Paper Jam

All my life, people have been trying to get me to do work in advance. They’ve suggested outlines, first drafts, schedules, assignment notebooks, rewards, punishments (if you’re into that sort of thing), and therapy. None of them succeeded. I thrive on the deadline and always work right up to it, printing out my finished product moments before class.

But if there is one thing that could possibly make me change, I’ve found it: IT. The Information Technology computer lab on Cummington Street is doing what others could not.

It’s the experience of being in the lab, not the lab itself. My behavior is not miraculously changed just by descending to the basement. If I could fix most of my problems by descending below sea level, I’d be attending the University of Death Valley.

I climb down the stairs to the lab and search for a computer, the most daunting part of the printing process. Everyone in the room, all (and I’m estimating here) two hundred of them, turns to look at me as I enter. You’d think I was holding a gigantic steak in front of a swarm of snow leopards. Is what’s currently occupying all of their screens so dull that the mere appearance of another student satisfies them in ways only Lost usually can?

Fortunately, I’d earlier emptied my pockets of spare meat products, effectively safeguarding me from the snow leopards playing minesweeper in the fifth row. After a short search, I find an unclaimed computer and nestle myself in front of it. I enter my approved password, one that satisfies all of the requirements put forth by BU: capital letters, lower case letters, numbers, punctuation marks, and a reference to the presidency of Calvin Coolidge. It’s accepted and I go about my printing business.

Now, I know you’re supposed to wait for the infoprint message telling you that your job is done. They practically teach that as doctrine. The computer says it; posters posted all over the room say it; the technicians behind the counter incessantly repeat it. I’m half expecting a Bruce Springsteen song about it to come blaring over the PA system.

However, I don’t see the logic in it. Since I’ve clicked print, I’m just going to sit there and read Robinson Crusoe. Why not log off and allow someone else to use the computer rather than take up an entire machine by simply waiting for a confirmation? Perhaps, I’m being too utilitarian.

I log off and lean against the far wall, reading my book. After twenty minutes or so, I go up to the window to see if my printout is ready.

“What’s the name?” the attendant asks.
“Rkennedy,” I respond.
“Hasn’t come out yet. Wait a few more minutes.”

I return to my perch against the wall and devour a few more pages of Defoe. Time is short and I need to head off to class soon, so I move for the line once again. At that exact moment, every person in the lab, all four thousand of them (once again, estimating), sprints for the line. I end up somewhere in the middle.

As I stand there, quietly reading, my companions-in-waiting begin to disturb me.

“Hi,” a girl chirps.
“Hello,” I reply and keep reading.
“Why doesn’t my boyfriend like me?”
“Pardon?”
“He’s never excited to see me. There’s no intensity anymore. I need that; I need someone to want me desperately, like in a Julia Roberts movie. Do you know what it’s like to be seen by someone as the cutest thing in the world?”
“Um-”
“Do you think he’s settling for me? I want him to be happy, too. I don’t just want him settling for any girl.”
“Honestly, I don’t think he’s the one that needs to be settling.”
“Why did my beetle die? I was keeping him in a jar and feeding him leaves twice a day?” asks a boy.
"Am I bizarre?” asks another.
“Quesadilla?” offers someone else.

This is ridiculous. Just because I’m standing in close proximity to someone does not mean I’ve agreed to be their psychologist. I didn’t marry Oprah in order to launch my career and get my own TV show. Leave me alone.

“Rkennedy,” I plead to the man behind the counter when I finally get there.
“Did you get the infoprint message?”
“No, I didn’t wait for it becau-“
“ALWAYS WAIT FOR THE INFOPRINT MESSAGE!!”

The man then pulled a kitten out of a drawer and decapitated it, just to drive his point home. Stunned, I stumbled back against the wall, content to wait just a little while longer. As I watched the line slowly shrink, I began to outline my paper due early next week, just to get ahead, and hopefully help the poor kittens keep theirs.

Order in the Court?

I’ve always thought that people who neglect their duty as citizens by not serving on a jury are bastards. You live here and you enjoy the benefits this country presents you with; the least you can do is help run the system that protects all that. Not serving because it’s inconvenient or annoying is unjustifiable, and those guilty of it are bastards.

Today I was a bastard.

A week ago, I received a jury summons for The Circuit Court of Cook County, requesting my presence on the 30^th of January. This date occurs after I return to Boston, effectively preventing me from attending. All I had to do was tell them that.

But I didn’t, and I left for the east coast. And what do I find in my mail box upon my return? A jury summons for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. How fitting.

It’s not that I’m a bad person. I’m no saint; I do have impure thoughts from time to time. But compared to most people, I’m a nice guy. Open-minded, caring, thoughtful, smart: all concurrent with the personality of a male who rarely gets dates.

And while some complain that being a nice guy is the worst because it keeps one celibate, it’s even worse to be a nice guy and summoned to jury duty because you’re guaranteed to get picked. Think about it: you’re the prosecutor and your choices include an ugly bigot machinist named Fritz, an elitist trophy mom named Belle, or an English major named Bobby Kennedy (remember, you’re in Massachusetts). They might as well send me a room key with the summons.

So I call the number for information about being excused because of undue hardship. A travel distance of one thousand miles must surely qualify. And, of course, it’s an automated menu.

“Press 1 if you need directions to the court house. Press 2 if you need to be excused from duty. Press 3 if you have any special needs or dietary restrictions. Press 4 if you thought Mariah Carey and Pamela Anderson looked hideous at the Golden Globes.”

I pressed 4, hung up, dialed again, and then pressed 2.

“If you are seventy years or older, press 1. Otherwise press 2.” I press 2.
“Enter your Juror Number.” I do.
“To be excused automatically, enter your bank account number and PIN.” I hung up.

The form says requests for excusal need to be submitted in writing. So I wrote up this nice little letter for the Jury Administrator.

Dear Sir or Madam,

What’s that? I can’t hear you! Maybe it’s because I’m in New England during a monsoon storm. My power was out all morning and I got soaked through on my way home from class. Or maybe I can’t hear you because sound doesn’t travel this long a distance easily, and neither do I. But I probably can’t hear you because this is a letter and you’re probably not even vocally addressing me in the first place. I’ve included pictures of me lying in a puddle, sleeping on a park bench, giving the governor the finger, and riding a statue of Samuel Adams to prove my whereabouts. Have a wonderful day of dealing with jurors and keeping Judge Judy’s podium stocked with Midol.

Your friend and a little more,

Bobby Kennedy

So that’s one summons down, one to go. But there’s no way to get out of the Massachusetts one. It specifies that students studying and residing in the state at least 50% of the year are obligated to serve. I check my schedule and that day in March is actually a light one. Jury duty it is.

Not everyone believes my letter will do the trick. They think I should have been more formal, including official University documents rather than pictures. They’re being absurd. If there’s one occupation I know that prefers to break the rules and just do the fun thing instead, it’s a judge.

I don’t hear back from the Chicago office. What could possibly be taking so long? One look at the pictures proves I’m a hardworking student unable to break from his studies. I have a legitimate reason to be excused here.

Why is the Judicial branch picking on me? It’s not my fault that it always places third to the Executive and Legislative in importance during social studies class. Why didn’t the founding fathers give it some awesome power? Like the ability to command cod or the power to tax chewing gum. Maybe then it’d stand out and be more highly respected.

I checked my mail today. In it was a summons to be a judge in the state of California. I give up.