Sixties Chick

When the notice from the county arrived in my mailbox, I had mixed feelings. I had never served on a jury before, but just ask anyone who’s ever been called, and they will moan and groan, citing a litany of long-winded jury duty stories. On the one hand, could I afford all that time away from the put-food-on-the-table responsibilities of everyday life? On the other, how could I pass up a new experience?  At a minimum, there had to be a good story in it.

And sure enough, by 10am I am in the jury box, Juror Number Nine, writing the answers to the questions the Judge is reading aloud. “Have you or anyone in you family been the victim of a crime?” I wonder if it’s worth mentioning the time someone walked into my house and took the keys to the car parked out front. It pales in the face of Juror Number Two’s story – his nephew’s murder the week before in Queens. After all, I had left the door open as usual.

It’s a criminal case, a theft of building materials, and to make it more interesting, the defendant is charged with eluding law enforcement as well. When my turn comes to present myself to the court – to talk about my profession, marital status, education, the TV shows I watch, where I get my news, etc., I sail through it. In retrospect, however, there probably was no need to name the Daily Show among my various news sources. I have to wonder what compelled me. The truth, the whole truth, perhaps? The excitement of the moment?

Then, like the other jurors, I am called up to the sidebar, the position next to the Judge’s bench where whispered conferences go on out of earshot of the jury. It is my Waterloo. There huddled in intimate proximity to the Judge, the prosecutor and the defense attorney, I simply fall apart.

“How do you feel about circumstantial evidence?” the Judge wants to know. “Do you think it’s necessary to have an eye witness in order to convict?” Why do you think you’d make a good juror?

I become more unhinged with each question.  My answers seem barely coherent.  I honestly do not know. Circumstantial evidence? I’ve never really thought about it. A witness? Hmmmm, I suppose I’d really prefer to have a witness. What, I wonder, is the correct answer? What is my truth? There up at the bench in a revered court of law, I do not know either, and I am getting the distinct feeling that they are definitely not  one and the same.

“Do you assume the defendant is guilty because he has been indicted and brought to trial?” continues the Judge. A wave of relief rushes over me.  At last, a question I can answer. This is something I can speak to. “No, on the contrary,” I say with assurance, and then, to explain my position, I enthusiastically launch into a Big Brother, police entrapment story that I’d recently heard on NPR. It had been riveting. I’d been thinking about it for days.

As soon as the first words are out of my mouth, I know that I have stuck my foot right in it. I also know it is too late unless I can reconfigure the story. But I can not even cut it short. It will not end. My mouth is moving on autopilot; and it does not  stop until the damage is done, and I glance up and catch the beady-eyed prosecutor glaring down at me through his rimless glasses.

All in all, it was probably a good thing I was kicked off the jury. The prosecutor was right. People like me do not belong on juries. First, who needs a juror who can’t make up her mind? In my book, not only are there two sides to every story, there are hundreds of them. New Jersey taxpayers certainly don’t need me dithering about when there’s justice to be meted out. Furthermore, even though I did think the guy looked plenty guilty, I was pretty sure I couldn’t send him off to prison. Believe me, I’m not proud to be a wimp, but “disciplinarian” is just not part of my nature.  Ask my kid.

“That’s where ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ comes in,” I tell my sister, recounting the day for her. “The responsibility rests entirely with the State to prove guilt,” say I sounding every bit like Perry Mason. “No doubt it’s a very tough thing to do. I might have been alright.”

My astute older sister pauses briefly and then sums it all up in a brilliant closing statement, “You, my dear, have enough reasonable doubt for the whole damn world.” Right she is. And she and I both know I’m not getting “beyond” it any time soon.

My horoscope for Wednesday, October 28th read, “You’re not one to worry incessantly, but money issues have popped up that are making you a little crazy. The good news is that you’ve got the mindset to deal with them head-on once and for all.”

I read this about a half an hour before I broke my tooth. My front tooth, bottom, leaving a gap that could have been cute if it hadn’t been so evident that half a tooth was missing. Now, if there’s one thing that stirs up the old money angst it’s a tooth emergency, because as anyone without dental insurance knows, those pearly whites can really devour a lot of green. Once you pass 50, you might as well sign over your savings to that masked man who so blithely orders you to “open wider.”

Unfortunately, teeth are rather important. And it goes way beyond chewing. My friend Dona tries to cheer me up. She works with a lady named Rose who, she swears, is absolutely beautiful and, by the way, has no front teeth. “You don’t even notice,” Dona insists. “She’s as beautiful on the outside as she is on the inside.” Oh sure, I think, reminding myself that my friend’s judgment  is always of a higher order than my own.

I want my teeth. I am very attached to them. Not much in the way of worldly goods interests me; you can keep your flat screens, your designer shoes, the luxury car, but I do want my teeth. I start the calculation for what I  learn will be a root canal and a crown. What’s in the bank? I wonder. How much room is left on the credit card? Who owes me money?

“Damn this recession,” I snarl. “Damn these teeth. Which ancestor passed these down? Who’s responsible here?” I ask myself, trying to recall the mouths of those long gone. Clearly, it’s a useless exercise, but it occurs to me that I could sure use their help now.

So with what might seem like a novel approach to my horoscope’s, “dealing with  money issues head-on,” I begin the “Ask the Ancestor” campaign, a full-throttle program of an appeal for help from those who once loved me on earth, but who are now on the other side. What could it hurt? I think. I’d do the same for them.

I start with the women. (The men, I figure, are distracted at the moment with the World Series.)  My grandmothers, my aunts,  my cousins, my mother – I tell them what’s going on, what exactly it is I need, how grateful I’d be. “Could you please pull some strings?” I ask these dear, dear disembodied souls. “Please see what you can do,” I  beseech them as I walk the dog, take a bath, navigate the aisles of the Super Fresh. “Anna, Mary, Nan, Sarah, Louise and Rosalyn. Midge, Ruth, Janet, Jean and Gail.  Are you listening?”  There isn’t an opportunity I miss for this somewhat  strange, on-going monologue.

“I am open to receive,” I assure them. “But I will do my part.” And I will. As these old souls must know from their days in “matter,” those of us still here could sure use a hand from time to time. There’s no question  that a little help (from wherever  it comes) can  go a long, long way towards a brand, new mindset  and a million dollar smile.