Courthouse Blue's

Courthouse Blue's

Today, I fulfilled my obligation to serve as a potential juror.
After bumping along on a noisy escalator for six floors within the
deteriorated courthouse building, I got the impression that my tax
dollars alone, could have pitched in for a few buckets of paint.
The walls were a dull white; the acoustic ceilings the color of
ash-with traces of water marks from a leaky roof. The floor was marbled
tile, with a mosaic d?cor of hewn, brown and black rock. It resembled
something the dog regurgitated after a hearty bowl of Alpo.
Inside a large room, a pool of potential jurors lounged on coffee
stained couch-cushions, stretched along the walls and were grouped in a
perpendicular fashion. Two TV's were bolted high on a corner on
opposite sides of the room. Soap opera's droned from the screens;
replete with the predictable formula of women used by handsome,
lecherous philanders. The women, congregated under the TV sets, seemed
transfixed-wagging their heads only to deprecate some infidelity or
duplicity.
The room was crowded and intolerably stuffy. No fans whirled from the
ceiling, nor were they're any air vents apparent. The only air seemed
to be that which was recycled from the expelled mass of bodies that
slept or slumped in repose with book or magazine in hand.
The restroom, which boasted two urinals and one stall, seemed like a
bad joke upon an already jaded juror. With a large aggregate of
physically diverse men with large appetites and a penchant for morning
bowel movements, the restroom sounded like the cacophonous concussion
of a Marine Corp bombing raid -not to mention the combustible ambience
that meets you before you even walk through the door. The stench is
horrific, and wafts down the narrow hall and permeates through the
already stifled air.
While waiting out the day, I sat ensconced in a corner against the
wall, in order to take in everything. Across from me sat a pair of
Lesbians. One was pretty; Mia Farrow-esque with a thin body, wide eyes
and short hair. The other might have been of a Central American
extraction. She was ugly and squat, her dark skin wrapped tight around
her face. She, I assumed, played the masculine role. The pretty one
looked lovingly into the ugly one's eyes and stroked her cheek with her
forefinger.
To my right, sat a pleasant looking, retired woman. She said she was a
3rd grade teacher. I was curious if she was a liberal-a presupposition
due to her career as an educator. I tried to test her political
leanings by casually asking if she believes in the death penalty. Her
answer was an unabashed, "Yes." I liked her immediately.
Across the room was a noticeably uncomfortable, pregnant woman. She
fidgeted miserably for a better sitting position on the hard, narrow
cushions, but to no avail. Nor did her tight maternity clothes flatter
her, for every contour ballooned with unsightly bulges.
Another woman adjacent to me was involved in a piece of esoteric
literature with the title: "Psychic News." She seemed to be engrossed
in every word and never looked up until she read every jot and title.
She wore loose, light blue nurse trousers and an orange quilt around
her shoulders. She sat with her legs spread wide open in a male
fashion, rather than cross-legged. She wore ankle bracelets, which only
highlighted the swelled, purple veins that ran down her feet.
A man with the leathered face of an old sea captain looked hopelessly
out of place-like he had run aground on some god-forsaken stretch of
beach with hostile natives hiding in the bush. His eyes darted
anxiously back and forth like he was trying to formulate some way of
escape.
A young man who resembled Don Quixote with a pointed goatee fell asleep
with his mouth agape and snored with a dry, hoarse wheeze, like
somebody on the throes of death. A tad of saliva drooled down the
corner of his mouth. He slept through the first roll call and nobody
bothered to give him a nudge.
The most curious oddity in the room sat with glazed eyes and a fixed
smile on his face. His head was bald and bullet-shaped; his beard would
have been the envy of ancient Viking warriors. He chained smoked
non-filtered cigarettes outdoors at every break, and coveted a laptop
computer under his arm. Upon close inspection, I noticed it was a
child's toy replica, and not the real thing at all.
There were many observations I made today; some probably more
embellished by own fictional imagination than not. I just wonder if
somebody had me under a microscope slide-subject to some humorous, or
harsh and critical judgment. Maybe somebody's pecking away at their
word processor this very moment with an analysis of their own. Maybe it
starts out like this: "Sitting with his back to the wall, some weird
guy wearing dark sunglasses?"