With my DC Comics “Wonder Woman” tote stocked full of granola bars, pop tarts, Snickers Bars, books, crossword puzzles and a nice comfy sweater, I turned the photo side of the bag towards my body, hiding my secret identity from the public. Given my druthers, I’d much rather have spent the day sleeping in late, but as the Injustice League of America (aka the court system of Los Angeles) had summoned me to appear, I had no choice but to do their bidding (under extreme duress at threats of a $1500 fine, a bench warrant and STILL forced to serve their evil purposes).
Catching the #4 Metro eastbound to downtown at 6:24am, I
yawned miserably and prayed for Death to arrive swiftly. But spying the young lady in glasses boarding
the bus a few stops further, I recognized the doe-eyed terror of a first time
Juror showing her Summons to the Bus Driver.
“Don’t worry, I’ll call out when we get to the courthouse” he assured
her as she sat cringing fearfully on the front seat. And catching her attention, I held up my
paperwork in a sympathetic effort to put her more at ease – a small act of kindness
which made her smile as she released her white-knuckle grip on her own tote
bag; her secret identity momentarily exposed as Tim Burton’s “Jack
Skellington”. (Awesome!)
Sleep-riding in a zombie-like state for the next forty
minutes, I was startled to hear the driver announce our arrival to the
Injustice League; but grateful that Skellington might make the day pass more
quickly, we hopped off the bus and compared notes. To her credit, she had confirmed her
courthouse address (different than mine), which according to Mr. Police Officer
on the street, was actually two city blocks behind me.
Yes friends, little did I know it at the time (as is always
the case, and hence the name), but I was about to endure one of my infamous
“Little Did She Know…” days.
Making room on the bench outside of the Juror Assembly room
at 7:45am, I watched in awe as an impeccably dressed African-American gentleman
(maybe 85?) shuffled his way towards me as he gently brushed a bit of lint off
of his brown velvet suit jacket, sporting a Halloween orange shirt underneath,
a pumpkin-colored satin tie and matching satin pocket square. And elegantly raising his immaculately
pressed and creased trousers to take a seat, I caught a glimpse of his Dior man-stockings. (Nice touch!)
Bored out of my mind later during the lengthy orientation of
how to fill out a government form, and rolling my eyes as the guest-speaking
Judge of the day rallied the troops with spirited prattle of all the
celebrities he’s had in his Jury Box, I once again prayed for Death to arrive
swiftly as Judge Dickwad cheerily recommended we all “grab our autograph books,
and keep our eyes open!”
But pulling out BITE ME:
A Love Story (a hilarious novel by Christopher Moore), I donned my
cozy sweater, attached my Juror ID badge and attempted to make the best of a
crappy situation by occasionally laughing out loud – much to the chagrin of the
throngs of disagreeable people reporting to the window to either claim
financial hardship (denied), medical illness (no note from a doctor? Denied),
or inability to speak English (do you have a green card? Yes! Denied.)
Yet all the while, the patient elderly man (whom despite the
opportunity to be dismissed from serving past the age of 70), remained calmly seated,
waiting contentedly to fulfill his lawful duties as a civic-minded citizen.
Belly beginning to rumble a half hour before our scheduled
lunch break at 12:00 – 1:30 (who knew that sedentary tedium and ennui could
burn away a high caloric banana-nut muffin and bottle of apple juice so
quickly?), I perked up at the electronic hiss of an Assembly Room
announcement. “Hello my friends, and
thank you again for your patience. As
you know, we are one of the largest courthouses in the LA district, and as
such, we are occasionally asked by smaller courts to provide some of our
overflow of potential Jurors. This is
not our decision, but a specific request from a Judge. I’ll be calling two groups of names; the
first group to be transferred to a separate venue just east of our current location. When I call your name, please respond with a
loud “here” or “yes””.
Closing my eyes and once again praying for Death to arrive
swiftly, I steadied myself hoping that the momentary pause after a couple dozen
names over the speakers meant that they had completed their list. But as The Universe just LOVES its wicked
sense of humor, I listened to the next twenty wretched souls tossed under the
proverbial bus, which happened to include the elderly gentleman (whose name I
learned was Solomon!), as well as me.
“We have a yellow piece of paper for each of you, detailing
driving directions from here to the East Los Angeles County Municipal
Court. You are released for lunch at
this time, but you MUST report to that facility by no later than 1:30pm. For those of you taking public
transportation, we recommend the Gold Line at Union Station, which will drop
you off directly at East Civic Center Way which is located 8.16 miles away.”
WTF???
In a massive Occupy Assembly Room demonstration, we, the
huddled masses, began protesting, as many of us had indeed taken a bus to drag
our weary asses down there in the first place, and was there not some sort of
air-conditioned shuttle van equipped to haul us to this other fresh new hell
hole? “I’m sorry people, but we do not
provide such a service. It is up to each
individual to make certain that they appear before the court at their scheduled
time. However, please know that if you
are dismissed from the case over there, you needn’t report back here, as your
Jury Duty will be deemed completed.”
Well, fat little
comfort THAT was!
“Excuse me” I approached the window, as a desperate group of
little old ladies moved away in a wasp-like swarm to demand a ride from a
hapless young woman who had just pulled out her car keys. “I have no sense of direction” I apologized
to the court lady at the desk, pulling out my map of the greater downtown
area. “If you could just mark an “X” at
where we are now, and an “X” at Union Station, I’d really, really appreciate
it!” I smiled earnestly.
“Just make a right on Temple, and a left on Alameda. It’s only a couple of blocks away” she
dismissed me with all due governmental lack of empathy, as I scribbled
directions on my ever-so-important yellow piece of crap-shit-mind-fuckery
document of transfer.
Having exited the Federal Building the same way that I had
entered, I looked around in bewilderment as to where in the world I might be,
what with the early morning bus mishap.
And spotting a professionally dressed woman with some sort of legal
photo credentials hanging around her neck, I stopped her to ask if I was headed
in the correct direction.
“Union Station?
Hmm… Well, that’s Temple Street
over there…” she pointed, looking at my hand-written notations, “or did you
want to take the subway?” she asked.
Decidedly NOT wanting to get lost underground in a tunnel, I
asked how far away my destination on foot would be.
“It’s only a couple of blocks away” she smiled. “And the good news is, it’s all downhill from
here” she added pleasantly.
Oh, truer words were never spoken!!!
>>><<<
Having peeled of my comfy sweater in the oppressive heat and
unusual humidity after walking “a couple of blocks away”, and stuffing it into my Wonder Woman tote, I
continued to conceal my new secret identity by stashing my Juror ID in my
purse. I’d already walked for about ten
minutes, and yet saw no signs for this elusive Union Station; however I’d not
taken into account that a downtown Los Angeles city block (which might
encompass an enormous Federal building) is ridiculously, IMPROPORTIONATELY LARGER
than a casual stroll in my home city of West Hollywood. And spying a lone soul in a suit and tie
walking hurriedly with a briefcase on the sidewalk, I asked if I might be
anywhere near Union Station.
“Yeah, that’s just a couple of blocks away” he nodded over
his shoulder before scuttling off.
And standing there alone, completely disoriented, I could
feel my anxiety beginning to bubble to the surface.
But what the hell…
I’d come this far. After all,
I’ve been through worse!
And walking another ten minutes, I happened to see a man in
a hutch at a parking facility. “Am I
even REMOTELY close to Union Station?” I wilted, clutching his arm for support.
“Yes you are!” he laughed, patting my hand. “See that street light? Cross at the intersection, and Union Station
will be on your right side. It’s just…”
“Let me guess” I chimed in wearily, “a couple of blocks
away” we spoke in unison.
With a total of twenty-five minutes of walking mercilessly –
and some final advice from a homeless man sifting through trash who took the
time to stop listening to his iPod ear buds in order to point me in the right
direction (NO JOKE!) – I nearly collapsed at the glorious sight of the
historical landmark.
Clasping my purse and Wonder Woman tote as a security
comfort, I hate to admit that I was suffering from a full-blown, hard-core Panic
Attack. I was completely disoriented! And I still had to fulfill my obligations to
the Injustice League! Oh, if EVER I
doubted my personal selection of a Super Hero identity during therapy with my
Life Coach five years ago when I needed to find my inner strength, all doubt
was removed in that moment! I had truly
become a Wonder Woman; my pea-brain spinning out of control with such questions
as “I WONDER if I’m ever going to be able to survive this day. I WONDER what the hell a Gold Line is. I WONDER if I’ll ever find my way home again!!!”
(etc. etc. etc…)
And trembling like a junkie fresh off of heroine needles, I
stumbled towards the doors, taking note of the cab stand outside, praying that
if Death didn’t arrive swiftly, perhaps a taxi could!
>>><<<
12:15pm.
Whilst I may have no sense of geographical direction, The
Universe (which apparently derives more pleasure from Ultimate Power and Manipulation
as opposed to the schadenfreude
concept of enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others) finally took an
ounce of pity on me and my pathetic predicament.
I was shaky. I was sweating. I was feeling terribly scared, alone and tiny
in the world. But glancing to my left
for no discernible reason whatsoever, I saw an oasis…
Was I hallucinating?
Perhaps. Was I experiencing a
full mental breakdown? Could be. But walking into the air conditioned coolness
of the room, I spied what could only have been an imaginary Angel; sent from
the Heavens to provide me with some desperately needed wisdom and guidance.
“What can I get ya?” the smiling bartender wanted to
know. And fixing me up with a glass of
voddy and tonic (I’m sooo not a day drinker, but this was an emergency!); I
proceeded to pick his brain as to just what I needed to know in order to accomplish
my tasks at least for one day.
As it turns out, the Gold Line is actually a train (mostly above
ground!) and one of the newest and nicest of the Metro lines! And as the Red Line begins and ends at Union
Station, if I bought a five dollar all-day pass I could not only hop on that
all the way into Hollywood at Santa Monica Blvd. and Vermont, but the pass
would even cover any bus rides home from that point! Oh, this wondering Wander Woman finally had
an exit strategy!!!
Arriving on the platform to embark on my first train journey
in LA, I approached a kind-looking soul of a (maybe Polish?) gentleman,
and “wondered” if he might know just how
often the trains ran. “Depends” he
sighed, “but not too long in between” he smiled, as he pointed at the
approaching transportation. And taking
the seat next to him, he asked where I was headed as I once again pulled out
my ever-so-important yellow piece of
crap-shit-mind-fuckery document. “If you
look up there, you’ll see all the stations where it stops” he informed me,
pointing out that my departure would be at the seventh on the map. “I have to leave before you, but I wish you
good luck!” he smiled – yet another Angel sent to guide me.
Eventually arriving at my final destination, I disembarked
in complete confusion once again. And
walking yet another city block (where the hell was Death?), I eventually
happened upon a teenaged Latina/Latino hand-holding duo of Angels who were kind
enough to spread their wings and point me back towards the area of where I
needed to be (duh, exactly where the train had stopped at a cross street!)
And making it through the security check with TWO WHOLE
MINUTES to spare, the elevator doors opened with a “ding” as Solomon and 38 of
my fellow jurors (all of whom seemed significantly more calm and less haggard
than I was) looked up at me casually as I finished scarfing down a mushy
half-melted Snickers Bar.
A half hour later of waiting, waiting, waiting, and staring
sadly out of my Unjust Cage of Despair like a wounded shelter puppy, my ears
perked up once again as the Bailiff exited the courtroom to take roll call and
give us each a number to be placed in our clip-on ID pouch. “Perhaps things are finally looking up” I
dared to dream, accepting the assigned #25 badge. After all, if they only needed twelve people,
perhaps I was on the cusp of the third round!
But told to form a single file line in numeric order (all the way to the
left in order to leave the corridor open), we stood abandoned for yet another
fifteen minutes – the only two signs of life being #23 turning around and
whispering “Why do I feel like WE are in a police line-up?” (which made me
laugh with a snort!); and the familiar “ding” of the elevator as a beady-eyed,
slimy-looking man in a suit strode past us without so much as a glance as he
strode officiously into the courtroom.
I believe yet ten more minutes finally elapsed until the
Bailiff once again appeared, presumably to escort us inside and begin the
dreary preliminary process of voir dire
(where both defense and prosecution have the right to ask questions before
agreeing to empanel anyone), when out of the blue, she made the following
announcement: “Jurors 1 through 40, at
this time, the Court would like to thank you for your service. As soon as you return your Juror ID tags, you
may consider your service completed and you will receive a document in the mail
in a few days. Thank you again on behalf
of the Superior Court System of Los Angeles.”
“WOO-HOO!!!” I shouted jubilantly, unable to control my
fists which were raised high and pumping the air like an Olympic athlete who
just won the Gold Medal. “Thank you,
thank you, THANK YOU!!!” I slobbered all over the Bailiff as I turned in my
badge and raced for the elevator, holding the door for as many of my fellow
crime-fighters as could fit in the box.
And squeezing in next to me, I made room once again for Solomon who for
the first time opened his mouth to speak.
“Where’s the complaint desk?” he wanted to know. “I wanted to SERVE!”
“Nowhere near me!” I laughed, punching the first floor
button repeatedly.
Oh, I was FREE! Oh, I
was off the hook for at least another year!
Oh, shit… I was still LOST IN THE
‘HOOD!!! With all of my previous extremely
fretful traipsing about prior to finding the courthouse (the exit was different
from the security entrance), I’d completely neglected to remember how I’d
gotten there from the train station in the first place! And wandering around for a few more blocks
somewhere in East LA (anxiety starting to bubble up again) I nearly burst into
happy tears at the sight of the Metro sign straight ahead. I was finally on the path to get home!
But climbing the ramp to the train station, I stood in utter
bewilderment for the gazillionth time.
Gold Line? Check. But northbound
or southbound??? I thought I was EAST!!!
Seconds away from suffering a psychotic meltdown, I hung my
head wearily and prayed once again for Death to arrive swiftly. How much more could The Universe bleed my
lily-white ass in one day?
But clutching my Wonder Woman tote, I decided that my
chances were fifty-fifty on the train.
In fact (I stood up resolutely), if The Universe wished to continue to
bandy my lily-white ass all over the Great State of California like a cat and
mouse game, then BRING IT ON.
“Helluva day, hunh?” a lady with salt and pepper hair
commented to me, attempting to negotiate the acceptance of a crinkly dollar
bill into the ticket machine. “I still
can’t believe that the courts are allowed to reassign us like that” she added
petulantly. “If you ask me, THAT’S
criminal!” she laughed, finally receiving a printed boarding pass. “Are you headed back to Union Station?”
“Theoretically” I sighed, “If I can figure out which train
to take…”
“Believe me, I understand” she giggled. “I got on the Gold Line and thought I HAD to
be going the wrong way, because I was in a seat that was riding backward! But you eventually get the hang of it. This way.”
>>>><<<
With yet one more Angel by my side (aka “Michelle”), we eventually
walked into Union Station to wander a bit more until we found the Red
Line. And tickets in hand (no one even
bothers to check?) we slid into seats together where I discovered that I was
actually on my very first subway ride COMPLETELY UNDERGROUND.
OMG!!! And
EEK!!! (And whatever other expletives
came to mind!!!)
Continually checking the map as my earlier Polish gentleman
had pointed out, I arose for my detrainment into Hollywood; and shaking
Michelle’s hand, I thanked her for her companionship as well as her wonderful
sense of humor. “Let’s NEVER do this
again!” we laughed as she whole-heartedly agreed!
And departing the station from the wrong side (big
surprise), I asked a pedestrian if I might be anywhere near Santa Monica Blvd.
“That’s it behind you” she smiled as I turned around in a
circle, triumphantly baring my secret identity and tote to the world.
Hopping the #4 Metro bus with a small herd of migrant
workers (pushy, pushy, pushy!), I plopped down next to a lady clad in
hospital-type scrubs and Croc shoes, and thanked God for getting me safely through
this day. I was exhausted. I was mentally drained of all thought. And I was absolutely, positively STARVING!
So eying the familiar stop at SMB and La Brea, I did the
only thing that seemed appropriate to cap off my adventures.
“What can I get ya?” the cheerful lady wearing a Baja Fresh
visor wanted to know. And stuffing my
face with a plate of black bean and cheese nachos, fingers dripping with sour
cream and guacamole (yes, I practically BATHED in hand sanitizer after getting
off the bus!), I beamed in delight at all that I’d been able to
accomplish. In fact, there were really
only a few tasks left which I felt I needed to tackle:
1.
Stop for emergency extra bottle of vodka, as
there was no way in hell I was going to leave home again for at LEAST four
days.
2.
Complete the walk home (sooo done with the
huddled masses and that SMELL!).
3.
Shut, lock and deadbolt the door inside my bat
cave whilst peeling off all clothing that had come into contact with said
huddled masses and toss directly into laundry basket.
4.
Pour the strongest voddy cocktail I could swallow
without gagging.
5.
CALL MY MOMMY AND DADDY!!!
Reassured that should I ever find myself in such an awful
predicament again, my parents would indeed in a HEARTBEAT pay for any and all
taxi rides; but also applauded for my skill, bravery and ability to muddle
through a difficult situation – several of which would have completely broken
my spirit five years ago – I embraced my achievements with all due Universal gratitude.
As a button to the closure of my amazing adventure, I felt
that perhaps it might be therapeutic to run the events of the day past my
friend and Life Coach Ellie Mae (who had actually given me the Wonder Woman
tote on my last birthday!). Surely, I’d
be admonished for my weakness at resorting to a cocktail at 12:30 in the middle
of the afternoon; certainly she would counsel me that had I accepted my mental
distress, breathed through it and learned to just embrace the anxiety, I wouldn’t
have sunk to such a low level; and without a doubt, she would challenge me to
push my boundaries yet one step further on this harrowing day. But listening patiently to my lengthy tale,
you could have knocked me over with a feather when she finally spoke the
following sage words of advice:
“Oh Penny, I swear to GOD, at ANY given moment during your
day, I would have lied down on the sidewalk, called 911 and complained of chest
pains!!!” :D
Still a little sore from the stress and power-walking but extraordinarily
grateful that the ordeal is over, and sending out a huge THANK YOU to every Angel that crossed my path,
~Lily-white-assed Mistress of the Metro, “Wander Woman”
Penny
