Influx

There was a woman sitting 20 feet away from me today--to the right and slightly ahead of me. She had the haircut and color I had five years ago, and she wore clothes very similar to the ones I wore then. At this precise angle she looked like she was me: actually me, sitting there. My nose, my cheek bones, my jaw. She had her arms folded awkwardly, tilted her head a certain way. I felt almost dizzy, watching her; so overcome by such affection for her, and for all the things I knew she was feeling--(how much do I hate a crowded room; why do I always feel an invisible audience; oh, to be able to stand up and leave this room without walking through it)--so much so that when she turned in my direction and I saw her full face, the illusion persisted: what changed was not my impression that she was me, but my sense of what I look like to others. Such wonderful dislocation.

Nobody talks to anybody in the jury room. Not in the elevator, not in the line through the metal detectors. Theater seats--200 of them--and a big-screen TV, and everybody faces forward or reads a book from the shelf by the door. Not a sound. Three hours--nobody looked at me. I tried to imagine, but couldn't, how a random group from this crowd could possibly achieve enough intimacy to argue about what they heard and what it means. Such a diffident bunch--imagine having to entrust your fate to them. I know--I'm told juries work. But it's hard to fathom.

I was assigned to a criminal case that we were told had a two-week window. Medical malpractice; sounded from the witness list like a gastric bypass gone wrong. Turns out, though, that I used to babysit for the defendant's lawyer. Now he's suing doctors and pharmaceutical companies, and his shoes are worth more than my entire wardrobe.

Not that I want those shoes. I'm just saying.