Haven’t had to wake up early in weeks and couldn’t sleep well last night knowing I’d have to be awake early today.  I wanted to hit the snooze button, I couldn’t.  I didn’t want to leave the warmth of my bed, I had to.  My eyes burned.  My muscles were stiff.  Stumbled to the shower, shaved a week of scruff, and choked down breakfast hours before I was ready to digest anything whilst wistfully longing for REM cycles that could never be mine.

Commute downtown.  Traffic.  Parking garage.  Missed the parking garage.  Circle around the block.  Parking garage.  Concrete structure turned NPR to static, made me realize I was listening to NPR.  Elevator with 3 blue haired old ladies, and their summons.  “How many people are going to be here?” “I’m juror 238!” “I’m 17!” Looking down at my summons, I’m juror #2.  Couldn’t bring myself to contribute to the conversation, or even smile and feign interest.   I was there a solid 30 minutes early.

Walk into an underground entrance, there’s a line all the way through the courthouse and a bunch of metal detectors.  Saw my old roommate’s mom.  An acquaintance from high school I haven’t seen or spoken to in years.  It felt like a lucid dream, the surroundings were so surreal.  I wasn’t sure whether I’d actually woken up or not.  Small talk.  “Yeah I finished school in December and got a job in Hershey!”  “Congratulations! Yeah I finished school in December too, and still haven’t found steady work!” Nope, I was awake.

Through the metal detector.  Signing in.  Girl in front of me, the only one I’d seen close to my age, someone who I could talk to and keep sane. “Is this your current address?” “Actually that’s not my current address, I live in Lancaster county now.”  She’s turned away, as she’s no longer a Dauphin county resident, no questions asked.  She’d escaped.  I’m up next, I know exactly what they’re going to ask.

Internal monologue. HowdoIescapeShouldIsayIliveinPhillyI’mbarelyevenlyingShouldIshoutracialslursShouldIsaythere’sanexplosivestrappedtomychest

“Is this your current address?”

“Yes.”

“Take a clipboard please.”

Clipboard, questionnaire.  Name: Vyas, Govinda. Occupation: unemployed, self-loathing.  It’s 8 AM.  Eons later, it’s 8:15 and people are still signing in.  A perfectly spherical woman who is trying her hardest to quell an impending revolt takes up the microphone.  “My name is annoying bitch, and believe me, I don’t want to be here as much as you do!” Laughs.  Sighs.  Groans.  “The honorable judge fuckface will be here soon, I left him a voicemail, I hope he heard it!  Teehee!”  She went on to explain how we’d be stuck there for five centuries days.  How we’d be compensated on a payscale developed in the 60’s that hasn’t been adjusted for inflation ever since (spoilers: I was paid $9 for 8 hours today.  I spent $9.81 on a burrito and iced coffee for lunch).  “I hope you’re off your case by Wednesday so you can be paid by Friday!  Otherwise, I’m going on vacation and you won’t be paid for two weeks!” Rage.  Fury.  Blood in my eyes.

A similarly rotund man puts in a DVD explaining why we have to be there.  Filmed sometime between 1980 – 2000, there’s a “hip” and “edgy” courthouse cop making bad jokes (“Jury duty isn’t bad, but the coffee in the cafeteria sure is!”), how it’s our civil duty to be party of the jury, how the founding fathers wanted it this way, how some French bastard was blown away by our judicial system during the War of 1812.  You could see the pain in this man’s expression as he became aware that this 10 minute video would be the pinnacle of his acting career.  Finally, it was over.

Judge still hadn’t shown up.  The last of 160 people had finished signing in.  The rotund man (hereby referred to as Fatty) went over the procedure.  He’d call up groups of 35 (and butcher any non-Anglicized name) of which 14 would be selected to a series of trials.  The rest of us could sit around with our thumbs up our bumholes waiting for our names to be called.  As he’s calling the first group of 35 he comes across a very Hispanic sounding name, which he butchers and follows with, “Can’t your name just be George Smith?  I like names like that!”.  My tolerance for Fatty was declining rapidly.

Group 1 is seated, and nothing happens for over 30 minutes.  The judge comes out, explains the process again as if he were addressing an elementary school class, and takes off to do cocaine off of a transvestite prostitute’s genitals (I assume).  Group 2 is seated (I am unseated).  During this role call Fatty comes across a special name, the last name was Gingrich.  “Now that’s a great last name!”  Internal monologue 3. ChewonbrokenglassFatty

Around 10:30, the Group 1 is taken upstairs as I play solitaire on my phone, angrily.  Fatty starts making jokes, “These are all true stories,” which he would continue to do periodically throughout the day.  The jokes are at worst, PG rated, and allude to Christian themes and  Washington D.C. taxing anything they possibly can.

Internal monologue 4. If I were to murder Fatty in front of a room full of people, I’d be put on trail, perpetuating the need for others to attend jury duty.  But at least they wouldn’t have to hear Fatty’s lame jokes.

I had played too much solitaire.  Way too much, my phone’s battery was at 50%.  So I read a Popular Science and Rolling Stone, from March and April respectively cover to cover.  It’s 11:40, I’m on the verge of tears.  Fatty drops the first good news of the day, “You’re free to take a lunch break until 1 PM!”, and I burst out of the courthouse.

It was before noon, so I made a beeline for Arooga’s and ordered a bloody mary.  I am not one to condone wanton drinking, let alone by myself and before noon, but I needed this one (and in my defense, a couple other people from the courthouse were there getting completely shitfaced).  After this, the culinary highlight of my day – Neato Burrito (got a cowboy crunch, with hot sauce).  I sat outside and enjoyed most of my burrito, until a wasp the size of my pinky landed on the little bit that was left.

Found a deli and bought a cup of awful iced coffee, nevertheless the ambrosia was sweet and rejuvenating.  For the next 30 minutes I sat and contemplated the meaning of life, the universe, and everything on a bench near the Susquehanna river (admittedly one of the most pleasant parts of Harrisburg).  Walking back to the courthouse I make eye contact with the cute bespectacled brunette who’s also serving jury duty.  I’m still too chicken to talk to a stranger on a full stomach and stiff bloody mary.  No surprise there.

After I return to the dungeon courthouse and try my best to tune out Fatty (jokes about a parrot and calling up Group 3), I spend the better part of an hour staring at my shoes.  Why am I here?  Why have I been so forsaken with this most dull obligation?  Why is this burrito digesting so poorly and giving me terrible gas? With alcohol and caffeine coursing through my veins, my self-deprecation took me to the darkest places in my soul.  Hell is jury duty.

Around 2 PM, Group 1 returns to the waiting room.  My old roommate’s mom wasn’t selected for the trial, so she’s once again playing the waiting game.  It was kind of nice having someone to talk to, even if the subject matter was car insurance and having courses changed for her teenage kids.  Misery loves company.  At this point I read through an issue of Money magazine, which may have been written in Klingon because none of it made sense to me.  Disgusted, I returned it to the shelf and picked up a relatively recent issue of Mental Floss.  The magazine had plenty of curious factoids to keep me entertained.  Did you know Stan and Jan Berenstein (of the bears fame) started their careers with a book about sex?  Did you know that the Easter Island heads have bodies?  Did you know that if you’re confined to a stale, lifeless basement all day that outdated magazines become the apex of entertainment?

Must be 3 o’clock or so.  The small talk, interesting literature and caffeine are helping the day move along a little more quickly.  Fatty is calling Group 4.  If you’re keeping count at home, this covers 140 members of the jury pool, of approximately 160.  I’m anxious, maybe if I’m not called for this, I’ll be free to go home.  35 names later my name isn’t spoken (though it may be because Fatty is too ignorant to attempt to pronounce it).  My momentary elation is deflated by a grizzled jury duty veteran.  “If you’re not called today, you’re doing the same thing tomorrow.  Bring a book.”  My stomach sinks, though it may have just been the burrito.

But there, on the horizon in my inbox!  An e-mail from a former professor!  I’d e-mailed her previously asking about a research assistantship, though she was on vacation for a few weeks so it was surprising to hear back so soon.  She’d like to talk to me about the job!  With an intelligent, well-connected, very accomplished professor in Temple’s psych department who taught my favorite Psychology class (if you’re somehow reading this ass-kissing, please hire me)!

With jittery fingers I replied to the e-mail.  By the time my heart rate returned to normal and I had stopped shaking it had struck 4 PM.  After confirming my fears that we’d have to return tomorrow, and going over parking pass protocol, Fatty finally, mercifully released us.  Day 1 of 5 was in the books.  I may have a real job within a month.  Slowly but surely exiting the parking garage, I felt ecstatic.  There is a life beyond jury duty, and I was one step closer to the promised land.

~~~1600 words later, I’ve recounted my first day of jury duty in excruciating detail.  If you managed to read through all of it, I salute you.  If you are selected for jury duty in Dauphin county (or anywhere), do your best to get the fuck out.  You’ll thank me later.  I may follow-up on this post after the week, or if there’s a particularly exciting story to tell sometime in between.  For live tweeting coverage of my shenanigans, follow me using this shameless Twitter plug.  Was this post a warning?  Or just a build up to get more Twitter followers?  A juror never reveals his secrets!