Jury Duty

The puffy, pink man with white hair and a star-spangled tie became impatient. "I don't know if you're jurors or terrorists, so if you don't turn off your cell phones, you'll be dealing with Homeland Security."

I laughed out loud, trying the extrapolation on like a four-fingered glove. It just didn't fit. It was a desperate threat sent into a room full of tired, pissed-off people who'd been called in on this frigid, snowy morning.

The case was about a nose job. The prosecution wants malpractice, the defense claims unpreventable complication. I claim that I don't give a crap about some woman who didn't like the way Mother Nature molded her nose and now has sinus damage. Not enough, at least, to lose six days of pay in exchange for influence over the financial fate of a plastic surgeon and his disgruntled patient who are furthering the cycle of unrealistic standards of beauty.

The place was like a run-down high school. It smelled of musty textbooks, floor cleaner, and ancient heaters. Lots of old white men scurried around in khaki overcoats. There was a woman who seemed to be waiting for her hearing. She made the sound of shooting a snot-rocket about every fifteen seconds. I actually timed it while I was eating lentil salad during the lunch break.

I was not selected as a juror. I was partially insulted, but mostly glad. Initially, when asked, I had told them I was an artist, filmmaker, and environmentalist, and that I thought plastic surgery is socially degrading. I don't think they liked my nose-ring or tattoos either.