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it was crime at the time but the laws we changed 'em

NP: a "best tracks from my favorite albums of 2003" mix. I might post that, along with my actual Top 10 LPs later this week.

Today was the first day of jury duty, a task perhaps only partially preferable to a return to the office. I got up early enough for it to be still dark out even after I'd had a shower and shave. I kissed a still sound asleep Erin goodbye and hopped in the car, wishing for quasi-quick public transport to my destination and hoping not to get stuck in traffic on a snarled Hanley. Put Jackson Browne's "Late for the Sky" on the iPod, for some reason it just matched the cold and bleakness of the morning. I arrived in the Clayton city center with plenty of time to spare thanks to my Forsyth shortcut. I eventually found one of the assigned parking garages and upon finding a spot, realized it seemed to have been built with dwarves in mind. At least the parking was free, though I would have to remember to get it validated in the courthouse.

Ah, Clayton. I often refer to it as St. Louis' very own White Flight Fake Downtown. While this is a bit off, it still sorts of fits. Granted, Clayton needs to exist -- St. Louis city was the former county seat, but it broke away from its eponymous county in the 1870s to become that oddity, a city within no county. So, when this happened, St. Louis county needed a new seat, and for whatever reason, Clayton was selected. It remained fairly small until the 1960s, when the new interstate highways (along with other factors) caused a large number of people began to evacuate the city proper for the county suburbs. This caused the population and relative wealth of St. Louis city to drop and the same attributes of the county to rise. Now, Clayton didn't just grow and take away power from St. Louis -- it was the fact that the population shifted westward into the county that caused the influx of wealth and population into the county and its seat. St. Louis city isn't dead, in fact it's starting to finally make a bit of a comeback, but still, I sometimes look at Clayton and think "this is what 8th & Pine should look like" or whatever. Maybe I'm wrong, though...I often am. In any case, the upshoot of all this is that in many ways, downtown Clayton is much more alive than downtown St. Louis. It is home to most of the new skyscrapers built in the metro area, it is stocked with businesses that stay open past 4.30pm, and the sidewalks are busy well into the night, filled with couples on nights out, businessmen, bureaucrats and lawyers. But I digress.

I was checked in to jury duty at 8.15am, shuffled between various subdivisions of the waiting room, and then told to wait. I read Bill Bryson's "In a Sunburned Country" until 11.30 when a call for 40 jurors was made. My name was not included. Shortly afterwards, the remaining people are dismissed for lunch. They give us more than an hour and a half, which seems a bit silly. Surely everyone would just rather go home sooner, eh?

I wandered around and found a chili joint/diner a few blocks away. It seemed a bit out of place in the fairly upscale environs, but it was packed with all cross-sections of people. $3.50 for a bowl of amazingly good chili and a plate of "American fries" (which were basically just non-hashed hash browns) was a good deal. I sat down at a window counter that let me indulge in some people watching. A group of young women laughing, balding men in overcoats, a TV reporter and cameraman. I paid the bill and spent the rest of the break walking around town, trying to shake the cooped-up feeling from the courthouse. I later popped into World News (Clayton is home to the area's hands-down best newsagent -- you can get a Daily Mail or Guardian, as well as about 20 different American city papers, as well as one of zillions of magazines) for a notepad and pen.

Returned to the court complex -- metal detector time! I emptied my pockets -- *buzz*. I took off my coat -- *buzz*. They made me take off my belt (ahem!) -- *buzz*. Finally the culprit was revealed, the stupid metal clip from the juror's badge I was forced to wear. D'oh. The security guy working the x-ray machine looked nearly asleep. That's "Homeland Security" for you...

The court building itself was a formless box of a skyscraper, built in that horrifically ugly late sixties / early seventies style. The interior was dull gray and tan -- loads of utilitarian metal, plastic and formica. It looked like the inside of Kent library at college, actually, complete with those stupid crisscrossing waffle-looking ceiling patterns. Eww. I was sitting in a small lounge off the main waiting hall A TV played soaps and, ironically, endless TV judge programs. In shades of working in Dempster junior year of college, I drank several cups of weird tasting coffee from a 30 cent vending machine (press A4 for coffee with sugar + 'white'). It was barely passable, though the weird dusty sludge left at the bottom of the empty cup was concerning. It was a nice view out the windows, at least. At least I had windows, unlike my cube at work. The north view offered glimpses of other ugly office blocks, gray skies and leafless trees. Southbound, more of the same, though I could spot Laclede's natural gas cylinder thing and the seminary tower of my neighborhood off 4-5 miles away. It was comforting in an odd way, as if this was my prison and I'd been incarcerated for years. I later discovered a smoking patio/balcony that offered a southbound view. Nothing much there, just glass towers, cars on I-170, and the relic of the old courthouse building. The fresh air out there was nice, but the wind felt like daggers so I went back indoors.

The Bryson book has been typically excellent, as least so far. Australia fascinates me in a way that it seems to be what would happen if you fused American and Britain. The chapter where Bryson is in Canberra, where he's detailing the Parliament building and how it uses the British term for the building and the American names for the houses within -- it's little things like that which endear his writing to mine. He's oddly in tune with my aesthetic, which is nice. In any case, I'd love to head to Oz someday, maybe take my uncle Rick with me, as it was his early '90s stint in Sydney that got me interested in the place originally.

I discovered at one point that the "pay" for jury duty is $10 a day plus mileage from your place to the courthouse and back. That's upped to $18 + mileage if you're actually selected to sit on a case. Either way, it's hardly a lottery win, but since my work covers my duty as if it were a sick day or something, this small sum is a nice extra, I suppose. I feel bad for people whose works don't cover jury duty in full or at all. I'd feel super screwed in that case. Anyway, my check should be in the mail in three weeks. Whee.

At 2pm there were 42 more jurors called. I am not one of them. The long dark teatime of the soul will arrive soon, I think as I glance at the standard issue wall clock. I went back to my book and contemplated more coffee. At one point, I noticed a woman reading a huge Star Trek: DS9 paperback. I just wish they'd let me go.

2.10pm, Bryson was great company but I was getting so bored as to actually long for the unfettered excitement of an evening haircut. Soap operas were still on TV -- two middle aged men watched out of sheer lack of anything else to occupy their time. A young man slept with head on table. I ate a packet of Cheez-It (bonus white cheddar flavor) and had that next coffee.

More names at 2.30, again not me. The hall was ridiculously empty by this point, I wondered if there were even enough people for another round of calls. There were phones at the back of the hall offering free local calls. A man is one of them, yelling loudly at a girlfriend or business partner or something. A woman had headphones on, wished I'd though of that. Another guy had a Gameboy Advance, smart!

A few minutes later and I was contemplating that perhaps this is what purgatory would be like.

3.15 rolls around and I'm getting anxious that I'll soon be released. No dice. One last call for jurors is made, and I was #9. As the bailiff talked, I noticed a printed out sign in the hallway reading "thanks for being part of the system".

We were eventually herded into a courtroom where we were "checked out" by the prosecuting and defending attorneys. Long story and even more waiting short, I was selected to serve on the jury. The case will run tomorrow and maybe Wednesday morning depending on how quickly the examination of the witnesses goes. Great. We were finally excused for the day ("temporary recess") at like 5.30pm. I still had to walk back to the parking garage and fight through the Hanley "escape from New York" traffic jam to get out of Claytonia.

Whew. A bit later on I got my badly needed haircut, then stopped at Schnucks next door to treat myself to a well-deserved pint of beer (Fuller's IPA on this evening). Drove home through massive snowflakes flurrying down, and around 6.30 I finally walked in the door. Decided to waive my daily walk as I'd done one at lunchtime. I still feel blobular, though. Stupid winter, stupid holiday feeding frenzy. It's my own fault, though.

So yes, here I am. Can't wait to see Erin, she should be home in an hour's time or so. More judicial joy to come tomrrow...

then / now