outside the building before joining the stream of people currently tottering up the courthouse steps. Once you get inside and go through security, it may be hours before you see daylight again.

  So I’m just standing there, taking note of the various flavors of humanity surrounding me. There’s another patch of panhandlers at one corner pretending that they are innocently waiting for a bus. On the other corner we have someone digging through a trashcan with a level of excited discovery that is slightly alarming.

  Funneling between these two points and up the grand stairs are two sets of people. Those who are here to do their civic duty by passing judgment on their fellow man, coupled with those very fellow men who have apparently done something to get their ass in trouble. The two camps subtly glare at each other with unease. It’s clear that everyone in this judicial parade has no desire to be anywhere near this building.

  This is just not a happy place and these are not happy people.

  Suddenly, some woman comes thundering around one side of the building, screaming expletives at the top of her lungs. She races down the sidewalk, her angry voice echoing around the square. The sad crowd on the stairs turns to watch her progress as the boisterous woman rounds the other side of the building and disappears, still yelling. Apparently something over there has displeased her. The stair crowd turns back around without comment and continues marching into the building.

  Then I notice one of those historical markers on my side of the stairs. It starts off with some pleasantries about the architectural importance of the building, mentions that at one point this was police headquarters, and ends with “oh, by the way, Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald in the basement of this very structure.”

  Something tells me I’m not going to enjoy my visit…


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Fury Duty, Part 1

  None of us, of course, are ever completely thrilled when we receive a jury summons in the mail. Even those people who rightly consider jury duty to be a responsibility that you should embrace (and I do), there’s still that sinking feeling when you flip past the electric bill and the exuberant credit card offer to find the official letter with the county seal.

  I got that sinking feeling a few weeks ago. And this morning I carried out my civic duty. Which means, of course, that it ends up in the blog. You latch on to material whenever you can find it, right? And what could be more interesting and fun than a running commentary on governmental action? (Perhaps you don’t need to answer that, just keep reading.)

  I’ve had my fair share of experiences passing judgment on my supposed peers, including a few cases where we ended up (gulp) actually sending someone away to prison for an extended visit. Despite the strength in your belief of the defendant’s guilt, there’s still an odd aftertaste when you make a decision that so strongly affects another person’s life.

  This particular session, however, proved to be a little different from my previous frolics in the court system pool. For one, this was a summons to “Municipal Court”, rather than the “Criminal Court” flavor I had tasted in the past. Frankly, I had no idea what the difference entailed. Somewhere, my junior high Civics teacher is shaking his head in shame. (I’m sorry, Mr. Gatewood. It’s just that there’s been a lot of beer consumed since my over-achieving days as an eager student. Things happen.)

  Adding to the Municipal mystery was the realization that I was expected to report for duty at a building that I did not recognize at an address that was not familiar. So I get online for some research, and find that I will be reporting to a structure smack in the middle of downtown Dallas.

  I quietly groaned.

  For those of you unfamiliar with this beast, one does not just go wondering into the heart of urban Dallas without some kind of plan. It’s a crazy place, what with all the one-way streets that do not run in straight lines, instead wandering all over the map, presumably the result of somebody pouring asphalt on top of ancient cattle trails that made sense to livestock but not actual people.

  Then there’s the particular flavor of the area, a sensation that is not necessarily unique to Dallas since I’m sure the same thing has happened or is happening to any number of large cities across the nation. Downtown Dallas went through some hard times, with many big companies fleeing for the suburbs, once-stately buildings falling into disrepair, and a growing avoidance of downtown by well-mannered people who did not wish to endure the striking image of bums peeing in the streets.

  But after years of hard work by well-intentioned leaders and average citizens, downtown Dallas is making a very respectable comeback. There are actually many sections that have been deemed hip and trendy, with condos in fabulously-restored buildings selling for outrageous amounts and upscale eateries throwing open their ornate doors.

  There are still some rough spots, questionable areas that are not only dirty but potentially dangerous. Which is why you have to pay attention to where you’re going, and how you’re going to get there. I cannot stress this enough. It is critical to your survival, or at least to your arriving at the new sushi joint without a distracting mugging as an appetizer.

One minute you can be rolling down a very pleasant thoroughfare, with intriguing shops and fascinating architecture and clean-smelling people. The very next minute, after an ill-advised turn, you may find yourself on a crumbling street lined with crack-houses, poorly-trained prostitutes, and rude people who yell, throw things about, and aggressively solicit donations to questionable charities, namely themselves. Not an appealing scene, unless you’re Quentin Tarantino, scouting location shots for his next movie, “Carnage with an Attitude”.

  So after reviewing the online maps and realizing that my jury-duty destination was in an area where available parking might be in short supply, I decided to take the DART Rail to the stop nearest the courthouse, and then hoof it along what looked to be four blocks. I vaguely recognized some of the streets as being part of the theater district. Great. Surely there would be a pack of queens that would protect one of their own should trouble arise. I could now submit my flight plans and prepare for departure.

  Early this morning, I reported to the nearest DART rail station. Luckily, this is only a short distance from our house. As I pulled into the parking lot, I wondered for the hundredth time why we don’t use the rail system more often. The station is close, the rail lines are fairly extensive with a surprising number of strategic stops, and the rail cars are generally well-kept. And it’s cheaper than driving.

  It did not take me long to remember why we avoid the trains, instead choosing to remain in our personal vehicles, sealed off from humanity and polluting the environment.

  It’s the people on the trains, not the trains themselves. These folks are annoying, especially since they’ve got to realize just how annoying they are, and yet they continue with the annoyance anyway. They seem intent on ratcheting the Irritation Factor into the stratosphere,  hell-bent on some personal, demonic need to piss of the entire planet with their very existence.

  Then again, perhaps these miserable excuses for human beings really don’t understand the unattractiveness of their words and actions. I suppose that’s possible. Maybe they were raised by wolves, somehow, despite the amazing depletion in wildlife in our country after a couple of morally-reprehensible reigns by Secretaries of the Interior, hired despite dubious qualifications, who then proceeded to destroy the very thing they should be protecting. (Wow, that Norma Rae moment came out of nowhere. Still mean it, though. Word.)

  If that’s the case, then, where we have idiots that just don’t understand how to behave in a social setting, let me offer a few guiding principles. We’ll call this manifesto “What One Should NOT Do Whilst Traveling By Public Transportation”.

  1. As you wait for the train to arrive, do not take up a position right next to decent people who have already selected a waiting spot. There are plenty of places on the platform to stand. Go choose one that’s a little bit further away from me. I don’t want you in my personal space. If my elbow can possibly bump against you when I check my watch, you’re too close. Otherwise, I’m going to learn things about you that I don’t need to know.

  I don’t need aural confirmation that you have breathing issues, whether it’s just severe chest congestion or that fact that you haven’t done any cardio in the last twenty years and the short walk from the parking lot to the platform nearly killed you. However you got that way is not my responsibility. I don’t want to hear it.

  Likewise, you have complete ownership of your own hygiene routine. If you have failed in your supposed attempts to even hose yourself down every once in a while, other people should not have to suffer. Go stand downwind where there is less of a likelihood that you will commit involuntary manslaughter by raising your arm and sending a noxious wave of death billowing towards those around you. Better yet, go back to the third grade and watch those health films that you apparently didn’t take seriously the first time.

  And don’t you dare ask me for money. I will shove you on to the tracks with no guilt whatsoever. I do NOT have a solid quarter.

  2. Rule number one also applies once we are on board. If there is an available seat anywhere on the entire train aside from the vacant one next to me, go find that other seat. It doesn’t matter if you have to traipse through several cars to find it. Besides, you obviously need the cardio. In fact, might I suggest that you just keep walking back and forth and get a good heart rhythm going. (And don’t worry if you do so and then suddenly find moisture on your face. It’s called sweat, and it’s good for you on a regular basis.)

  3. If there are no available seats, forcing you to stand and grip one of the hand rails, do so with discretion and at least minimal skill. Do not glare at me in my comfy seat. I can’t help it if you were slow and wandered on to the train at the last minute. Perhaps if you hadn’t been yakking on your cell phone instead of noting train arrivals, you wouldn’t be in this position.

  Once you’ve selected a pole to grip with your dirty little hand, keep your body under control and watch what you’re doing. I don’t need your butt in my face. YOU might be proud of this particular part of your anatomy, but the rest of the train is not. Especially if said hiney is encased in some shiny material that is clearly under severe stress.

  And this might come as a shock to you, but you know those moments where the train suddenly slows down or speeds up? This is the part where you tighten your grip on the pole. I know it’s a little confusing, since you think that “physics” is ebonics for Filipinos, but trust me on this. It’s going to happen, and you should remain alert. If you stupidly lose your grip and bust your shiny ass, you’re on your own. I will ignore you and let you writhe in the grime of the floor, and then calmly step over you when we get to my stop.

  4. This is not a slumber party. We’re all tired, and the trip can get a little boring. This is not justification for you to lean your head against the window, stretch your feet across the aisle, and then start sawing logs, pawing at your crotch as you dream about lascivious activities with people who would never want you in real life. This is too personal and extremely annoying.

  5. If you insist on bringing small, excitable children with you, do your best to maintain the illusion that these rambunctious urchins were raised in a suitable manner. Don’t let them repeatedly shout the same phrases, such as “Is THIS our stop?” or “That lady smells” or “I saw Daddy’s thingie!”. These are phrases best saved for group therapy sessions. If necessary, administer calming medication to regain control of the situation.

  6. Pay attention and be prepared to exit the train in an efficient manner when it’s your time. Don’t leap up at the last second, as the doors are closing, screaming for someone to hold said evil doors while you gather up all the pointless things you brought with you. This is unacceptable. The soothing Announcer Lady tells you what station is next. There should be no surprises. It’s not a roulette wheel where you don’t have a clue about the next stop.

  7. Don’t play the innocent game when they do those random checks for tickets, getting an attitude while pretending to search for your stub. We know you didn’t pay. Get the hell off the train.

  8. Do NOT push the “emergency” button when you’re ready to get off. It’s not your personal hotline to the conductor. There are no alterations to the route. The train stops in the same places every time. That’s why those places are called “stations”.

  9. Use your Inside Voice. There’s no need to yell out the sordid details of your boring life, babbling about people who are dealing with surprise pregnancies, blocked bowels, employment terminations or the amazing realization that bill collectors mean business. The people right next to you can hear you just fine if you speak in a normal tone. And if your immediate neighbors are not the focus of your grating vocalizations, then go sit by your intended conversation partner and whisper quietly. Better yet, just shut up.

  And finally…

  10. Don’t even consider talking to ME. Ever. Even if I know you.

My ranting thoughts are interrupted by a train pulling into the local station. As the chaos of stupid people bubbles around me, I climb aboard and begin my journey into the Heart of the Dallas Darkness...


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