SugarBear-#5

I am sitting in a roomful of strangers.  Some are sleeping, some reading, some watching the muted television morning news program-desperately trying to understand.  Other people in this room are talking nervously to their neighbor, whom they met minutes earlier, about death and taxes.  Excluding none, everyone in this room is grumpy.  Well...excluding one. 

This is the first day in 2 1/2 years that I went to bed early the night before in anticipation of the day to follow.  I sprang from the mattress at 6:20 am-nearly an hour after my eyes opened. I washed, brushed, put on make-up, clipped and filed, dressed.  I fed my 2 year old.  I was almost chipper to my husband.  I kissed them both good-bye.  I drove to D&D and bought a 1/2 DC/C/O-my first in 5 months.  I listened to morning radio and parked at the designated lot, six blocks away from my destination.  I skipped in 12 degrees down the long blocks, clutching my hot coffee.  The excitement of being in the world, contributing to society once again, almost too much for me to bear.

Now at the door, the guards take my cellphone.  Most of the people grumble.  I welcome the freedom this simple act offers.  I walk past hourdes of poeple being corralled into their appropriate lines. 

A woman behind the glass asks my profession.  Do I tell it to her straight?  Should I tell her the old fashioned term or the one that is supposed to sound more modern and p.c?  I realize that I am taking too long to answer.  The plumber and teacher behind me shift their weight and sigh.  The clerk glances self-consciously at my gut.  

"Baby Maker?"  I answer, playfully.    

"Are you saying you stay at home?  Or are you being funny?"  She asks dryly.  

I am out in the world before 8:45 a.m.  I have coffee.  I am wearing lipstick.  I can do this.  I nod self-consciously.  She validates my parking.

I sit in a comfortable empty row.   I begin to unload the carefully packed bag, filled with reminders that I once enjoyed art, pop culture, politics and my own thoughts.  My bag.  Packed with things I need, things I want to occupy my time.  

I glance at the clock on the wall.  So early.  So much more time to read grown-up books and listen to real music. So much more time to be an adult, out in the world.  I wonder how fast the time will fly.  My eyes scan the room and unintentionally make eye contact with a man sitting below the clock.  He is fairly handsome, trendy, mid-twenties (go me) and is totally checking me out.  Wait, maybe he is looking at someone else...I glance around briefly.  Nope.  Just me.  I look back at him after a very hard-to-get 30 seconds.  He is still casually looking over here.  Yup, I still got it, for the moment.  The fetus bares down angrily on my sensitive bladder.  I grind my teeth against the sensations, careful not to yet break the illusion that I am a single twenty-something, who is SO annoyed to have to come here today and waist time on this b.s.  Reluctantly, I rise from my plastic chair.  It creaks, loudly in this our silent environment.  everyone turns to look.  Including my boyfriend.  My movement is slow and steady as I concentrate on stability.  He isn't looking anymore.  But not to worry, the rest of the room is, and they are getting a great view of my  undies in Wedgyville underneath my oh-so-too-tight-maternity- yoga pants.

Somehow we are shuffled back into the cold, to another building...another room.  More people sitting in chairs.  They are taking up all the good seats.  And they aren't one of us.  They weren't there for role call or the orientation reminders.  We squeeze in between them pulling our bags of reading materials and electronics onto our laps.  This isn't what I signed up for.  This was going to be "me" time.  

I pull out the incredibly pretentious novel that I've been waiting to read for months and pick up on page 8, where I have picked up so many times before.  Suddenly, the woman next to me strikes up a friendly conversation with the woman next to her.  Their voices are not easily ignored.  A man nearby is called and exits.  A little elbow room.  The women giggle at an amusing anticdote about the untidiness of husbands, their voices gaining more confidence in the familiarity of their new best-friendship.  A very old man comes to fill my void.  He smells like cigarettes and bacon.  Page 8 continues.   The women begin a marathon interchange about their pets.  Each and every malady, caper and human-like action boisterously discussed.  Did that woman just say something about kissing her dog on the mouth?  Gag.  A hearty guffaw...PAGE 8.  I acrimoniously look around the room.  Have middle-aged women no censor to what they say aloud when they meet up with one of their own.  Will I be one of these women someday?  Every person in the room desperately grasps at personal space while the women gab.   

I am beginning to miss her.  What degree of kink is her hair at right now?

The women gab.  New topic: Brangelina.

I put my book away.  I feel as if I'm beginning to boil over.  I move to another row.  I can still hear the faint laughs of from the animal molesting ex-cheerleaders.

A flash runs through my mind.  It is clean in this place, colorful and vacant of the smell of strangers.  I suddenly long for the oasis that is my kitchen.   I feel as if it has been years since I made Mickey Mouse shaped grilled cheeses while checking email and making "to do" lists.   

A new succubus behind me begins to tell her instant bff about a tv show she watched last night.  She discusses every single interchange between the characters on the show.  They gab about the difficulty of understanding some of the jokes but they adore the physical comedy. Then they delve deep into "that strange new mystery suspense show that is just so confusing." They both watch it every week but have no idea what it is about.  They analyse last night's surprise ending through what seems like a bullhorn.  I make a mental note to erase my Tivo'd recording of Lost.

The clock above my ex reads 12:23.  God will this day ever end.  Will I ever get to go home??  

They call my name in a series of five.  I go to the front.  I watch the interviewers ask the two before me a series of questions.  I focus on remembering who I am.  I need to answer quickly enough, so as not to sound like I'm lying, or just an idiot.  I haven't really had to explain who I am to anyone in a long time.  My identity is blurred. 

"Is Suhy your maiden name?"

"Yes."

"Do you know any of the following people...?"

"No."

"Have you ever been divorced?"

"No."

"What is your occupation?"

"Hooo...Stt...Unemployed."

"What is your husband's occupation?"

"Lobbyist."

"You may go."

As I journey back to my car in the freezing cold, rejected, harrassed by the homeless and laughed at by the teens whose parents should really be made aware of the fact they are not in school and I really wish I could call and tell them myself, I wonder witch of those people will be called to sit on juries today.  They decide the fate of allegged criminals.   Will my under the clock ex-boyfriend sentence a man to prison?  Will the cheerleaders get sequestered like OJs jurers?  Will the bacon sway eleven jurers to change their votes to innocent, Twelve Angry Men style?  Either way, I am going home.  And I can't wait. 

Going to a Judge Judy show, now THAT would be a good time.

I found the above sample in an old spiral I took out for Willow.  It was from jury duty,  just a year ago.