From where I sit I cannot see his face. I can only hear his muffled voice, and I can see his balding dome with two tufts of fluff at either side of the partial sphere that contains what I assume is his brain and from where I presume the voice to be emitting. I don’t want to see him. I hope they never call my name again. He wants our hardships so he can think about them unrealistically while we wait and hope to be released. People are sick, busy, nervous, losing their jobs, hard of hearing, having babies, going on vacation. But I am here without any hardship that I’m willing to disclose. My back hurts and I have to pee. I’m hungry. They won’t let me read on my tablet even though there is no wi-fi. Everyone has worse problems than mine.
We sit in straightened rows of sweated walnut that was forested without my permission. I would not have granted them this much walnut for this space. I would have saved room enough for the entire deer whose head is on the wall gazing like a flag waiting for the wind. Is that even a proper decoration for a courtroom?
I scan the crowd for interesting faces. Listen for interesting names. Nefertiti shimmers in the room with me, with all of us—who is she? I may never know, but she fills me with wonder, transports me to Egypt; and I’m climbing a pyramid and following a stairwell to riches. The glow of golden gods pulls like the alluvial plain, intrigues like a trap door.
People drone on, relating their lives and biographical data to the official strangers. It seems subhuman and superhuman or both, inane and necessary because someone died in the way some die—by animal attack. So, this is serious.
A man is on trial wearing a button-down shirt and khakis. A wildebeest prosecutes him in a kilt and bow tie. Concerned that my head might explode or implode, I’ve stopped listening. I’ve been the wildebeest. I’ve been a jackal. I’ve been a wolf and a tablespoon of Anbesol—it makes my stomach moan, my viscera tickle. But that feeling could be caused by the iced mocha. I should have known better than to drink extra coffee before jury duty. The bowling ball in his robe, his hand resting on a gavel, looks to be sleeping. We break.
We talk about dogs in the hallway and how they aren’t cats. Not at all. But that doesn’t affect my ability to be fair and impartial. When it comes to these church pews and the proselytizing I cannot be impartial. I think this is only fair because of the world, such as it is.
I reapproach the same painful walnut row. I am wearing a t-shirt with my favorite band’s name on it. It makes me so incognito that no one recognizes me. This makes the afternoon extra long. Not at all like a bow tie, more like a bonfire, but nowhere near as fun. All at once it becomes apparent that the ceiling is a brick wall, a disconcerting fact when you are dreaming of dinner and stifling sighs because you don’t want to be rude. Boredom makes counting bricks interesting and I wonder if Nefertiti is doing the same or if she is sneakily sending texts to Aten about sex and drugs or about how she rules Egypt like a boss.
More people are excused. They look so happy when they leave. They know the bricks won’t fall on them. What are my odds? I’m not a gambling man, but I have been to Vegas and the high-pitched turbine noise they pump over the sound system makes me nervous. No. Not nervous. Annoyed. And miserly. I wait for a brick to hit me. I could laugh through my blood tears. Right now, I’m amazed at how being trapped makes me more blasphemous than usual.
But this isn’t my living room and I am not reading a newspaper. First of all, I would never keep my living room this cold. Excuse me for cause, please, but you can’t shame me. And with each name my heart sinks a little each time it isn’t Nefertiti. The bottoms of my jeans, frayed and discolored by wandering aimfully for mushrooms (I saw the Angel of Death and made a note of its location just in case I need to eat it later) remind me that these walls and voices are molasses, a tar pit where we fossilize. I am a pressurized diamond full of explosives.
We sit in a law library; we curse on bibles. Some affirm instead. My fingers burn and go numb on the leather. I throw thoughts at Nefertiti. She sends me a pharaoh. We go have a beer, but it’s warm and I’m not used to that. Wicker sails attached to balsa wood canoes drift past us, anachronistic and nonsensical.
In the distance the bowling ball barks. Another name echoes off of the walnut, off of the stones we have become. This one looks like my cousin and says he’s in law school and was an English major. Everyone is my cousin. The wildebeest offers an aperitif and I’m envious because I could eat an entire wildebeest. My growls go skittering across the church pew, only no one is praying. But the woman seated next to me is an apple and looks uncomfortable. The wildebeest is satisfied and the bowling ball rubs his hollows. I think about the Rock-n-Bowl up on Carrollton Avenue for a second—only for a second. I lose count of the bricks which is a dangerous thing for me and for everyone in the room.
An advocating aardvark asking questions does not amuse as much as it sounds like it would. He trails off and maybe he’s thinking about the animal that lost its temper and killed someone. This leads us to Maurice Sendak over at my house for dinner (vegetarian). A basketball with an outie glides by, distracting the aardvark. He wants to be on the ark; I can tell. There are no clocks here and it makes us antsy—something the aardvark enjoys. He’s lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw him. He doesn’t want a jackal on his jury. I put on my jackal masque just in case. The aardvark wishes he were more famous and it makes me laugh. But I don’t think Nefertiti gives a flying flip about any of this. I wonder if she likes papyrus, asps, and cleopatra eyes.
The droning sounds like a sick hive, bored and lonely. If you could see my face, it would look like a cocker spaniel left out in the rain. Every time the room chuckles I realize I am not here.