^{Bonedaddy's Jury Duty Diary}

8:15 am I get into the parking garage elevator with a woman who sports the jury duty uniform. Jury notice in one hand, a book in the other. I promptly send us both to the basement looking for the way out. Doesn't G mean 'ground' anymore? We make conversation as we exit through an alley behind the parking garage. Maybe she's talking to me to make sure I'm not a lunatic, or maybe I've passed into the part of Non-Threatening Boy. Remember, Lisa Simpson is sick and Homer buys her a issue of her favorite magazine, Non-Threatening Boys? With my wedding ring and my "I'm a stay-at-home-dad," and the frequent references to "my wife," that's where I am now.

8:45 am We' are ushered into the jury pool waiting room. Comfortable chairs, beautiful view of the Connecticut River winding through hills spotted orange, red and yellow. This is not bad.

8:48 am Tired of view. Pull out my book. When I say non-threatening, I mean non-threatening. The book I pull out is Bridget Jones's Diary. (Hey, screw you. I just finished getting kind of bogged down in Arthur Phillip's Prague and wanted something quick and effortlessly funny. And my wife - that's right, I said 'my wife' again - laughed when she read it. Besides, books don't have a gender, you twit.) (Oh yeah, throughout this diary, I may drop pronouns because that's how Bridget writes. "128 lbs. Am complete failure.")

9:00 am We watch videos about what it means to be on a jury. I drift off when it doesn't tell me anything I don't already know. Then I worry that I drifted off during parts that had stuff I don't already know and have just failed to learn. They should throw me out of here soon.

9:35 am Call Mrs. BoneDaddy. Robert DeNiro was on Sesame Street and I missed it. Talking to Elmo, DeNiro explained what an actor was and how he could be a New York taxi driver, an out of shape boxer, or even a dog. Elmo wanted to see him be a dog so DeNiro acted like a dog. As Mrs. BoneDaddy put it, "Whew, that was lucky."

She wants to know if our video was just like Law & Order. "Oh yeah," I say, "Sam Waterson does the narration. They even use the KA-CHING sound to change scenes."

9:45 am I'm convinced I've stumbled onto something brilliant. Why not use TV lawyers and celebrities to do these videos? Wouldn't that be better than stiff judges reading from cue cards? They have a part telling you no one is more believable because of their profession and they use police officers as an example. Chief Wiggum could do that part and really drive the point home. O.J. Simpson could talk about the rights of the accused. "And when you think about it, all doubts are reasonable." Abbie from ER could do ... well, anything. I don't know, a part on how you can change your clothes in the coat room. This would be riveting.

10:00 am We take the juror's oath. "Do you swear ..." I run TV shows and movies through my head because I'm not sure if I'm supposed to say "I do" or "Yes." Turns out, nobody knows. Half the crowd says one, half the other.

10:04 am They introduce the principals in the four cases to make sure we don't know any of the plaintiffs, defendants, lawyers or witnesses. One of the lawyers for the first case has terrible hair. Parted in the middle, long-ish and feathered back. Very big in 1979. He looks like a yearbook photo that moves. One side flops down on his forehead and the other shoots straight up, looking like a sin wave above his head. I wonder if I should raise my hand and tell the judge, "I can't get over that guy's hair. Seriously, I'm not going to be able to concentrate."

10:15 am Eureka! I may know a doctor who may testify in a slip and fall from my time working at the hospital. When I tell the judge that I worked in orthopedics at the hospital, he tells me to make sure to let all the lawyers know this. "In my experience, people like you sometimes wind up with specialized knowledge. Make the lawyers aware of this." Could my former job and "specialized knowledge" (i.e. hits off the oxygen tank cure hangovers) spring me from jury duty?

11:00 am Cases are run through. No ex-girlfriends or former bosses are involved in tawdry lawsuits. Sigh. Fed up. If Court is not going to provide me with KA-CHING sounds, I'm going to do it myself. Decide to use KA-CHING sound under my breath to mark the day's transitions, like entering the bathroom.

11:01am Bathrooms are very disconcerting. Urinals are along one wall and each has the vertical don't-look-at-me divider except the last one, which is positioned on a corner leading to the sinks. If you happen to be using this one since it is the only one available, anyone done with the sinks steps around the corner comes to a halt in a momentary, near face-to-face meeting with you. Remind self not to make KA-CHING sound when this happens.

11:20 am I don't know if this is known about me, but I love to eavesdrop. I'm good at it too. I have good hearing and I've developed a completely convincing blank stare. I can rarely resist listening to conversations that are just offered up in public spaces. I'm off my game though. Two women are talking several rows behind me and when one of them says, "Wow, look at that. The sun really came up," I turn my head to the window. If I were a con man, this would be a "tell." Women go quiet. Stop talking about sex lives. (Look, if you're in a room with sixty people around you, just assume someone's listening.)

Noon This is insane. I've been sitting uninterrupted for an hour, reading, looking out on the Connecticut River, writing this in my notebook. Soon, I am going to get an entire hour for lunch. Usually, I get ten minutes standing up or I eat something long-cold while cleaning up. Sudden idea: jury duty notices should routinely be sent to new parents, who might appreciate the boredom and quiet. Also being able to use two hands for things. Flaw with idea: new parents are often struck by strict, which is to say almost Puritanical, Annoying New Moral Perspective. Everyone guilty. Court Marshalls constantly rebuked for not saying Please and Thank you.

1 pm Hit Mamoun's for falafel, eager to start in on 60 minutes with my book. Then the attorney with the terrible hair sits at a table directly in front of me. Can't concentrate. Keep watching his head to see if the sides of his part ever switch roles - one side falling down as the other side pops up. Attorney's conversation utterly boring. Still glad I didn't become lawyer.

1:40 pm Run into Sharon's, a store of kid's stuff, to find birthday card for a three year old whose party we'll be going to on the weekend. It's been so long since I've walked around without a kid I've forgotten that if you're a guy and you walk into a kid-oriented space with a shaved head and black trenchcoat without a kid, you ... well, let's just say everyone seems remarkably eager to help you.

2:05 pm If you ever get called for jury duty, bring cards. Table of old women playing raucous game of setback are the envy of the room.

2:10 pm Everyone else not reading a book is clustered around the TV. On the lower screen TV newsbriefs, CNN informs us that President Bush is "deeply saddened" by the sniper attacks. This is somehow news. If he were elated it would be news.

2:15 pm Oddest book/reader combo spotted: This big probably-not-showered guy in a flannel shirt, jeans and workboots reading Stephen Ambrose's Nothing Like It in the World: The Men who Built the Transcontinental Railroad, 1865-1869.

2:30 pm Rumors spread that three out of the four juries have already been seated. I'm feeling good. The room is still crowded with other potential jurors so I like my chances.

2:32 pm Marshall calls my name to go through the voir dire with the lawyers. Damn. Good news though: it's a personal injury case and I'm under judge's orders to bring up my "specialized knowledge" and convince them that I'm unsuitable. My chances are no longer great, though.

2:33 pm I'm in a small conference room with the plaintiff, his lawyer, and the defendant's lawyer. One of the lawyers explains the voir dire to me for about the sixth time today. One of the first questions they ask is "Do you know anyone with back problems?" I immediately realize there's no way I'll be selected for this jury. Mrs. BoneDaddy has had back problems for years. That's right, once again I'm going to be talking about my wife. The lawyers are, of course, extremely interested in this and I don't let them down. "No one knows what caused it for sure. The doctors generally think it came from this car accident. Hey, just like this case..." While trying to describe her symptoms and emphasize how debilitating it can be, I babble on and wind up saying, "She's in real pain, man," my sore throat making a poor Jack Nicholson imitation. I'm wondering if I should just show myself out.

One of the lawyers asks if I watch "those court shows on TV." I don't make the KA-CHING sound for him because I'd rather be rejected over my natural sympathy for my wife as opposed to being a loonball. He goes on to talk about how TV alters the reality. "The jury would be in the background, just a prop. And if this were a TV show, it would be all about the lawyers."

"Yeah, and you guys would be better looking," I say. Okay, insult the lawyers. This wasn't part of a planned strategy here. It just happened. My momentum may have completely swung. They may sit me on the jury just for revenge.

We go through more questions, many more than I would think necessary if I were about to be dumped. They are interested in my former job but it seems to be a wash. The plaintiff's guy seems excited that I know how messed up backs can get and I've seen how gruesome back surgery can be, but the defendant's guy seems happy that surgery became something of a routine in my day and I've seen extremes of trauma probably far worse than the plaintiff's. Try to steer the conversation back to my poor wife's back to no avail.

3:15 pm Sitting in a hallway waiting for their decision. As a last ditch effort, I reach for Bridget Jones's Diary. Do you want a Bridget Jones reader on your jury? Do you? Can't even pull the book clear of my bag before the marshall comes out. "You're in."

Can't even get out of jury duty. Am complete failure.