As did the presidential election. I agree with those who chose Obama – let’s give the black guy a chance to fuck it up for a change. But then came his uninspiring acceptance speech, the most seamless, unconvincing diatribe about freedom ever delivered from behind several 10″ by 15″ sections of plexiglass. My expectations were lowered further by the outcome of prop. 8 in California. I’ve no intention to wed, but I like the idea that lesbians had one less thing to bitch about. Ironically, the same churches that helped get out the black vote in support of the democratic candidate also robbed gays and lezzies of their democratic right to marry. Now, it seems, chickens have more rights than gays in California.
Marriage, as a formidable institution, is doomed, I know. it’s odd the gays spend so much time and money on a dying subject. Kind of sweet though, that sort of romantic hopefulness, but when will all those queers realize, we can’t assimilate into a christian culture. We need to find out own way, and leave churches, and all their sad, insular traditions, behind us.
God I sound so grand.
GT
November 2008
I’m in San Francisco for a brisk September break and I’ve barely got time to cruise boys on line when a jury summons arrives in the post. Although I appreciate the chance to sit in judgment of my peers, the fact is I have so few. Truthfully, who else works harder than me? And I’m probably not the best jury candidate because I’m psychic, so I’m sure early on how things are going to turn out. I assume most cunts are guilty. I know I am. I trash the document.
But my mother convinces me to respond.
“Goddammit honey, they can put you in prison.”
“Mom I’m queer. Prison is a tease.”
“They’ll fine you $1,000.”
I bolt for court.
About two hundred annoyed Californians stumble into the courtroom listed on our notice. Jury selection happens early. Well, early for me. Noon. I’d taken a Viagra the night before, then drank some beer and smoked pot. It’s SF! I had a hippie to rape. And now, without caffeine, I could feel my pulse in my head.
The roll call begins. Because it’s San Francisco, when the surname ‘Lee’ is announced, four Chinese men simultaneously answer ‘here’. The guy next to me is vaguely hot, Italian, pale with dark hair and – oops! – a ponytail. Who tells straight men ponytails look good? Their jealous girlfriends I suppose. But his arms are sinewy, and not from working out. He’s just tense. He’s wearing all black and he carries a slim script, upon which he scribbles notes, in pencil. He appears to be morphing from mafia kingpin to alternative theatre director. When his name is called, he answers ‘present’. That’s when I realize he’s, sadly, just an IT nerd.
Some people are already asleep when the judge arrives for a pep talk. He’s wearing pleated trousers and – seat yourself – a cable knit cardigan. Either I leave, or this judge goes through an extreme make over. I want to help. I believe in fairness, to a point. But when I see his hairy grey neck I momentarily consider switching to women. The judge whips out a large paper calendar and, with a red felt pen, begins crossing the days we’ll be needed. He marks three weeks, then reminds us if it’s our first jury service, employers won’t cover our financial loss. All those still awake shutter. Some imagine their homes repossessed. Most Americans are one paycheck away from lap dancing. Justice is sweet, but expensive, and clearly not swift enough.
He begs us for our service. He looks us each in the eyes, imploring our good will. He’s flirting Intellectually, telling us we’ll be used wisely to punish a potential drug dealer. I tremble. What if it’s my drug dealer? I’ve got a flight approaching. I need my anti-anxiety meds. If that bitch Tony has been arrested again, I’ll arrive in London in a pool of my own stress and bile. I hug myself, and wonder why I smell of garlic. My appetite surfaces. I don’t care about justice. I want pancakes. Across from me, a divorcee type, 50 ish with pointed breasts, has her legs spread, like Sharon Stone. Obviously, someone else has cravings.
One way out of service, the judge alerts us, would be if we had less than a decent command of English. I’ve experienced the California educational system, first hand. I expect most of the room to leave. Instead, eight Mexicans breath sighs of relief and return to day care centers.
Those who speak English but have excuses are asked to line up before the judge. Especially those who are illegally parked, like me. Actually I don’t own a car, but when asked if any of us are at meters, I raise my hand. Some don’t. Some who aren’t nauseous I suppose. Some who believe more in the call of liberty than in salty bacon. I’m very very weak.
I tell the judge I’m a Communist. No go. Then I tell him I have a relative who’s a cop. Try again. I travel a lot for work, and announce that I’m leaving for the UK very soon. He asks when I’ll return.
“In the New Year, God willing.”
I throw God in for good measure. The judge signs me out. Before I leave the courthouse, I wander the hallways, searching for a shy, thin legal clerk. The type that always appears in 70s porn. Instead I find very polished marble floors that reveal my silhouette. My slim profile. My shadow. My selfishness. I feel diminished.