'Law & Order' spoiled me.

Work slows, and you try to look busy. I’m in a ‘hurry-up-n-wait’ moment. “Hurry up and wait,” a judge in Pascagoula once told a room full of potential jurors. I was one of them. Anyone needing to justify getting out of jury-duty approached the bench; small business-owners, work-from-home-moms, their toddlers as their props, dressed in their most adorable Baby Gap. The cuter they were, the better their chances Mommy would get to stay home, on the phone, staring at the computer-screen, talking important words to another adult, reassuring words of business-promises kept.

I have no toddler. I’m indifferent to toddlers. I don’t really care about jury-duty either. I get yanked for jury-duty. $25.00 a day. I listen to lawyers present their case. But they’re not interesting. T.V. lawyers are interesting. Real lawyers aren’t. They talk to the jury box like they’re dotting their I’s and crossing their T’s. They ask questions, judging if they want you deciding their client’s fate. ‘Am I invested in seeing their client found guilty/innocent, responsible/not responsible, dangerous/not dangerous’, etc.

The endless voir dire session starts to make me slump in my seat. Fatigued, bored, eye-lids start getting heavy. And the attorney’s only on the third potential juror. I wish the judge would allow me to read a book until the lawyer gets to me. I’m not invested in listening to a potential juror tell the lawyer if he was satisfied with a car insurance company’s outcome about a fender-bender that segued into back problems, hospital visits, loss of employment. The surly-faced, elderly woman in the wheelchair at the plaintiff lawyer’s table is quiet, sitting next to her husband, and listening to the defendant’s lawyer drone on and on.

Two days later I call the 228 number to find out I’ll no longer be needed as a juror; the case of the fender-bender settled to the plaintiff.

This wasn’t worth $25.00 a day.

Opening that vein.

Write. Write free-write. Ideas come. Eventually. Even stories that halt and get stuck. Like elevators. And stories about elevators. You get stuck. Get unstuck, or you’ll be stuck writing in the back of a steno-pad about how stuck you feel about your writing. Write to breathe. Write about anything. Breathe. Write. Itch your brain, even if it doesn’t make sense in the moment. There’s no joy unless you feel the pen in your hand and watch the ink flow onto paper as you breathe writing. Writing is life. You want to live. 
Coffee! I smell coffee. What a glorious scent. Even when you don’t want to consume it, at that moment. Because you’ll need to sleep, eventually. Don't get distracted. Work, write, coffee, sleep, type, write, think. Breathe! Write. This makes no sense, and yet you don’t care. You must write the way you must breathe.

Yop...that's 'Elephont'...

English English or American English?

     I never really know what I'm going to write, when I write. I think I do better when I have a black-ink Bic pen in hand, and a composition book open before me. Then I can't make my hand stop. I write whatever comes to mind. Very 'butter-coming-from-my-pen' feel. 

     I think I must have over a dozen of those marble-speckled composition books by now. I'd use them for school, but also as a journal. So, essentially, my journal entries (or diary musings) are all mixed together with notes from writing class peer-reviews, academic lectures, and French conjugations. I never mean for that to happen, but it just does. My family will be in for a surprise one day, should I leave this earthly plain too soon, and they have to go through my stuff.

     I know what my folk’s stance would be on that; my Mah wouldn't have wanted to violate my privacy, despite the fact she would’ve been curious what I wrote about. I know I wouldn't be positioned to care, so I’d’ve thought, 'Go for it, Mah.'
     But, as saddening as it is, she was meant to go first. And, likely in a realm to already know everything. The long-held question about the Loch Ness Monster would’ve been answered, along with sharing a glass of Scotch whiskey with her fifth-great-uncle, Robert ‘Rabbie’ Burns.

     My Da, on the other hand, would likely stack the journals on his desk. Then he'd pile office papers on top of them, forgetting them for a time. Once he was through 'being busy' from not being able to sit still, he'd start reading them, because he can be a nosey-parker.  

     I'd like to hope that my flash-drives, full of other writings, would be safe. I'll have to be sure to put in a Last Will & Testament that they won't be TOUCHED by Da's friend, D.W. (the same guy that wiped out the pricey MS Word program I paid for on my folk's computer. Knowing him, he'd likely wipe away—accidently, I think—any record of my manuscript. So, I'm gonna need to find a geek I can trust.)

     Maybe I'll bequeath my flash-drives to my Bestie, Mai-Tai. She's been my soul-sister-writer, morbid-humor confederate, and tech-advisor of all that is British. She's kept me from writing like I don't know my ass-from-my-elbow. We've known one another nearly 20 years; shared emails, snail-mails, phone-chats that went on for hours, and I'm honored to be able to call her kids my 'adopted' nieces and nephews. And, like one of my heroines, writer Helene Hanff, I've never had the opportunity to actually meet my Brit-bestie.

     England once held only as much meaning to me as the 80’s pop-bands that came from it. Later, it became the place to want to go, merely out of interest. But for some time now, it's held dear friends that I likely won't see for many years, yet. (Affording a trip across the pond can only be had via a winning lottery ticket, or a stock-broker willing to divulge great investing info) When William and Kate married, I'd searched through the storage unit (that is my disgusting garage) for my Union Jack flag, and posted it proudly in their honor, and mine, (I’m 1/8^th English) despite the fact that my Britstie isn't exactly a Royalist.  She said she doesn't understand the Yanks fascination with the Royals. I told her it's because we have no royalty here, though, many feel the closest we've got are the Kennedys.

     (But even on Prince Harry's worst day, he's behaved better than most Kennedys!)

"All First Drafts Are Shit." ~ Ernest Hemingway

(Hemingway nailed on it on the head with that quote. This is a fictional short story/work-in-progress with no title yet. I've ignored it for months, but know that if I put it out there, I'll be forced to finish it. Êtes-vous d'accord?)

I lost a bet.

And for six, very long hours, I didn't make good on that bet during an incarceration that would test the patience of angels. Then again, I didn't expect to get stuck in an elevator with my soon-to-be-ex-sister-in-law.

I don't know how the winner of the bet can force me to make good; it would put them in the rather awkward position of telling another person how loathed they are. The winner would only end up losing...face. But I can't decide which is the lesser evil; having a rep of abusing bet-debts, or telling someone who bore my nieces that she was never good enough for my brother.

But there I was, in that elevator, allowing the future ex-SIL to believe I thought things were still good between us....

"I can't believe the schmucks that run this building don't have engineers on speed-dial!" Sil spat.

I raised an eyebrow. "Is speed-dialing even a thing, anymore? Don't people just go to 'contacts' to call or text the on-site mechanics?"

She gives me a tight smile that screams what she'd really like to say to my borderline snarky response. It's been two hours, and the elevator car is warm. The first fifteen minutes weren't so bad. I really did think we'd be out of here by then. I stopped sipping from my take-away coffee cup after forty-five minutes, just in case.

"So, what d'ya think of that defendant? His lawyer looked like an undertaker, but his cologne was okay."

Sil eventually crumpled on the floor of the car and took off her shoes. I don't know what possessed her to wear peep-toed Vera Wang heels. Who the hell goes out of their way to impress during jury selection? But that's Sil. She likes to dress like she has money. I know she doesn't, and she secretly resents anyone that has that information. I don’t know designer shoes, but I do know she buys clearance rack items.

"We're not supposed to talk about the case, remember?" she bit back, rubbing a foot. I wore my comfy Reeboks, so I'm just squatting with my back against the wall.

"I know. But even the prosecutor would know by now that we're likely talking about it."

I know it's killing her to sit on the floor of the elevator. I also know if I don't talk about the case I'm not supposed to talk about, then she'll start moaning about having to take her T.J. Maxx-purchased slacks to the cleaners.

She’d managed to get out of her first two jury obligations, which is why ‘Hizzonor’ insisted she be present for this one. Meanwhile, it’s my first, and I can’t help my curiosity. I was honest with the judge about my relationship with another jurist. He didn’t see it as an issue, and neither did the defendant’s attorney.

She sighed and let her head fall back against the car wall, emoting that she’ll give a little.

“Yeah, that cologne has a nice musk to it. Expensive. But his wardrobe…I think he’s trying to hide that he’s got money.”

I’m a little surprised at her observation. “Well, then he’s doing a really good job of it. His suit looks like it was thrown together with the best Kmart had to offer. And his attorney sweats like he’s afraid.”

Sil snerks. “He is afraid. He’s a storefront esquire.” She gestured with air-quotes on esquire. “He’s window-dressing for the real marionettes pulling the strings. Mr. ‘I’m innocent’ likely has the best legal minds advising the undertaker, as you put it. That’s the strategy. Make the defendant look broke, innocent, and desperate for vindication. But that cologne…I know I recognize it from somewhere.”

Twenty minutes of squatting is starting to ache my knees, so I sat on the car’s floor, also. I chose silence for a time, making impulsive reaches for my coffee before stopping myself. It smells good, but I don’t dare.

I also don’t dare let my guard down with Sil. I’ve discovered through my brother that she’s been sneaky. I know attorneys have their purpose, and I would never take up Shakespeare’s suggestion, ''…let's kill all the lawyers…''. But I’ve never met one that suggested having my nieces wear wrist-watches with added GPS devices inside. 

My brother isn’t the type to abduct his daughters and go into hiding. That wasn’t how he was brought up. But Sil is choosing to practice paranoia, thanks to her bottom-feeding shark. My family suspects he knows we’re good people, but will still milk the divorce to pad his tab.

To be continued...