I’m into my third day of this waiting game our legal system calls jury duty and this silly little trick they’re playing on me is getting old. As part of the whole process, a call-in system allows me to avoid unnecessary trips to the courthouse. Fine. Speed dial number nine on my phone now houses the jury hotline, a number I obediently call twice each day anxiously awaiting news about whether or not I may or may need to call back tomorrow to find out if they may or may not have me call back at 11:15 on Thursday to go in on Friday. Borrowing the tactic from the retail world, it’s also a cruel joke. (Do I get to enjoy my Friday night? Can I sleep off my hangover on Sunday morning?) I feel like I’m playing cat and mouse with the Lake County government. These juror-in-waiting phone calls have left me wondering when I will once again meander around my Bucktown apartment, gaze at the hazy skyline from the Edens Expressway, or devour a raspberry sundae at Margie’s.
To be fair, I’m not sitting at the courthouse right now. Jury duty equals many good things too. So far it has taken me to lunch, family dinners and Sam’s Club and given me reading time, writing time, lounge time. Basically I’m taking a vacation from my month off in the city. I know. The life of a dancer is exhausting.
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