Livin’ La Vida Et Cetera
At several points in my life, I have found myself outside the scope of traditional employment. Feeling stagnated by the nine to five (or beyond) routine, I have solicited various projects on a contract basis from my home — or I have taken up random odd jobs, say, trudging door-to-door in business districts hoisting up marathon training posters for $12 per hour.
In other words, I have been unemployed, if you wanna be a dick about it.
At the particular time in question, I had been finished with the California Bar exam for about six months. The knowledge that I had passed the exam had been followed closely with cross-continental travel and soft narcotics. Eventually, I realized it was time to buckle down. Merely having passed the exam was not going to pave a career for me, or bring me anywhere near the capacity to repay my student loans. I needed — *gulp* — a job.
This epiphany took me straight to the “Et Cetera” section of Craigslist.
Injured
May 24, 2005
I was excused by the prosecution attorney from serving on the jury today.
Most people would jump for joy at this situation. I would have at age 18, when I got called in and purposely clad myself in a pink Backstreet Boys baby tee, capri pants, and butterfly clips — for a successful dismissal.
But I’ve acquired a different sort of consciousness since then, and jury duty is no longer something I want to dodge. Our criminal justice system has only a few redeeming qualities, and I want to be an active part of the process to enact justice.
The case was in Yolo County. The jury pool (100-some people, narrowed down gradually) was all white, save for one black woman (who never got up to the jury box), one Latino man, and me. The defendant was a black man. The charges: possession of a burglary tool, threats to police, and resisting arrest.
What in fuck’s name is a “burglary tool”? I took Criminal Law over a year ago, and from what I remember, burglary consists of breaking and entering a dwelling place with the intent to commit a felony. My godforsaken pinky finger could be a “burglary tool” to push open someone’s door; that’s all it would take to be considered “breaking and entering.” I’m sure there are more sophisticated instruments that have been designed specifically for burglary, but I’m just sayin’.
A snapshot of the process: the peeps in the jury pool chill on the benches in the back of the courtroom, and the clerk calls up 18 people to sit in the jury seats. The judge addresses those 18 people with his questions and instructions, but wants everyone else to listen so that if/when they fill in the seats, they can quickly dislcose any issues that would potentially qualify them to be dismissed. The judge first asks some preliminary screening questions to make sure you don’t know any of the parties such as defendant, attorneys, or witnesses (the prosecution attorney is quite some major social butterfly; a bunch of prospectives were excused because they had played golf with him), and to determine if you would have any experience or belief that would prevent you from being “fair and impartial.” If you have some valid excuse for not being able to serve, the judge excuses you and the clerk calls up someone else to fill that seat. This goes on until the judge is satisfied that people will be able to set aside whatever baggage they have to be “fair and impartial.” Then, the attorneys have the opportunity to ask questions to the prospective jurors, and the judge can again excuse people accordingly. Finally, the attorneys have the opportunity to excuse a limited number of people for any reason other than race, gender, or other immutable characteristics. The judge emphasized that though we all have our own experiences and beliefs that will color our thinking about the law, the important thing is that we be able to apply the law, as it exists, to the facts, without writing in our own beliefs to the verdict.
One of the guys that got called up toward the end of this process was finally a man of color, a young Latino male. The judge asked if he had any concerns with any of the questions that had been raised so far, and the guy said, “I won’t be able to be impartial because I’ve been harassed by the cops a lot and I don’t trust them.” D’oh!! Of course, he was excused, as was probably his goal. On the other hand, the white constituency of the jury pool vocalized a largely enthusiastic attitude toward police, and they were not excused.
I was the very last person to fill in that box of 18 jurors before the judge was satisfied and the attorneys had the opportunity to question. Before I entered the box, the questions from the attorneys included the following:
The Whistling Cashier
Nov. 12, 2003
I like studying at the small Cafe Roma. Sure, it’s dirty, and stepping into the bathroom makes me want to hurl, and there are flies everywhere — but there is always an empty table, and it’s huge enough to spread out all my gear. Why, this is my territory. I’m the motherfucking lord of the flies!
Anyway, so I was at Cafe Roma, purportedly reading Criminal Law, when I got distracted by the sound of melodious whistling emanating from the curly-haired cashier. He was white, but not that white — Italian or Jewish perhaps? — and had a very benign demeanor. After he finished wiping the counter, he wandered off into the kitchen, and eventually I forgot about it and went back to my reading.
Then came on the next track, and the whistling recommenced as he resumed his position on a stool back at the cash register. He was so totally in key, able to effortlessly hit all the highs and lows in a manner reminiscent of Lord Krishna’s seductive flute.
I tried to concentrate on my reading again, but then he added a taal to the sur, tapping his palms on the counter, and I could help myself no longer… I had to seize the moment.
“Can I get a refill on my hot chocolate, please?”
The whistler retreated from his stool to provide service with a smile. “Sure, we are out of chocolate, but there is white chocolate, which is actually better.”
“OK, I have never had it before but I can try,” I replied, smug in my esoteric appreciation of the racial metaphor.
“Whipped cream on top?”
“Yes, please.”
This whole conversation was had in vocal monotony on my part, for I was fantasizing about whistling in bed with this fine gentleman, and not focusing much on improving my vocal variation. However, the moment he informed me that the refill was only fifty cents, the cheap desi in me sparked a visceral valley-girl resurrection in my vocal cords, as I exclaimed, “Oh, cool!”
To top off the night, the gargantuan quantities of lasagne and chai I had consumed throughout the day had not served my sensitive stomach too well, so I left behind a cardamom-scented gust of air.
A Civil Procedure
Jan. 18, 2005
I broke two vibrators last year.
This is what happens when you’re in law school. You can’t focus, so you masturbate. Your focus trials get shorter and shorter, and your handling of the vibrator gets more and more reckless. Before you know it, it’s been 48 hours, you’ve gone through eight packs of double-A batteries, and your vagina is numb as a mofo.
Civil Procedure was the most horrendously boring class of all, and, it was at 9am — meaning, I never went. So I would at least try to do the reading on my own. I would open up the book to the assignment and see “Rule 26: Discovery Procedures.”
My head would start to spin.
OK, I need a break.
I’d come back 15 minutes later, open the book again, and think, OK, this stuff is pretty heavy though. I should take off a full hour.
One hour would turn into three, and before I knew it, I’d be headed out to grab some more batteries. (Lord Ganesha, remover of all obstacles, I thank thee for the 24-hour Safeway.)
You know how Ivan Pavlov did that experiment with the dog, where he’d ring the bell and give the dog food, ring the bell and give the dog food, until the dog began salivating upon hearing the bell? Well, I inadvertently used classical conditioning to make myself horny upon the sight of the Civil Procedure textbook. I am probably the only person who gets horny thinking about Civil Procedure.
Triple-A Rated
Nov. 25, 2003
This morning I was determined to go to Civ Pro. The class started at 8:30 and it usually takes me about 20 minutes to drive there, park, and walk to the class, so I left my apartment at 8:31 (better late than never). I put the key in the ignition while bobbing my head to that asshole R. Kelly’s track which was playing in my head, when I realized that the key was impotent. I tried twice or thrice more, but my efforts proved frivolous and barren. I called a couple of friends who are more adept in matters of common sense than I, and they recommended calling the Triple-A for a jump start, possibly towing. So I called.
For some reason or another, my parents had taken me off their membership, and my “inactive” status would require a full 24 hours to be re-activated, I was informed by the African-American male customer support representative (thank God for social constructs, as I shall explain later). If my mother were physically present, she would be able to authorize, but I had no power of my own.
I have been known to make my parents drive long distances to bail me out of self-induced unfavorable circumstances, but my parents were now in India, so it would be a bit much to ask of them.
From A to Z
March 8, 2004
This story is about the letter “A”. No, it’s not The Scarlet Letter, but the act that warrants its telling is no less fraught with ignominy.
I was briefing a Contracts case when I entered an animated revelation over equitable estoppel and recklessly scraped the “A” and “Z” keys off my keyboard. “Fuck!” I exclaimed, while scarfing down Fritos and eyeing the keys as they plummeted to the lint-ridden floor of the law school basement. After finishing the chips, I picked up the keys and tried to replace them into the keyboard. The “Z” I was able to pop back in with relative ease. The “A”, though, would not properly affix. In fact, every time I am typing the letter “A”, I have to apply unnatural amounts of pressure with my left pinky, a finger whose presence I had taken for granted thus far.
I hauled ass to Comp USA in Vacaville and presented my crippled keyboard to the adolescent employee. He smirked at the missing key, informing me that I would have to get the entire keyboard replaced. “For just one key?” I inquired incredulously. The employee nodded, rolling his eyes in contempt at the hardwood-designed contact paper I had recently applied to the cover of my laptop. It can’t be right that I have to replace the whole thing for just one key. He probably didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Men usually don’t.
Since then, I have talked to people at Circuit City, Toshiba, Toshiba’s service center at Comp USA in Sacramento, their tech department, back to their service department, back to their tech department. The verdict is inconclusive as to whether I need to replace the keyboard, and if so, how long that will take, and whether it will be covered by the warranty. I think I’ll just continue developing the muscles in my left pinky and forget about replacing the key. I mean, fuckin’ A!
Traffic Violation
April 5, 2004
Dear Madam or Sir:
I am writing to contest my traffic violation, Cit. #03617, dated April 2, 2004.
On the date in question, a gentleman had suspended himself from the Bay Bridge, threatening to commit suicide and hence delaying traffic for several hours. Although I had responsibly left my abode in Davis with an empty bladder and a full tank of gasoline, I found those proportions reversing as I inched forward on the 80. By the time I made it to Oakland, two hours and twenty minutes later, I found myself intimidated by the slew of cars awaiting the toll, and I thought it would be in my best interest to exit in Oakland, re-fill my tank, and proceed to San Francisco via an alternate route.
Although I saw a sign that read “Buses Only” on the right side, I saw another sign a few feet ahead that said “Last Oakland Exit”. Thinking that the “Buses Only” referred to the right-most of the two exiting lanes, I opted for the left. It was here that I was pulled over by a smirking pig that really should have had better things to do on this fateful night than punish minor traffic infractions. After receiving the Notice to Appear that I am now contesting, I realized I was deceptively led into thinking this was the last Oakland exit, when, in fact, it was a route into San Francisco that allowed one to by-pass the toll. However, the pig instructed me to jut into the toll lane rather than proceeding on the bus lane. Being the law-abiding law student that I am, I paid the $2 toll after this traumatizing encounter. Talk about adding insult to injury!!
In the event that you cannot dismiss my infraction despite the extraordinary circumstances surrounding it, I request that you delay my court date until June, so as not to interfere with my studies during my final examination period.
Sincerely,
LRK
Dangerous Blasphemy
One morning, a foolish girl named Leena stepped into the shower, agitated that she had already missed one class and might not make it in time for the next. She hadn’t given a shout out to the Goddess in a long time, so today she thought she would recite the Gayatri Mantra while scrubbing herself. She didn’t quite know the meaning of the prayer despite her shoddy semester of Sanskrit, and her parents had always insisted that its authentic application was limited to young boys’ thread ceremonies, contrary to what seemed to be popular modern Hindu thought. Nevertheless, she commenced:
“Om Bhur Bhuvah Svaha
Tat Sa-”
All of a sudden the shower massager she had installed for obvious reasons came crashing down off its socket and collided into the big toe on her right foot.
“FUCK!” She exclaimed in the middle of her incantation, and then calmly re-affixed the apparatus without ensuring its security.
She resumed the chant, rotating her bodily angle in case the Goddess should hear it better from wherever she might be lounging.
“Tat Savitur Varenyam…”
The goddamned device came plummeting down once again, this time on the big toe of her left foot!
“Mothafucker!” She exclaimed, poker-faced, and re-affixed the instrument once again.
Then she remembered she had to practice for an upcoming performance of the Desi-style vagina monologues, so she abandoned the Gayatri Mantra and opted for “Let It Bleed.” Right after the utterance of “rectal incompetence,” the appliance yet again came crashing down, and this time injured her left pinky toe.
Now she will have no choice but to miss the next class and lie horizontally on the futon with a pack of ice melting over her toes.
I’ll Taco While You Talk-O
Feb. 25, 2006
This one afternoon last semester, I had ordered a fish taco and was sitting by myself contently surfing the ‘net at Dos Coyotes when this dude from my class and his 2L girlfriend walked by and sat down at a neighboring table. He then came over and said hello, and said that I was welcome to join his table, unless I had work to do. Not knowing how to rebuff this friendly gesture, and seeing as I was clearly doing nothing to advance my academic career or the common good, I mumbled an acceptance of his offer and relocated to the table.
As the minutes passed, I was mortified to see that about eight other law students joined, none of whom I had any intention of befriending. Not that they’re not perfectly nice people in their own right.
As the conversation progressed, people in the group started reminiscing on how popular they had been in high school, and then repenting the mean things they had done to less popular people. I could not on any level identify with being popular — having descended from the wrong continent for such an aspiration even to have resounded my radar, for one — but the discussion nonetheless allowed me to introspect on two matters: 1) Even with my abysmally inferior social status, I had found ways to be a pretty big asshole, and I wonder if some of the people with whom I’ve since lost contact still remember and resent me for it; and 2) A ton of people had been assholes to me, and I wonder if they, like these ex-populars, ever recall and bemoan their past behavior.
One incident in particular stands out from junior high, actually. I used to wait for my mom to pick me up after school, and this girl named Katie — who bore a startling resemblance to “The Brain” of “Pinky and the Brain” — was waiting in the same area and asked to play my clarinet. I didn’t want to let her, since I didn’t look too fondly upon the idea of her salivating on my instrument, but being a world-class pushover, I handed it right over. She attempted to play it, minus the reed. Someone else soon joined the vicinity and asked her why she wasn’t applying the reed, and she loudly and matter-of-factly declared, “She could have AIDS, for all I know!” I said nothing in my defense, oddly gratified that the perception of me as a foreign, diseased creature had prevented this filthy ignorant bitch from tonguing my precious reed. 
Flashing forward again to Dos Coyotes, the conversation then steered to people revealing things about themselves that others might find surprising. One person had been in her high school marching band, and another had been a cheerleader, which was somehow supposed to be surprising.
Then they asked me what I could say about myself that would be surprising, and I said that I did not know what would be surprising, since I did not know what would be unsurprising. They agreed that it would be a hard question to answer since they had just met me, so I was let off the hook. But really, sometimes I wonder what impression I could possibly give off, such that anything about my uneventful ass would serve as a shocker. These are some observations my colleagues may have made:
- I am brown.
- I rarely talk.
- I rarely smile.
From these data, I suppose it would be reasonable to conclude that I am a good speller. Since this is generally true, I really have no surprises to offer. :\
