erectlocution’s posterous

This

is a test

They announced names. I listened.

"No, that's not me."

"That's not me, either."

This went on for the few days I was called in. Until Wednesday, the 27th.

They announced names. I listened.

"No, that's not me."

"That's not me, eith--wait, that is me."

"These jurors should go to lunch, and report back at 1:25."

I didn't leave. I told everyone I could that I had finally been called. I wrapped up my work, set my out-of-office message, shut my computer down. I ate lunch, cleaned up my mess, and packed my stuff away. I watched CNN, regretting the channel's decline to sameness, and waited.

We assembled in the waiting area, we few who had been chosen to serve, at about 1:30. We waited. Finally, at about 1:45, the jury commissioner came in.

"Thank you for coming, but the judge doesn't require your services today. Thos of you in your second week of duty, you're done. You don't need to call the recording, you don't need to come in tomorrow or Friday. Thank you for your service."

The free donuts were no consolation.

I couldn't wait to get into the Jury Commission office this morning.
It's not for the $19 a day, it's not for the quite horrible free
"coffee," and it's not for digital cable. I'm anxious to hear my name
called.

This sort of investment is crazy hard to develop. The first thing we
look for from an employer is what we need to pay bills, and there's a
bit more potential for pride in serving your fellow citizens as fair
arbiters of their constitutional rights than there is in, say, selling
denim purses. But the Jury Commission manages to create this sense of
investment despite the relative discomfort because we all know we're a
part of something.

This is the core of "service": whatever the product itself, you can be a
part of something, of an interaction, of the effort to meet someone's
needs and add a little happy to their day. You can do this pimpin'
pleather accessories, you can do this fixing carburetors, and you can do
this running for president. It's more than a Twitter account and a
glossy web page, but right now, those things work for some things. For
others, you could do worse than to smile.

When it's a commodity like connectivity to the internet, which in itself is not demonstrably injurious, you'll be hard pressed to achieve solidarity in your bid for personal discipline. That is, "I'm a slosh of a 'net user, and I have a dream to write gratuitously violent children's slasher stories, so I need to focus" somehow entails "Hey, here are several shiny web links to look at that involve mesmerization and a systematic destruction of your pre-frontal!"

Thanks, honey.