Citizen Konrad
“Lex!”
Standing in line for the metal detector, I’d mentally checked out. It took me a moment to realize someone had called my name. When I spun I around I saw Chris, of Chelsea Grill fame, standing in the other line and grinning at me. I marched over to him and clasped his hand. “Holy shit. You’re the last person I expected to run into here.”
By now his grin had transmogrified into a full-on smile. “In trouble with the law, Lex?”
“Naw, I’m just here for jury duty. You here for the same?”
“Nope. I’m testifyin’ against a purse-snatcher.”
“Aren’t you the model citizen.” Chris handed me his business card; he’s general manager for a fancy new club now, moving up in the world. I smiled at the prospect of VIP treatment and promised to pay him a visit.
After we’d parted ways I found myself oddly moved by my friend’s service to the community. Though I’d initially been reluctant to haul my ass down to the courthouse, well, the system has a way of grinding you down.
And so I patiently sat in the jury selection room, read a book, talked politics with a few people, and dutifully returned from lunch at the appointed hour, anxious to find out whether we’d receive a call from the war room.
Then came the clerk’s magic words: “Okay folks, it’s slow around here this week so you’re being discharged.”
Discharged. I should have been relieved—and I was in a sense—but I also felt a little let down: once I’d resigned myself to being there I wanted to see the process through. For the first time I felt like a citizen of New York and not just a resident.
The old folks spoke of how much better it is now that the jury summons comes only once every four years and not every two years as it once did. I’m not so sure. It seems like a long time to wait for another chance at citizenship.
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