Last night I laid out my wardrobe (long johns, rain pants, t-shirt, sweatshirt, two pairs of socks) and set the alarm for 6:00 am (three hours before my usual get-up time). I made myself go to bed, wide-awake, at 10:00 pm. I slept restlessly, checking the clock every few hours, waiting for the alarm to propel me out of bed. The Courthouse opened at 7:00. The jury room opened at 7:30 am. Drop-dead deadline was 8:00 am. I didn't want to be late.I made some tea and packed my lunch bag. While the tea was brewing, I looked outside. Was that snow on the ground? Parked cars across the street were covered in a layer of white stuff. The flowerbeds were splotchy white. Was it snow or just frost? In the dark it was hard to see if the pavement was glazed. I watched for the bus, ready to execute plan B (drive to a MAX station to park and catch a train). Eventually a bus went by. Whew.
On the bus ride downtown, darkness gave way to a grim gray cold wet winter morning. I dozed to the intermittent swish of the windshield wipers. In about 23 minutes, the bus dropped me (and a crowd of silent others) at SW Morrison and Fifth Avenue in pouring rain. I paused near a homeless person sleeping under a ragged blanket to fumble on my rain jacket and open my umbrella.
I headed south toward Salmon. Along the way I saw several homeless people sheltering in doorways but was accosted by only one, for a cigarette.
I arrived at the Courthouse at 7:20 am. I sent my backpack, lunch bag, and fanny pack through the security conveyor belt and waltzed through the metal detector. I wondered if they would question my metal thermos, but no, nothing seemed to interest the security guards. I followed the signs around the corner, along a cracked and pitted ancient marble hallway, to the massive wooden double doors of the jury room, where a small crowd of about 20 people were yawning, waiting for the doors to open.
You can picture the rest: Huge long room filled with beat up black leatherette chairs, a half-dozen round tables, three flat-screen TVs hung up high on the walls, a tall shelf of library books, a massive cupboard of board games and puzzles, and a kitchen equipped with three microwaves and a fridge. Along the wall were narrow cubbies for folks with laptops.
I found a seat at a round table near the restrooms. Two other people joined me, a 60-something white man who used to teach social studies at the high school I attended, and a middle-aged white woman with psoriasis on her fingers who said she had a small data business in an office building in downtown Portland. We spent most of the day talking, but I never learned their names. I'll call them Ted and Peggy.
Ted told some funny stories about his teaching days. He knew a lot about a lot of things: art, Portland history, U.S. travel, famous people. Peggy tried to compete. I listened and nodded, encouraging them both. It took about three hours for the discussion to veer toward politics. Peggy had mentioned she enjoyed staying at her various timeshares. Ted casually mentioned that the owners of a big timeshare were right-wing conservatives. He didn't say it in a judgmental way but I think Peggy took it as a jibe and said belligerently, “I love my timeshares. The more conservative the better!”
That little wave subsided, but someone (not me) mentioned the homeless problem. I think it was Peggy. She lives in downtown Portland, in the hilly blocks above Portland State University. She walks all over downtown, so I'm guessing her heart has hardened to the sight of people sleeping in doorways.
“In the past couple weeks, I don't know what has happened, but it's better than it was,” Peggy said.
“Where did they all go?” I asked. I live on the east side, but I didn't have any information about a wave of homeless people moving into my neighborhood because I rarely leave my cave.
Ted said something about Happy Valley, where he lives. Peggy replied with a comment about homelessness being a crime.
“Is it really a crime to be homeless?” I asked, not sure I had heard her correctly.
“Yes, it is a crime,” she said.
“No, it is not a crime,” said Ted.
“You mean, if I became homeless, I could be prosecuted?” I asked, thinking hell, I hope she is wrong, because if she is right, I'm going to be in jail in about three months if my income stream doesn't return.
“No, you can't be prosecuted,” Ted reassured me. Now, I know it is not a crime to be homeless; I just wanted to draw out Peggy's opinions. I wondered if she could hear her own words. She walked back her statement.
“If you start wrecking people's property, then it's a crime,” she clarified. I smiled. Ted smiled.
Then she said something I wish I'd said: “Well, people gotta poop somewhere.” I wasn't sure if she was expressing compassion for people without toilets (and homes) or if she was insinuating it was a crime to poop outdoors.
“We can blame the Democrats for all of this. They shut down the mental hospitals,” Peggy declared. Ted and I looked at each other. At this point my hands were getting sweaty.
“I thought it was budget cuts,” I offered cautiously.
“We really ought to be blaming the Republicans,” Ted said.
“We'll have to agree to disagree,” Peggy said with a toothy grin that looked more like a sneer to me. She had small teeth but they looked sturdy.
“Maybe we should stay away from discussions of politics and religion,” Ted said diplomatically. I ducked my head in agreement. We had a tense silence for a few minutes.
Then one of the TVs showed some news footage of another school shooting, this time in Florida. Before anyone could blame politics, the jury administrator announced it was lunchtime. Ted and Peggy went out (separately) and I stayed behind to microwave my rice and lentil yam stew.
I'm trying to figure out my strategy for tomorrow. Should I sit at the same table? Should I seek out my table mates? Ted's stories were entertaining, but I don't want to be an entertainment hog. Maybe I should let him find new audiences. Should I seek new conversation partners? Maybe I should ask them to disclose their political affiliations first. Maybe I should just sit with my earbuds in my ears and read my library book. We'll see.
At 2:45, the jury administrator called the names of sixty people who would be allowed to leave at 3:00 pm. My name was called near the end of the list. I packed up my stuff and waved goodbye to Ted and Peggy. I ran to catch a bus. The sun came out. I saw a rainbow through the fogged up bus window.
