Reputable Until Proven Slovenly (Or, The Burden of Goof)

You file into a lobby with scuffed tile floors that could have been moved, as one uniform slab, from the D.M.V. of whatever state you got your driver's license from. Little flecks of black and green suspended in a beige that is the color of, I don't know, defeat? Resignation? It looks like they lacquered the floor with a few gallons of Breyers' Mint Chocolate Chip.

You cluster near the brushed metal doors of an elevator that's been creaking open and closed every day since the Eisenhower administration. There's every variety of person milling about. Every shade, shape, age, and hairstyle imaginable. It would be an almost encouraging collective of humanity, if they didn't all share the same look on their face -- mild confusion mixed with dread.

Ah, yes. The first day of jury duty. That weight pressing down on your chest is merely your civic duty. Empty your pockets and spread your cheeks -- the bureaucracy has you now.

Ding. The elevator door creaks open, and there's a faint whiff of stale tater tots and mimeograph ink. You (politely) shove and push your way into one of the cafeteria-scented elevator cars so you can, more expeditiously, get to the ninth floor. And you are (politely) shoved and pushed into a corner of the elevator, which is a much more efficient way of making sure your hands and genitals come into accidental contact with those of your new friends in the traveling United Colors of Benetton catalog.

Ding. Creak. Goin' up.

At this point, "Keep the Ball Rolling" by Jay and the Techniques pops into your head. I have no entertaining or intellectual excuse for this. It just happened. Maybe when a complex thought makes its own synaptic leap, it grabs a random bit of sense memory and brings it along for the ride.

And so there you are, in a cramped elevator somewhere downtown, catching a whiff of Texas Toast that you haven't smelled since fourth grade, humming "Keep the Ball Rolling", all the while trying to keep your own balls from rubbing against the purse of the nice Asian lady in front of you. Boy, kinda crowded in here.

Many times when this happens to me (the random song humming, not the ball rubbing,) I find that the song in question is from Aerosmith's "Pump" album. The only explanation for this is that I listened to said album on an infinite loop while mowing lawns in the summer of 1989. So it's seared into the outer, gooey covering of my brain, to the point where if I even hear the opening strains of "Love In an Elevator," I immediately launch into a hay fever sneezing fit.

Ding. Creak. The wash of fluorescence on the ninth floor coats everything in a sickly green. Now you're not a fellow traveler in a pan-ethnic tribe of legal crusaders. You're one of the pod people.

This particular floor, in this particular building, is but one of countless such places in this part of Los Angeles. Downtown L.A., for those unfamiliar, is filled with high rises and structures of varying shades of nondescript and difficult-to-distinguish. And none of them have anything at all to do with film production, music recording, or in shaping the careers of sixteen-year-old models. I think all of them are dedicated to court cases.

I received my summons not two days after a recent jaunt to Small Claims Court, in which I was the soon-to-be very pissed-off defendant. Actually, "jaunt" is not the correct word. It was more of a trudge, perhaps even a slog.

Even in the shadow of that ego-thrashing legal experience, I did something I cannot explain, and which I can only attribute to some deep-seated quest for self-punishment. I filled out the summons and called the 800-number to register for jury service.

To be fair, it's not just my apparently inexhaustible reserve of self-inflicted penance that made me do it. I have, since the dark days of Scantron tests, tornado drills, and color-coded S.R.A. books, been conditioned to follow directions, and to the letter.

The reptilian part of my brain, which in another era would be dedicated to the fight-or-flight instinct, has been reshaped by years of public schooling into the fill-out-or-perish impulse. It says it right there on the sheet, in red letters, no less: "You MUST fill out this form within five days of receipt." You MUST. See? I didn't even bother to ask, "Uh... or else what?" Nope. The threat of a smackdown from the giant iron glove of bureaucracy is enough to send me skittering about, searching for a No. 2 pencil. And so I sealed my own fate.

In those moments just before Big Brother -- actually, I think her name was Jeanette Cardenas -- muttered my name over the jury assembly room P.A. system, I cursed my stupid, nerdy, tight-ass adherence to responsibility and proper process.

I could have just tossed the summons in the trash. Huh? Summons? Wha... what summons?

I could have filled it out, called the number, gotten my instructions, and then -- gasp -- ignored them. Huh? Reporting location? Er... what reporting location? I got lost. Or something.

I could cut and run. Right then. Nothing was keeping me there, except the sign which indicated that the fifth-floor cafeteria offered fresh-baked Otis Spunkmeyer cookies. Yessiree...come on down, to the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center. You can contribute to society, engage in the democratic process, and determine the fate of one of your fellow human beings. Oh, and there's cookies, jackass.

But no. I sat there, buttcheeks going numb on a plastic scoop chair, as the emotionless voice instructed me to get in the smelly elevator, press my unmentionables against those of a stranger, and shuffle off to be counted, processed, shaved, tagged, and forcibly handed my civic responsibility.

I was, of course, selected to be Juror Number Ten. Not one of the alternates, not one of the uncalled people, but right there, smack dab in the gunsights. We began the jury selection process -- everyone must pass around a microphone and give an overview of their own experiences, both in the realms of law enforcement and the legal profession, as well as any personal stories of crime victimization. Yeah, I know. What, no lectures on the specifics of tax law? No slide show of the judge's fishing trip to Bass Lake? C'mon!

But before that, the judge -- a very calm and reassuring guy -- told us that he realized that jury duty was rather inconvenient and not at all desirable. But it was also our solemn responsibility, and he felt certain that we'd discover it to be "one of the most rewarding experiences of your adult life." His exact words.

As if the entire affair hadn't already conjured enough childhood memories, I was suddenly stricken with the same panic that hit me before swim lessons at YMCA Day Camp when I was, I don't know, seven or something. I had to get out. They're gonna make me get in the deep end. I had to get away. I can't get on the high dive. Yes, I know I am, ostensibly, an adult. Doesn't matter.

To be a little more fair to myself, here's the deal -- my sister was due to give birth within days. I wanted to be around for this event. So, really, what was weighing on my mind, more than my own neurotic impulses, was that I would be suffocating in a small, wood-paneled box while my family welcomed its newest member. Which made my rolling of the jury duty dice all the more inadvisable. But I figured -- I'm unemployed, I got nothing to do during the day but write blog entries -- let's take a chance. Odds are, I won't even get picked to be in a jury pool.

Uh... yeah.

Now that I had valiantly stepped up, to accept my responsibility as an American, I next had to do the one thing we Americans are truly adept at: shirk it. Shirk that duty. Shirk it with all your might! Shirk, damn you!

My strategy for getting out of jury duty, like all my strategies in life, was only half-thought out, and involved not showering. I figured, if I can look as greasy, as unkempt, as thoroughly untrustworthy as possible, they'll give me the boot.

The automated voice response on the 800 call-in number requested that potential jurors please wear, and I quote, "business casual dress." Yeah, I got your business casual dress right here, Chachi. Faded blue curduroy pants. Scuffed sneakers. A droopy hooded sweatshirt, unzipped. And the capper -- a pit-stained white t-shirt. For added effect, I rubbed it against the window screen in my bathroom before donning. This gave my whole ensemble the "I just got dragged behind a Ford Festiva for three blocks by members of the Russian Mafia" look that I was going for.

So there I sat, scuzzy and unenthused and looking nothing like the type of guy you want in charge of any duty, unless it's replacing the air filters on your Saab. And even that would be a stretch.

Then, everything changed. The prospective jurors began describing themselves. Some with a steady voice and an ample amount of humor at their own stories as victims of attempted car theft, assault, what-have-you. And some other voices took on a weak, tremulous timbre, either merely nervous from public speaking, or, in some cases, from describing some horrible thing.

The reason for peeling back the protective layers on everyone's personal hell was that this was a murder trial. A diminutive Hispanic man -- younger than me -- sat at the defense table. There was a sad smile on his face. A weeping family occupied one row of seats -- either his relatives, or those of the deceased. And the jurors continued through the laundry list of Crap We Have Been Through, because the judge and attorneys need to know what fire has scorched Juror Number Six, just in case it will affect the outcome.

One young woman talked about how her friend's father, an off-duty cop, was shot before her eyes when she was only ten years old. "But he lived!" she immediately chirped, seemingly out of fear of bringing down the room.

"My brother is in jail for drug possession."

"My cousin is a gang member. I have seen drive-by shootings before."

"My husband was murdered."

This last one nearly made the clock in the courtroom stop ticking. What began as a get-us-all-out-of-here type of day was turning into something else.

We all experience pain. Fear. Loss. Sheer, inescapable terror. If there is one unifying human glue, it's that we all are well aware of how life can throw on the brakes, stop on a dime, and turn from passable to shitty, in two seconds flat. Hey, I was just laughing about something -- how'd I get in THIS neighborhood?

And that one perfectly human response, and one of the best things about us as a species, is that we can be faced with these terrible things, and push through. I don't mean to get all "Up With People" on ya. I mean, maybe you'll get smacked upside the head by personal tragedy, and understandably, you'll stay in bed for a couple days. But eventually, you'll throw off the covers and plant your feet on the carpet. Because, you got to keep going. You got to follow it through.

Hearing these truncated, shaky-voiced stories of people facing crime and death and pain was damn near overwhelming. And I felt like what I had tried so hard to look like -- a punk, a malcontent, a head-up-his-ass middle-class jerk.

There were people here that, when they gave their little summation of legal and criminal experience, you could sense their eagerness, their desire to be a part of it. Then it really sank in -- I have to get out. I have to get away. At least, for today. I'm thinking of arriving babies, and affordable flights, and seeing my family. I choose to look at it as a well-earned moment of weakness. I couldn't do it -- not that day, anyway. The Teamster, the retired aerospace engineer, the teacher, the nurse, the minister... they were there to pick up my ample civic slack. They had my back.

So, I was given a reprieve. Booted from the jury by the prosecuting attorney, and thanked for my time. Maybe it was the haze of discomfort that permeated my very being. I don't know. Maybe it was the hoodie.

But, next time the summons arrives, I will fill it out again. And I will call the 800-number. And I will go and pile into the elevator with everyone else, and read a book, and eat a candy bar, and wait for my name to be read.

And to those who hung behind on that gray Tuesday afternoon, for an indeterminate length of time, with nothing ahead of them but to gaze, unblinkingly, at all the horrible things that we do to each other, I humbly, and with no irony whatsoever, tip my hat.

And I offer this, with apologies to our friend Jay, and all his Techniques:

You got to follow it through.
Keep the ball rolling.

Who Wants To Depants A Gazillionaire?

I must issue a warning. My polite Midwesterner's proclivity towards not upsetting the audience must say this: I am about to rock your friggin' world, Janice.

(Note: This is not the first time I have imparted this same vague, yet ominous, warning. But I can assure you that what follows is of an entirely different context than that instance, and will probably involve less weeping. For both of us.)

There may exist, one day on this planet, a trillionaire.

A trillionaire. For reals. Think about that.

Sure, the rise of inflation means that we workaday suckers are up to our affordable, unpretentious collars in millionaires. Every city has at least a dozen, and these days, some small towns are even getting one or two. However, in most small towns, a millionaire is still required, by law, to change their name to "Old Man [last name here]," and to be pushed around in a brass wheelchair with a quilt folded in their withered lap. They then must engage in behavior which only furthers their quest to hold the entire town in their iron grip. A cigarette holder and a monocle are also involved, to varying degrees. Sometimes an orphan or a single mother with Broadway aspirations will come along, to melt Old Man Hastings' heart, but don't count on it.

When I was a kid, just the word "millionaire" carried some kind of cosmic weight. Granted, when I was a kid, the word "Frisch's" carried cosmic weight. But this shouldn't take anything away from having a million-plus dollars to spread around. I'm just pointing out that the times, they do a-change.

So there could be a millionaire within spitting distance from you right now. If you should ever need to single one out, possibly for whiskey-fueled public ridicule, or perhaps shameless favor-mongering disguised as overweening praise, here's a handy checklist to identify them:

1. Go to a major league baseball game, and look up in the skybox area. That sunburnt guy in the pastel polo shirt, constantly high-fiving his slightly embarrassed-looking buddies? Millionaire.
2. Go to a sponsored artsy event, like a play or a performance art piece or an installation of genitalia-shaped sculptures made entirely of uncooked rigatoni noodles. Look for a list of names in the event's pamphlet. Those people under "Cherished Patrons"? Them's millionaires.
3. Go to your bathroom. Look in the mirror. That person? Not a millionaire.

So we've got tons more millionaires. Heck, with a government which has adorably abandoned all attempts at breaking up monopolies, there's a good number of billionaires, too.

Being a billionaire -- of course, very impressive. And when you're a kid, impossible to grasp. That's a thousand millions. It can't conceivably be measured in Super Ropes at the Kettering Public Pool, so to an eight-year-old, it might as well be Martian money. When you get older, this type of unattainable wealth is a little more graspable, if only through the entirety of its unattainability.

Acute awareness of this level of financial security may appear to you, unexpectedly, just as you flick off the TV and lay in bed in the semi-darkness. You just need a scant few hours of shut-eye to rest your weary, middle-class bones. Then suddenly, dancing across your frontal lobe are visions of people who aren't in, say, crippling credit card debt. Ah, to be a billionaire! Then, as an added bonus, you remember that you've gotta get up forty-five minutes earlier tomorrow morning, so you can pick up bagels for the entire office. And you also remember that Randy will complain about the garlic bagels being nestled next to the cinnamon raisin ones. Well, at least these thoughts beat the usual bedtime buzz killer of Sudden, Panic-Inducing Awareness of One's Own Mortality. A close second.

To spot your own friendly neighborhood multi-billionaire, use this helpful primer:

1. They have horrendous, ill-advised, often inexplicable, haircuts.
2. They appear to us mortals, when they do at all, in publicity photos, in which they are positioned on a dias, with their latest product, or operating system, amply projected behind them. Said product or operating system is, nonetheless, usually overshadowed by the presence, front and center, of the aforementioned haircut.
3. They are not you. Or anyone you know.

Which brings us to the elusive trillionaire. I'll save you some time. A quick internet search says that there are not currently any trillionaires in existence. But the jerkasses over at Wired Magazine have surmised that Bill Gates could, conceivably, become one before he dies.

Of course, this assumes several things. Firstly, that Microsoft stock will continue to increase in value. Secondly, that Bill Gates will have the life span of the average, garden-variety human. (Most people are unaware that Bill Gates has his internal organs replaced on a four-month rotating schedule, and that his brain and eyes will eventually be installed into a three-story-tall robot that will live in an underwater cave beneath Seattle's Lake Washington. Said Gates-bot will be known, for reasons as yet unknown, as Gary, and will subsist entirely on the laughter of small children. So, clearly, Gates is angling for quadrillionaire status.) Thirdly, this statement also assumes that everyone working at Wired Magazine is a jerkass. I don't mean to offend. All I know is they get paid to write articles about virtual reality headsets, and probably get lots of free stuff at corporate-sponsored parties. Hence, their jerkassitude.

What will it mean to the world to have its first, honest-to-goodness trillionaire? Call me ignorant, but like, is there, you know, even that much money in the world? If there's a trillionaire, won't that mean a little less for everybody else? Isn't this the sort of thing that would make Karl Marx yell out, "Told ya so!" just as Thomas Jefferson shakes his head, pulls closed the drapes, and mutters, "Well, ain't that a kick in the dick"?

This stratospheric level of wealth raises all kinds of red flags. Granted, most of these red flags are planted firmly in the soft turf that is my general lack of knowledge about grown-up things -- international monetary balance, the gold standard, what to say when a three-year-old asks you about heaven. But I will wave these flags with much abandon.

I mean, 'cuz, uh... it's not like the earth just poops out money, right? It all, like, comes from somewhere, yes?

Example!

You work the third shift at Costco, restocking giant jars of kosher dill pickles, so you can get your paycheck, and be able to afford a pitcher of Red Dog at MacGuffey's. MacGuffey's pays their rent and orders more Red Dog, and that way, the good people at Red Dog continue producing fairly awful beer and, in turn, paying their employees. These are the same Red Dog employees who are working the graveyard shift loading up the truck so they can afford that giant jar of kosher dill pickles at Costco. This is America -- we all signed up for this. It's in the fine print at the bottom of the Constitution.

Doesn't a freshly minted trillionaire sorta disrupt all that? Isn't there some kind of time-space-money continuum in operation? And even if I am, personally, nestled squarely in one of the murkier corners of it, shouldn't we be worried about messing up this equilibrium? Call me fretful, call me a pinko -- but last time I checked, we specifically had equilibriums so as not to screw 'em up.

So, true believers, fear the trillionaires. Because once they have that much scratch, there will be nothing they cannot pay for, or do to you, or pay for someone to do to you (probably with implements of some kind.)

A trillionaire would have, by definition, a bo-friggin'-zillion dollars. And that means they could peer into a telescope, pick out a solar system, clap a scientist on the shoulder and say, "I like the green one. It matches my sweater."

A trillionaire could have an entire country. Scratch that, because I'm sure there's already a billionaire who has one. In fact, I can think of a half-assed millionaire who's got his own right now. And he could barely run a baseball team.

A trillionaire's got so much money, the land mass purchase could even be an impulse buy. "Wait... what? So, Greenland's the cold one, and Iceland is actually quite temperate and pleasant at most times of the year? Oh, well. I'll give it to the wife, she'll be tickled. She can keep her shoes on it or some shit."

We've all seen the movies where the billionaire has a private island, and hunts homeless people on it. Well, the trillionaire-to-be will have so much money to throw around, she or he will redefine the very limits of human decency and restraint. Think about it. A trillionaire could pay your parents enough money to hunt YOU on that island.

"Mom? MOM?!"
"Oh, simmer down. I just winged you, Jeremy. Now, Daddy and I will give you a running start. One... two..."

Virtually every newspaper, movie, TV show, or affordably priced chocolate candy will be owned by the trillionaire. And you best believe there will be statues. Big, gold statues on every airport tarmac on the planet. Virgin sacrifices on the hour, with a reunited Beatles -- don't ask me how, you really do not want to know -- playing live at each one. And, for the trillionaire's personal amusement, a Ryan's Steakhouse all-you-can-eat buffet that's open to the general public, only costs $7.95, and is positioned on a balsa wood bridge spanning an active volcano.

What to do, in a world where one day, you and everyone you love will actually, realistically, physically, be bought and sold? Where the worth of the minerals and trace amounts of gold and aluminum in your bodily fluids will be itemized and reported to you every Christmas morning? I guess you just can't dwell on it.

Besides, you better get to bed, champ. You've got work in the morning.

Macaroni Salad 2: Through the Portal of Time

Hey, there he is! Beastmaster, over here! Put 'er there...

Oh... Beastmaster, this is my wife Sharon. Honey, this is Beastmaster. Just transferred from the home office. Works in accounts payable. Great guy -- wicked back swing. At least, from what I've heard! Ha!

Can we get you a refill there, Beastmaster? This? Oh, yeah, it's half lemonade and half iced tea. Folks call it an "Arnold Palmer." What do you mean, "What is this... lemonade... you speak of?" It's, uh... like... the juice of lemons, with water. And... uh, sugar. Here, just try it --

Whoa! That's a live ferret you got there! He just kinda hangs out in that leather satchel all day? Honey, did you get a look at this? Guy's got a ferret in some kind of bindle around his waist -- whup! There's two! Wild. Just... just wild.

Okay, hon... catch up with you later. She's probably chasing after our youngest, Thad. Gets into all kinds of trouble. You have kids of your own? No? Well, consider yourself lucky, my friend! A man with no family is a man with no worries. Heh.

I'm sorry? No, I don't think that's a dishonorable thing to say. C'mon. Just joshing.

So, anyways... I appreciate you coming out, Beastmaster. Trust me, I been through that whole rigamarole before -- new town, new office, new co-workers. But same old company picnics! Ha! Wife says I've gotta stop welcoming new hires this way, 'cause it's murder on the ol' midsection! "Mitch, I think you just look for excuses to let yourself go." Hey-oh! She's got my number, that's for sure!

We're in therapy. Together. Well, I went for me... and the doctor said she should come for a few, uh... sessions. I think we're making progress.

Whew.

Yeah. So...

Weather's a bit nicer than we thought -- Mark! Mark! C'mere, man. Meet Beastmaster. Just transferred from, uh, I'm sorry -- where was that? Arrok? Yeah, I think that's near Middleview, Mark.

So, anyways... Beastmaster, this is Mark Rutledge. Works over in payroll. So... you might wanna pucker up and start kissing his butt right now! Ha ha!

No, I didn't mean to insinuate anything, Beastmaster. It was just an expression. Mark, you takin' off? Save me a brew-dog!

Hmm. Alright.

You know, we're not technically allowed to have alcohol at company functions, but if Old Man McClendon ain't around, what's the harm, right? It's like I always say: when the cat's away, the mice will -- what's that? No, not an actual cat. Like if McClendon was a cat, and we were the -- forget about it. Not important. Point is, we like to have a little fun. Keeps things light --

Janice! Janice! Hey! Come and press the flesh with our new man in accounts paya -- alright, we'll catch up with you later, then. Great gal.

She's had a lot of personal problems this past year. But you'll get that, from time to time. I mentioned family before, and that was all in jest, but one thing I like people to feel is that their co-workers can function as an extended family of sorts. Really.

You know, if you're ever having a tough time, the door's always open. And trust me -- I've heard it all before.

I used to be the head-down, no-looking-back guy in the office. Mr. Focus. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. But, yes... me.

Then I had a, well, the doc called it a "minor cardiac episode." Didn't feel so minor when I was on my hands and knees in the kitchen, gasping for air! You know? Yeah, we all have close calls. And we all pull ourselves out, one way or the --

Yes, that is a very impressive blade. You had much use for that, uh, thing? Really?

So, I was saying that we all get into scrapes in this life, and as long as you've -- hmm? Sorry? No, never. Yeah, I've never fallen in a pit of quicksand. Heh. Yeah, I guess that is sort of... amusing.

Anyways, I got out of the hospital and one of the first things McClendon does is send me on one of these corporate retreats. I don't gotta tell you how dull them damned things are -- you know.

Hmm?

No, this was actually just outside Myrtle Beach. Yeah, the uh, the Courtyard by Marriott they got down there. At, uh, Barefoot Landing, I think? Does that sound right? I'm gettin' off-topic here.

But what they tell us at the retreat is this, pure and simple: a happy employee is a productive employee. I mean, we've always thought that. I don't need a guy in laminated nametag to tell me that!

Huh? Yeah, laminated. Like, clear plastic... you know. Uh, yeah, and a small piece of paper with your name on it, and title, office location. Uh...

But yeah, like a family. Family is important.

What's that? Really? I... no, I was not aware of your family's history. Jeez. Slaughtered by a wizard? Are you... are you sure? Wow. Umm --

Wait a minute. Born from a cow? You actually grew inside the womb... of a cow. No, I... I believe you, Beastmaster. Sure.

Yeah, I imagine that would instill in you some sort of mystical bond with the animal world. Some kind of telepathic connection, enabling you to, uh, well... I guess, commune with creatures of every sort -- hey! Have you tried this potato salad? Maureen hits us with this every picnic, and I think it just gets better every darn time. Not too much mustard. And yes, that is dill you taste. Yeah... you talk about a mystical connection! Ha!

I apologize. No, I was not making light of your story, Beastmaster. I would never dream of doing such a thing -- there he is! Thaddie, c'mere! Ha! C'mere! C'mere.

Just come here.

Because I want you to meet someone. Two seconds, Thaddie, that's all it takes. Christ, I'm not asking for the world here.

Thad, this is Beastmaster. Yes, we all know he's not wearing a shirt, Thaddie. Don't be rude.

That's not a diaper, son. They call it a loincloth. Alright, go play. Hmm? No, I... I don't know why Mommy needs the keys to the Astro van. Well, Daddy has them right now. Okay? Thaddie, you see Mommy, you tell her that Daddy will hold on to the keys until he's good and ready to -- alright, bye bye.

Kids. Heh.

Sorry 'bout that... you know, they're just curious. Uh... yeah, I suppose. Inquisitive like the first newt of spring. I guess you could say that.

It's a good community, around here. Cranmar is a good place to raise 'em. I mean, should you ever travel down that dark path! Ha.

Nope. Not an actual dark path. Just a... just a turn of phrase. Huh? Eye of Braxus, you say. Yeah, that sounds... just, uh... wild. I'm sure that was a handful.

Yes, I'm sure you could handle it all very well. Yeah, yeah. The, uh... the prophesy. Sometimes I wonder if there's a kind of, as you say, prophesy... for, for each of us. Really? No, I never thought of it that way. You're an interesting guy, Beastmaster. I think you're gonna fit in just fine.

Yo, Friedman! Friedman, over here!

Yeah, check out my new racquetball partner, buddy! Uh huh, that's right! Yep, you and Loomis are goin' down!