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Date: Tue, 19 Aug 1997 22:59:20
"Mr. M Performs His Civic Duty": Day Deux.
Was roused from pleasant dream whose contents fled at the plaintive bleating from my alarm clock. Feeling much less springy than Day One. "This too will pass" mantra about as comforting as it would be to someone nursing a golf-ball-sized kidney stone. Railing at cruel fate while tweezing ear hairs consumes most of morning toilette, and almost manage to miss bus that gets me to courthouse on time.
Jury Assembly Room right down the hall from the Tuberculosis Clinic on the 12th floor of Public Safety Building. We all share the same restrooms. Mental note: wash hands thoroughly and refrain from biting nails. Look at clock: 9:05. Pull out several newspapers, some mail, a flyer or two. Finish reading all of them. Look at clock again: 10:20. Going to be a very long day.
Was hoping for some excitement today, but even less stimulation than Day One. Afraid this account will quickly deteriorate into a "Kitty Diary": "Ate some food today. Played with a string. Had a nap. Coughed up hair ball. Chased tail. Had another nap. A good day."
Actually, experience is more Beckett-like, only set in an airport terminal instead of a trashcan. "Paging Mr. Godot. Paging Mr. Godot. Please report to your party at Gate 9." Only, of course, Mr. Godot is on a commuter flight to Pasco, and won't be meeting you at Gate 9. Ever.
At 1:30, a breakthrough: my number is called for another trial. All a-twitter, fourteen of us cram into the elevator that will take us down to the courtrooms on the fourth floor. Someone had pastrami for lunch. Damn, I think it was me.
We're herded into another holding pen. Countdown commences: 10, 9, 8, ... Round about 3, the bailiff (a kindly woman who looks somewhat like Ray Walston on "My Favorite Martian") returns to inform us that the parties concerned have decided to settle without going to trial. Countdown aborted. Houston, we have no ignition. Sheesh, couldn't they have figured out they didn't want to go to the moon before getting all suited up?
Back upstairs. Contemplate digging out to freedom with one of the plastic spoons by the coffee pot, but realize I'd then be hanging outside, some 150 feet above the Seattle sidewalks (.com). Ever since seeing "Vertigo" as a child, have had A) intense crush on Kim Novak, and B) paralyzing fear of heights. Scrap digging-out idea. Might even land me in the TB Clinic.
2:30: Overhear woman in bathroom, being violently ill. She emerges, ashen, announcing to all interested bystanders that she thinks the snack foods in the jury room "are making her constipated."
3:30: To my horror, find myself reading People magazine article about "Sexy New Hollywood Moms." Jury foreperson mercifully announces that we can all leave for the day.
On way home from downtown Seattle, marveling at how many pretty women there are walking around on the sidewalks. Normal Puget climate of darkness and drizzle not conducive to such sightings, as folks are hidden under layers of flannel, khaki, Gore-Tex, and lumpy leggings. Besides, living on Capitol Hill, home of some of the northwest's most attractive transvestites, has made your scribe hesitant to, er, jump to conclusions (and let's face it, none of 'em look as good as Jaye Davidson). More importantly: the constant sphincter-tensed driving vigilance required to keep from smashing into a Seattle driver who has suddenly decided to stop and balance his/her checkbook doesn't lend itself to much gawking at pedestrians.
Starting to think I should get out of my car more often, enjoy this wonderful glorious public transport and the opportunities it provides for enjoying our lovely city. Across the aisle, a woman starts barking at passersby, then leans over and in a commanding voice informs me "Marination. Preparation. Melrose Place. They're all the same: 'MP'."
I manage a wan smile, and get off the bus several stops before my actual destination.
End of day two.
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