on civic duty

If jury duty means sitting in a big room like a bus station, clacking away at my laptop while two hundred would be jurors watch Mrs. Doubtfire on the flatscreens overhead, I don't see why people complain.

Seems to me, there's no better way to spend a shitty grey Spring day than in this human sea of Queens, the most ethnically diverse county in the country, waiting for my name to be called.

This room is worthy of its reputation as a low-ceilinged government outpost, don't get me wrong, but it beats the hell out of the office. At least here I get a little humanity—and some natural light. The officer in charge of our motley herd is shockingly humane, and an aged and Honorable Judge Someone-or-Other gave us quite the momentous pep talk this morning about justice and the fulfillment of the American Dream. They showed a video of some poor medieval bastard being hog tied and thrown in a river, then told us how valuable we are, how much they appreciate our service. Talk about warm fuzzies; I've gotten more respect in six hours of jury duty than in two years at work.

I'm just waiting for Jerry Orbach to descend from the elevators to make my Law & Order fantasy complete.

This is no dead room of misery and tedium. I just witnessed the simultaneous cracking of two hundred eggs, bored-faced men and women erupting in a wave of uncontainable giggling at the antics of a man in a rubber boob suit. Women are wiping their eyes, old ladies are cackling, grown men are jiggling in their seats. There are no cool kids on jury duty. This is laughter which transcends race and age and color and demeanor. No one can help it. A shrimp flies through the air and it is infectious. They are daring us to bond.

As if this whole exercise in civil service, a jury of one's peers, is meant to remind us of and reinforce our own essential sameness. Flying shrimp are funny. Bureaucracy sucks—and so does sitting in a concrete lobby for eight hours. But we do it. Because it's the civilized thing to do.