JURY SELECTION ON MY BIRTHDAY
What a glorious way to celebrate growing another year older.
In a room filled with my caffeine addicted, nicotine stained, open-mouthed gum chewing peers, I take a number, a name tag, and then an open seat. We sit in scattered vicinity with at least four seats of separation between each of us. I notice the rows of unfolded push down seats dead bolted into the floor, the shitty 1993 issued HITACHI television set broadcasting bad courtroom drama between daytime commercial propaganda as we wait, ever so patiently, for the number “31” to be called out over the equally expired and over compressed intercom system.
This place reminds me of an airport terminal waiting area, yet smells like a half empty classroom the day before summer break. A series of simple, yet titillatingly informative signs are posted through out the room, notably on walls above doorways and windowsills:
- NO SMOKING
- FIRE EXTINGUISHER
- WOMEN
- CELL PHONE AREA
- EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY
- STAIRS
- ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICE
- GOD BLESS AMERICA …and so on, and so forth.
A wire-y man with silver hair and a well maintained nickel-plated mustache has been caught twice now, staring at me. I’m not sure if he wants to fuck me or throw me through the 3rd floor window for wearing what he assumes to be the same jeans his daughter wears. Little does he know that if his daughter were here, instead I’d probably be scribbling an autograph (after being recognized as “THE GUY FROM THE SNAKES ON A PLANE SONG”), and consequently throwing myself through the 3rd story window.
Another man to my right with a grey knit cap and a single gold hoop earring in his left ear (quite possibly the same make and model of man-flare I had hole-punched through my lobe in 6th grade) has fallen into a sanctuary slumber. Long, boasting, impressive groans bellow through the room in the form of snores. His mustache is no where near as grandiose nor primped as my new friend Quicksilver’s, yet he doesn’t seem to have any problems whatsoever, as he publicly and blatantly basks in a long winter’s nap. Unconcerned, and unabashed.
These are my peers. We are all here for the same reason and when the time comes, our numbers will surely be called, one by one. Called on to judge someone we don’t know for an accused crime we don’t understand nor care to. 22. 28. I reach for my pocket and reveal a folded off-white parchment with my “31”. Today I turn 23, and I’m stuck in this damned building, fulfilling my obligation to my country and the great state of Illinois. Happy Birthday, Bill. Happy fucking Birthday.
- QUIET
- HEARING ASSISTANCE AVAILABLE
- DO NOT ENTER IF YOUR NAME IS NOT CALLED
- EXIT
What a glorious way to celebrate growing another year older.
