jumpingfish

We’ve been watching the sky lately, gazing into the night with our eyes angled upward.

It’s been a pretty good show. Venus shining brightly in the western sky just after the sun goes down. Saturn and Mars in conjunction above her to the right and left, respectively. And for a while even Mercury lower on the horizon, barely twinkling in the rosy post-sunset glow.

I haven’t seen Mercury for a week or so, but a few days ago, as people around the world began their celebrations of Ramadan, a thin crescent Moon began to appear, gliding along her zodiacal path, making her presence known more and more with each passing night.

And last night, we went out to watch the Perseids. We took the dog and two chairs and sat out in the soccer fields behind the school and looked up at the heavens.

We’re not in the country, here. The light from downtown Austin bounced off thin wisps of haze, blotting out all but the brightest stars. And there were bright pink lamp posts not too far away along the highway and in the parking lots and around the track and by the bank. So the sky gazing was … sub-optimal.

Still, we saw one long streak that made us gasp. So we came home happy.

And we went out again tonight. It wasn’t in our plans, but the dog was telling us it was time. And so although we didn’t take the chairs this time, we hung around out there, lying out there in the middle of the soccer fields on the scratchy grass ignoring the distant lamp posts and the glowing wisps of almost-cloud. We hung around as the dog grew impatient and prodded us to go. We hung around and watched the sky.

I counted four. Trudy counted two. The dog counted none. And we all came home happy again.

We had just ordered breakfast at the Euro-bistro on the corner near the hotel, and we were trying to figure out how to get down to Vieux Montréal. A family sitting next to us suggested that we take a look at their map of the bus and metro system. It was the #129 bus that we wanted, but there were also some metro options.

We decided to take the metro.

So we retraced a bit of our walk from the night before, pausing once at a bench to let Dad’s knees recoup. And when we descended into the metro station, I walked up to the information booth and asked for a map in the best French I could muster.

“Est-ce que vous avez une carte?” I asked, carte being the word I know for map. Frankly, it was the first complete French sentence I had uttered since we got to Montreal, and I was feeling proud (in a lame kind of way).

The woman couldn’t hear me and motioned for me to ask again, which I did. But she didn’t understand and pointed to the microphone. I repeated myself again, leaning into the mic. She looked at me as if I were from Mars.

“Une carte, avez vous une carte … um … une carte du système?” And I waved my hands around the station to indicate what I meant by système, having pulled the word from English.

Again a look as if I were from Mars. She reached for some piece of paper that was clearly not what I was looking for. And then I saw the maps in a box behind her, a stack of neatly folded maps just like the one we had looked at earlier.

“Est-ce que vous avez … un … map?” I asked, pointing at the maps, desperate for the map, no longer caring if I used French or English.

She rolled her eyes and reached for a map and slid it under the glass.

“Merci beaucoup,” I said.

I looked down at the map. On the cover page it said, Plan du réseau, which explained everything. I didn’t want une carte, I wanted un plan. So much for my first French sentence.

1. Empaneling

I’ve been called for jury duty and am sitting in the second row of the district courtroom. I am candidate #18. The lawyers are asking questions, trying to figure out which of us to nix.

Candidate #2 raises his hand at virtually every question. He’s making stuff up, sometimes saying he’d be biased against the plaintiff, sometimes the defendant, in a transparent bid to get out of serving. And there are others doing the same thing.

One has an uncle who’s a policeman in Connecticut.

Another has a pastor who is also a lawyer.

#8 was blinded in a car accident and never got pain-and-suffering compensation.

A man with an artificial leg from a motorcycle accident long ago feels the same way.

A recovered alcoholic on the far side of the chamber has many things to say.

A ham radio operator from Louisiana talks about being harassed by policemen in New York City for his portable radio.

Someone else talks about how they once knew someone who died in a sleep disorder clinic.

No questions come my way. As #18, I know my fate is sealed.

2. Going Downtown

There’s not much parking around the courthouse, and everyone who works around there jockeys for the few spots along the street. So I decide to take the express bus downtown on first day of the trial.

I leave at 7:25am, thinking that it would only take ten minutes to get to the bus stop but realize on the way that it will take longer. I need to hustle.  It’s still early morning with temperatures just in the 70s, but by the time I get to the corner, sweat is streaming down my face, and my shirt is wet.

I wait at the stoplight where the stop used to be, but there is no bus sign there, and I get nervous, thinking the route had been cancelled. But it hasn’t been. After a few minutes a bus comes into view far up the feeder road… but it slows down and stops about 50 yards from me with flashers flashing.

I run to catch it while the driver waits.

“It’s been a while,” I say as I get on board.

The driver smiles and says, “I figured you didn’t know the stopped moved.”

The air in the bus is mercifully cool, and I sink back into a seat and watch the world go by as we race downtown.

3. In the Chambers

There’s a special door to the right of the fifth floor elevator at the courthouse that leads down a long hall directly to the jury room. They told us to use that door when we arrived.

I am the first one here. I put my drink into the refrigerator, pin a “Juror #12” tag to my shirt and sit down.

Gradually the others arrive. Some of us have books to read. Others have magazines. Some have phones or computers to punch at. Others start chatting. The man across from me seems to be sleeping.

Time passes.

And now it is time for the proceedings to begin, but two jurors are missing. One shows up a few minutes late complaining about the traffic. But the other, a Mr. Hunter, is nowhere to be seen. The bailiff says she can’t reach him at home or on his cell phone or at work.

We wait.

The bailiff comes in again to give us an update. No news. This has never happened before, she says.

We wait.

I have one of my snacks, because the morning is fleeting.

The judge comes in and apologizes. He is clearly not impressed. We’re all wondering what it would be like to be Mr. Hunter and walk into a waiting court of 11 jurors, one judge, one bailiff, one clerk, one stenographer, three lawyers, two plaintiffs and a representative of the defendant who all managed to make it on time. The judge talks about an arrest warrant and about sending deputies to get him. He confesses that since this has never happened before, they don’t quite know what the process should be.

We wait.

And finally the the judge calls us all into the courtroom where he tells us that even if Mr. Hunter were to appear (coerced or not), at this point it’s doubtful he would be a reasonable choice for a juror. In fairness to both parties, he says, he is dismissing us and that they’ll select another jury later in the afternoon. He thanks us for doing our civic duty and dismisses us all.

4. Going Home

Taking the bus back home at this time of day would be a multi-bus affair with a fair amount of walking since the express bus I came on only runs at rush hour. So in a way, I’m stranded. I call Ben, since I know he’ll get off work relatively soon.

I wait in the library, nominally a good (cool) place to hang out, but there are no comfortable places to sit in the entire place, and there’s a scrappy-looking guy in there with a croupy, hacking cough who won’t cover his mouth, and he seems always to be just one aisle away from me. I check out a book and go outside.

It’s almost 2:00 when Ben calls to say he’s on the way. He was delayed due to some office confusion, and he had to ride his bike home to get the car. It’s now sweltering outside, but I found a cool spot, and I have some snacks. So I sit by the curb in the shade and read until he pulls up.

We stop for lunch. It’s almost 3:30 when we get home. I am a wreck.

I am fifty-one years old, and I have never served on a jury (although I’ve been called several times). Frankly, I was looking forward to this. And now it’s been cancelled, and I’ve wasted a day and a half of my time, because of the absent Mr. Hunter.

On the notice they sent to us, they say,

YOUR LEGAL DUTY: You MUST report as directed. Failure to report may result in a special appearance before a judge and a fine of up to $1000.

I hope they throw the book at him.

Blue sky. Warm breezes. Sunny days. Just couldn’t stop taking pictures of the Canadian flag.

He was standing on the patio in the sun. He was staring into the back yard with great concentration.

This struck me as odd. He was neither relaxed nor was he in his hunting-the-wiley-squirrel pose. Those are pretty much the two positions he assumes back there, and this one was neither.

Something was up with the dog. So I stood at the window and watched.

I watched as he trotted off the patio out into the grass came to a stop. Then he trotted a bit further and stopped again. He was making a straight line toward the garden, toward the tomato plants.

When he got there, he lowered his head and sniffed around the edge of the garden bed: a quick, innocent survey. First the near end, then the left side, then around to the right. At first, he didn’t show any direct interest in the tomato plants themselves. Rather, he casually walked around the bed inspecting the periphery.

But then he looked up at them. Just a glance. And then it was back to checking out of the grass and sniffing the pine straw mulch. And then he looked up again. And then he stepped up on the edge of the garden bed to inspect the real object of his desire: a tomato ripening on the vine.

I opened the patio door.

“Hey!” I shouted, “What’s going on out there?”

He quickly hopped down and turned away from the tomatoes and trotted back along his little trail thru the grass to where I stood. And the look on his face was just as if nothing at all had happened.