" 'A ball of wool! You want me to knit you a pair of socks! Well, I won't. I have better things
to do.'
'Like what?' said Ishaq.
'Like...' began Tasneem, then was silent. She glanced uncomfortably at a long mirror on
the wall. What did she do? Cut vegetables to help the cook, talk to her sister, read novels,
gossip with the maid, think about life..."
--A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth
It was almost like church. We sat, silent, on long wooden benches, looking at each other
or straight ahead, waiting for our names -- or rather, our numbers, to be called. Several of
us had already left, having been able to convince the court, for one reason or another,
that they wouldn't make good jurors.
Not me, though. I didn't know any of the parties in the case (though I probably should
have, having covered the town in which they live as a reporter last summer) and being
a freelance writer doesn't really count as being self- employed, since I don't pay myself anything. Besides, it's not as though I do that much with my free time.
I'm usually the first one to talk about civic duties and the need to participate in society,
but all I could think about as the court officers excused one juror after another was how
little I wanted to spend the next week of my life trying to decide whether one person knew
his basement was prone to flooding when he sold his house to someone else. As it
turned out, I wasn't chosen. I'd arrived a little late at the courthouse -- I've gotten out of
the habit of waking up at 6:30 in the morning -- and been assigned to panel #8. The first
impanelment went through jurors as far as panel #4. Sometimes it pays to be lazy.
The second trial they brought us in for looked somewhat more interesting. The officers
brought in a white-haired, red-faced, well-worn looking man -- imagine Archie Bunker if
Edith had been a shrew and Gloria had sold herself on the streetcorners instead of
marrying Meathead. The judge told us he was charged with driving while intoxicated and
driving with a suspended license. Could be interesting, I thought, but I'd never find out.
Apparently, the judge wasn't supposed to tell us that the defendant had been driving under
suspension, since his license had been suspended as the result of a previous conviction.
Since he'd already blown things anyway -- he had to declare a mistrial -- the judge went
further, telling us the defendant had actually already received four or five convictions for
drunk driving, and would probably end up in the state prison if he lost this one.
With no other trials scheduled for today, we could go home, the judge said. Massachusetts
has a "one day, one trial" policy -- when you get called, as I was, you're there either for
the duration of a trial or, if no trials need you, one day.
In years past, folks called for jury duty had to serve for a month. The judge told us that while he'd been serving as the district attorney on a first-degree murder case, they'd kept the
jury locked up in a motel for the two weeks it took to decide the case. When the jury
finally convicted the defendant, he complained that two members of the jury seemed more
interested in each other than in deliberating his future. He was sentenced anyway.
"Turns out he was pretty observant," the judge told us. "Those two jurors ended up
divorcing their spouses and marrying each other. It's the only time I saw three life
sentences handed out from one case."
I thought I'd drive north for a bit after being dismissed and price some new stereo
equipment. As I drove, I passed the hospital where my brother was born and my aunt
worked -- or did, before she and the other hospital nurses had gone on strike. I
spotted her on the picket lines, parked, and joined her. We marched around for a while
and waved to passing cars before going out to lunch.
My aunt is the last person you'd expect to go on strike -- quiet, soft-spoken, and completely
devoted to her work. She's been watching over patients in intensive care -- her most
recent role in a long nursing career. It's the kind of job that would break my heart with
frustration after one day, but she misses it. She wonders who's been taking care of
her patients, how they're doing, whether they're getting the attention they deserve.
She and the other nurses are striking because they believe their hospital is running
understaffed in order to cut costs. It's a position I can sympathize with -- heck, what
job isn't understaffed these days? -- but it seems particularly critical in her case. The
thought that I might end up in a hospital that requires its skeleton crew of nurses to work
marathon shifts frightens me.
I've always admired my aunt, both as a person and a nurse, but my respect for her has
climbed even higher this summer. It's one thing for me to walk the picket lines -- as I
pointed out earlier, I don't do all that much with my time -- but she's risking her health
insurance, her family's income, the friends and contacts she's made over the years...
One woman I met on the lines discovered, shortly after the union decided to strike, that
her husband was terminally ill, and would have to quit his job. They have no money and
bills piling on top of bills, but she still manages to squeeze in time on the picket lines in
between the temp jobs she's able to line up. I don't remember the last time I've seen
that kind of courage.
When my aunt and I parted ways, I decided to head a little further north and visit the offices
of my newspaper. I'd run out of reporter's notebooks, needed more time sheets, and
besides, popping into the newsroom now and then makes me feel like Peter Parker.
"And there he is now," my editor said, as I walked into the room. I was surprised he
recognized me -- I hadn't been there in quite a while -- and was even more surprised when
he began praising me to the skies, until I realized what he was after.
"How would you like to cover the hospital's plan to expand?" he asked.
"Uh, sure," I said. "Why not?"
When I arrived at the hospital -- a 40 minute drive down the road -- I discovered that the
woman I was supposed to meet with said she couldn't see me today. It seems she'd
agreed to provide an exclusive to a competing newspaper. After I stuck it out for a while,
she agreed to meet with me tomorrow morning, giving me time to write the story fast
enough to tie our competition's deadline. I think she thought I was being persistent by
hanging out at the hospital, but actually, I'd locked my keys in the car.
It bothers me that I haven't done more with my summer. I've conquered some personal
demons, read a few good books, made some money, and found some direction in my
life, more or less, but there's so much I haven't done. I haven't written a novel, or even as
many short stories as I'd like. I haven't returned to playing the piano. My bow's been
gathering dust in my room; I haven't been near the archery range in months. I never
even watched the end of "I, Claudius."
Most of my summer's been spent doing what I did today -- stumbling into one thing after
another. It makes for some good stories, but I'm not sure it's much of a life.
I still have two weeks...
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