Most people I know hate jury duty.  They do everything they can to get out of it.  But let me tell you:  I love jury duty.

I’ve received notice three times and have been on three juries.   Why?  Well, you get out of work, so that’s a huge bonus.  Plus, I find experiencing the judicial system first-hand entertaining.  Boring, but entertaining (believe me, TV shows cut out 95% of the dull bits).

The last jury I served on was about 3 years ago, at Daley Center in Chicago.  The plaintiff was a young man who was working on the state highway crew on I-90.  A huge scissor-like crane thing (I believe that was the technical term) got out of control, and a wheel ran up the back of his ankle/lower leg.  He’d suffered muscular damage and wore a brace, and couldn’t do construction-type work anymore.  He was suing both the crane manufacturer and the company that rented the vehicle.

We, the jury, sat through seven days of arguments.  I saw the lawyers’ strategies pretty easily.  I also saw by the end of the first day that the prosecution had a very weak case, and they better get their shit together.

The prosecutor was in his early thirties or so and giving it his best, but fucked up a few times and the judge had to zing him with snappy one-liners.  He was getting frustrated.  The defense for both defendants was much more solid.  And they added a nice touch by bringing in a hot young brunette rookie type to kinda “learn the ropes” once they knew they had it in the bag.  (EVERYBODY loves eye candy.)

Then there’s the pagentry: the crying wife seems nice…that guy seems like an idiot…that guy’s a geek and needs to get laid…the plaintiff must’ve picked his stupidest friends as character witnesses…if I see one more picture of a dirty crane control panel I will puke…and why are we watching a video of a doctor with a thick accent trying to explain something not even relevant to anything?  It’s 7:30 a.m. and our coffee hasn’t kicked in yet.

Finally we retired to deliberate.  The payoff at stake was around $3 million.  I listened to them debate minor issues for about 15 minutes.  Then they looked at me and the foreman said, “we haven’t heard anything from you yet.”

I said, “I really haven’t seen anything to convince me that either of the defendants is negligible.  I mean, I feel sorry for the guy, it sucks to get hurt and not be able to do what you want to do, but does that mean you’re entitled to millions of dollars from someone who really didn’t do anything wrong?”

Their light bulbs must’ve lit up, because 10 minutes later we were heading out with the verdict.

Afterwards, the jurors got to meet the plaintiff and attorneys.  I told the injured guy “best of luck, you’ll do fine.”  Then I saw the prosecuting attorney.  I approached him.

I shook his hand, leaned in, and said, “sorry, man, you just didn’t bring it.”

He smiled sheepishly and said, “I know.”

See?  It’s fun, and you can help justice be served.  Plus, you get, like, $5 a day for services rendered.  Sweet.

P.S.: for the duration of the trial, the jurors were strictly instructed to not discuss the case amongst themselves.  I never did.  But my nice alone-time lunches outside Daley Center were often interrupted by jurors who REALLY wanted to talk.

Today I had to check in with the unemployment office to clear up a benefit extension issue.  I took a number and got lucky; there weren’t many people there and I got called in an hour.

The guy behind the counter was older – maybe early sixties.  He said, “let’s see your ID, write your name and phone number here, and don’t ask any questions until I’m finished.”

I handed him the letters I’d received.  He started typing on his computer keyboard.  I started to succinctly explain why the letters had motivated me to be there.

He put his finger up and said, “hey, no questions.”

He talked (mostly to himself) as he got some info from me and entered data.

He said something that made me utter: “Did…?”

He put up the finger again.  “Uh uh, no questions.”

He said there was a process and I’d be good for another nine weeks.  The part of my brain that worships Homer Simpson said, “I thought it was a year.” (That’s why I was there – conflicting government correspondence.)

Again with the finger.  “No questions.”  This time he smiled a little.

Then he explained that benefit extensions would terminate at the end of the year, but I had to re-apply every few months until then.

I told him he was good at his job, bid him good day, then left and came home and watched Tropic Thunder (good movie).

My point?  I was nice to him.  What did I get in return?  My question answered after the necessary red tape – in under five minutes.

Many people would get angry and upset with the guy.  “Who’s this old bastard think he is?  He thinks he can keep telling me to shut up?  I’ve got questions, dammit!  A LOT of questions!  Look at this smug old prick in his rumpled outdated suit!  I oughta kick his wrinkled old ass!”

And THAT’S why they have an armed security guard walking around keeping an eye on everything.

But I approached it a different way.  I saw immediately that he had probably been working there a long, long time.  He was a professional, but he also dealt with the dregs of society – many who don’t even speak English – day-in-day-out.  Maybe hundreds a day if it got busy.  I mean, it wasn’t crowded, but you should have seen the hooker heels and death metal t-shirts.  And sombreros.  Okay, not sombreros.  I made that part up.

I was polite and did as he said.  I really was trying to listen and not ask questions, but my Abby-Someone brain is too fast sometimes.  But I knew if I were patient – unlike 98% of his clientele – that I would get a good answer and be out of there as quickly as possible.  Plus, I got him to crack a smile.

Patience is a virtue, and one I’ve found quite valuable.  And always consider the other guy’s probable backstory.  I want to wrap things up with my favorite Atticus Finch quote from To Kill a Mockingbird:

“First of all, if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

In late 1998, my wife of 11 years decided she’d had enough of me and gave me the boot.  To help console me, a couple of my friends took me to B.L.U.E.S. On Halsted, a Chicago blues club.  I know what you’re thinking: “a blues club to cheer you up?”  But really, it didn’t take long for me to think. “wow, I get it, my woman done left me and I DO want to drink myself stupid!”

When we entered the club, it was pretty crowded.  A usual Chicago mix of people: young and older women, young and older men, the crusty neighborhood drunk at the bar (so drunk the barkeep wouldn’t let me buy him a beer).

I immediately noticed a dude at the end of the bar closest to the stage.  He was a bodybuilder type sitting by himself, no date.  He was dressed in trendy clothes and had an obvious air of douchebag about him.  The way he kept looking around to see if anybody was checking him out screamed “I’m not here to see great live music, I’m here to get laid or kick some ass.”  I hate those types.

I stood near the stage as the band started.  The place was packed by then.  One of my friends was near me; I’m not sure where the other was.  I was standing right in front of the bodybuilder guy’s barstool.  The band was Jimmy Johnson, an old Chicago guy who’s been around forever.  Great stuff, and the crowd was digging it.

Joe Douchebag came back from the restroom or something and bumped into my back as he was getting to his barstool.  I turned and said, “sorry, man, it’s kinda crowded in here.”  He took his seat.  I turned back to the stage and kept grooving.

About a minute later he tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned, and he said, “what did you say?”

I said, “nothing, just that it’s kinda crowded.”  Back to the music and ignoring J.D. and his eye-watering cologne.

He stood up (I could kinda see him out of the corner of my eye) and yelled, “YOU BETTER NOT HAVE A PROBLEM, ‘CUZ I CAN KICK ANYBODY’S ASS IN THIS PLACE!”  I paid no heed, nor did anybody else, really, because the music was pretty loud and only people in the immediate vicinity could hear him.

My friend who was closest turned to him and said, “do what ya gotta do.”  He also turned back to the stage, grooving.

I kept my back to him as if nothing had happened.  I was singing along, dancing, and clapping my hands.  I could feel Joe’s foot roughly kicking against the back of my heel under the guise of him “getting into the music” like everyone else.  He was trying to start something, realizing the inane bravado chest-thumping was a bust.  No dice, douchebag.  This was too much fun.

Slowly the kicking stopped.  I could hear him, previously oblivious to the music, start to clap and cheer along with everyone else.  As if a light went off in his little pea brain that said, “hey, maybe I should chill out and pretend to enjoy myself.”

I’d like to say there was some exciting end to the story, like Jimmy called him out and made as ass out of him from the stage, or six big blues lovers took him out back for a righteous ass-kicking.

But it illustrates a simple fact I’ve learned over the years.  Assholes with no personality who rely solely on the “I’m bigger and can maim you” thing can be pretty easily taken down if you just ignore them and let them embarrass themselves.  And they always do.

So, alpha butt-kicking males, stick to your plan.  You give the rest of the intelligent world a good laugh.

EPILOGUE:  My other friend talked to Jimmy after the show and ended up booking the band for a private Christmas party at his house about a month later.  It was a blast.  I’m assuming Joe Douchebag was out at another bar that same night, spreading his particular brand of meathead stupidity.  Hope he got his teeth knocked out.

“Can I get a bourbon IV drip, love?” — Winston Churchill

“I hope act II is more character-driven.” — Abraham Lincoln

“Didja ever notice how hospital food is lousy?” — Andy Rooney

“Watch me bench press this locomotive.” — Jack LaLanne

“Damn, only six bottles of vodka left.” — Amy Winehouse

(No last words, just a dreamy twinkle in his eye) — Davy Jones

“Well, THIS sucks.” — Adolph Hitler

“Pancakes make lovely hood ornaments in Guam, mommy.” — Ronald Reagan

“The world can never know of my undying love for Juice Newton’s music.” — Kurt Cobain

“I’m cool – sixteen eight-balls in an hour is nothing.” — John Belushi

“Sure, I’ll sign an autograph, fat boy.” — John Lennon

“Clubgoers, please help me, I’m not break dancing!” — River Phoenix

“I thought I locked up that gun, you crazy bitch.” — Phil Hartman

“Tito – leave everything to Tito…” — Michael Jackson

“Just click ‘reboot.’” — Steve Jobs

“Maybe unprotected sex with 20,000 women wasn’t the best idea.” — John Holmes

“I hope Jesus naturally selects me to be a unicorn in heaven.” — Charles Darwin

“AHHHH!  This massive dump is literally killin’ me!” — Elvis Presley

“These Dallas chicks sure got hit with the ugly stick.” — John F. Kennedy

“You’re all a bunch of crumby phonies.  I swear to God.” — J.D. Salinger

“Okay, I AM a crook.  Happy now?” — Richard Nixon

“This’ll show the goddamn gubmint.” – David Koresh

“Ow.  Who moved that fuckin’ night stand?” – William Holden

“Tell Salieri he’s a colossal prick.” — Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

“I’ll just do another line and take a nice hot bath.” — Whitney Houston

“I should’ve sprung for the ski lessons.” – Sonny Bono

“You crazy wanker, you’re flying right into the bus!” – Randy Rhoades

“Yes….yes…..yes…omigod…YES…YES!!!” – David Carradine

“This tastes like puke.” — John Bonham, Jimi Hendrix, Bon Scott

“I’ll get you for this, you bastards.” – Jesus Christ [citation needed]