Bored agitated faces squashed into reused airport seating, if feels as if I’m traveling to another world as I step into the dreaded jury call of duty room. Choosing a seat on the floor, in a corner, furthering the welcomed stares at my social rebellion clad in fabulous gothic bohemian attire, I maintain a quirky attitude to get through this uncomfortable social “necessity” government requires of all functioning members.
A pool of random people chosen via mail to judge their fellow citizens, none of us have a choice to be there at the courthouse. Cased in cement and checked at the door, those people dressed in blue cease to stay people becoming a part of the zombie set of rules meant to abrasively shove out the free thinkers- or rebels. I take an anxious look around me and find that most of the prospective jurors are already zoned into the various laptops, tablets and smartphones technology has granted the doorway for keeping the free-thinkers tamped down and squeezed into small holes of existence. I sigh, take out my sketchbook and get comfortable sitting on the floor in a corner drawing scenes of ghastly death by gallows with the pen I just swiped for a souvenir fighting annoyance as the little lady behind the glass calls out names for courthouses, assuring us that it is all for the betterment of society.
The second go around I hear my name, Fuck I mutter as I stand and file into the line that is to become my fellow group of judging minds to see if we agree that one particular person actually committed a crime or not. The tried speeches of the bailiff convincing the masses that jury duty and judgment of the fellow citizen isn’t as barbaric as the Salem Witch Trials, but has become much more sophisticated and even an honor is like swallowing acid- acrid but tasteless.
Juror seat number 7 I go sit and face the judge as if I’m on trial. The questioning is understandable to make sure there is a good group of sheep, and as the wolf disguised I act anxious and hateful to gain exit. The strategy invariably works as I bank on my pink Mohawk contrast voiced shy quiet tones repeating my contempt for the government. Freely wearing anarchy gear, I get judged by the judge and told I may exit as I cannot keep a promise to be fair and equal for someone on trial for breaking his felony probation by handling guns. I smile and look directly at the defendant and congratulate him for exercising his free right as a human being, feeling the slight push from the bailiff as if I’m a cow.
Standing outside, breathing in the fresh sunny air, I take a sharpie and deface the stairs- a small misnomer for a duty well done.
© Copyright 2016 Stacy Fae. All rights reserved.
Article / Editorial and Opinion
Poem / Memoir
Poem / Travel
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