The General Situation

"On the Origins of Things"

I was just thinking about how I hadn't posted a poem in a while, and how you must be starving for poetry. Feast on this—it's the loveliest thing I've read in a long time.

On the Origins of Things
by Troy Jollimore

Everyone knows that the moon started out
as a renegade fragment of the sun, a solar
flare that fled that hellish furnace
and congealed into a flat frozen pond suspended
between the planets. But did you know
that anger began as music, played
too often and too loudly by drunken performers
at weddings and garden parties? Or that turtles
evolved from knuckles, ice from tears, and darkness
from misunderstanding? As for the dominant
thesis regarding the origin of love, I
abstain from comment, nor will I allow
myself to address the idea that dance
began as a kiss, that happiness was
an accidental import from Spain, that the ancient
game of jump-the-fire gave rise
to politics. But I will confess
that I began as an astronomer—a liking
for bright flashes, vast distances, unreachable things,
a hand stretched always toward the furthest limit—
and that my longing for you has not taken me
very far from that original desire
to inscribe a comet's orbit around the walls
of our city, to gently stroke the surface of the stars.

If You Cancel on Me Three Times and Then Try to Make Plans Again, I'll Send You This

Today, at Jury Duty....

While we were deliberating—i.e., airing whatever happens to have crossed our minds during the presentation of evidence—one of the jurors said, "I don't think the witness raised his hand when he was being sworn to tell the truth. Does that matter?" We've heard some inane statements during the past few days, but that topped the list. (From across the room, I yelled, "No!") I'm bringing it up as a public-service announcement: If you find yourself tempted to commit a crime, remember that your fate may lie in the hands of people who really shouldn't even be trusted with a goldfish.

Some Like 'Em Hot

One Angry Man

I went to jury duty on Monday, and I escaped without ever being paneled. The two groups who did go through voir dire (and who weren't selected for a jury), however, were told to call Monday or Tuesday night to find out if they'd have to return at all. My group was told to return on Thursday. So this morning, expecting to do a few hours, maybe through the afternoon, I went over to the federal courthouse, which, luckily enough, is only a 10-minute walk away.

I read the New York Times and did the crossword (or tried to—tough one today!), and I was thinking I'd settle into my book (Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Good Squad, halfway through and highly recommended), when the clerk announced that they'd be showing another film. That's strange, I thought, because we had watched a film on Monday, and what else was there to say? They do like to repeat themselves, it's true, but she did say "another film." I figured maybe we were all being paneled and the film was about voir dire.

The lights went down, and the credits came up. I don't remember the name of the film other than it included the phrase "grand jury." I looked around: What happened? Grand jury?! Was I in the wrong room? Did I come on the wrong day? No, I had checked in when I arrived. The film played, explaining 12 times what jury duty is and why it's important. There's evidently a federal affirmative action–style plan for employing bad actors in government films.

You need to understand that grand jury is one of my biggest fears, after (in this order) nuclear annihiliation, death in any form, bedbugs, and my pants being too short. I was summoned for it once, for the city or state or whatever, but I wasn't selected. The summons this time, however, had no mention of grand jury. We were simply told to make sure we were available for two weeks. Now they were talking about a month. A month! I acknowledge that, not having a job per se, I might seem a good candidate for grand jury, but I abhor boring situations. If you know me you probably know that, but only if you really know me do you know how I despair at the thought of being read to by someone uninterested in what he's reading. It's torture, far worse than being subjected to, say, Cher's "Believe" over and over at high volume.

They announced they'd be calling names randomly. The first seven people called were women. The eighth was "Erik"—pause, trying to stay hopeful—"A."—oh fuck (or maybe I said that)—"Torkells"—mispronounced of course, and then spelled, as if rubbing it in. I walked over to the bailiff, who led me to my seat.

"First man chosen!" he said.

"Whoop-dee-fucking-do," I said. (I really did, by the way.)

When I spoke with the judge about why I couldn't serve, he wasn't all that interested. "Bait and switch!" I sneered as I went back to my seat.

Jury duty stories are like stories about travel gone awry—everybody has one and nobody cares. (Although I heard a great one about sequestering the other day.) Let's just say that I seethed the rest of the day, alternately holding my head in my hands and staring out the window, refusing either way to meet anyone's eye. The judge explained what grand jury duty is and why it's important, and we broke for lunch. Then the AUSA (federal district attorney) explained at great tediousness what grand jury duty is and why it's important. When the clerk said the words "you're done," I ran out the door.

I understand why the system needs grand jurors, but there's a certain covenant between individuals and the government, and the federal government broke it today. I will gladly do my duty, but don't shanghai me into service. It's not right. And as I said all day, to anyone and everyone—the other jurors, the bailiff, my dog, an art gallery owner—it's exactly the kind of reason why so many Americans hate the federal government. Great, I get paid $40 per day—that's not even minimum wage.

The takeaway: When I asked the bailiff how come the summons hadn't mentioned grand jury, he said, "The federal government does whatever it wants." So always defer jury duty service, because you may get hit by a bus in the next month, and wouldn't you rather have lived in the meantime?

P.S. I know that my life is pretty damn good if this is the worst thing to happen to me in a while (knock wood). But I'm still pissed.