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.