It’s funny how camaraderie sneaks up on you in the unlikeliest places. For me, that place was jury duty. Yes, the sacred civic obligation where strangers huddle in a windowless room under the dim, buzzing hum of fluorescent lights. Ironically, the holiday season is the perfect time for me to serve. My industry hibernates, leaving no meetings, no last-minute trips, and no urgent emails clogging up my inbox. That said, jury duty isn’t exactly a Hallmark movie moment either.
In my day job, I’m a happy misfit. My coworkers (and even my clients) and I are like a band of pirates who accidentally wandered into civilization. We embrace each other’s quirks and eccentricities. But in the “wild”—the great equalizer that is the jury waiting room—I stick out like a sore thumb. Actually, scratch that: I stick out like a sore thumb wearing a sequined glove at a construction site.
For most of the week, I was blissfully on standby, enjoying the illusion that I’d dodged the jury bullet. But no. On the very last day, fate—or some clerk with a vendetta—called my number. To add insult to injury, it rained that morning. My hair rebelled, morphing into what could best be described as “feral hedge.” I looked less like a responsible citizen and more like someone auditioning for a reboot of Swamp Thing. Fabulous.
Still, I stepped into the courthouse determined to make the best of it. I tried to strike up conversations with my fellow jurors because, well, talking to strangers is almost an instinct. Years in the industry will do that to you. (You’d be surprised just how many characters in tv or film come from real-life inspiration.) Unfortunately, jury duty isn’t a networking event. My attempts at small talk were met with polite nods, blank stares, and more than once, a panicked shuffle away. I even had to stop myself from asking the lawyers, “So, what’s your story?”
Oh, the lawyers. What a fashion show! One defense attorney rocked a pastel blue suit with a baby pink tie, looking like a Pinterest board for gender reveal parties. Another went all in on purple—shades of lavender, violet, and eggplant that I didn't know could coexist on a single person. And then there was the prosecutor. He gave off strong Godfather vibes, as though he spent the previous night practicing his closing arguments in front of a mirror while whispering, “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.” I apparently stared too long, because they each gave me the “please stop looking at me” glance. Honestly, fair. (Sorry…)
When they called me in as Juror #3, I wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or cursed. Maybe they liked my approachable (read: “chaotic shrub”) vibe. Maybe they figured I could survive a few weeks without pay. Or maybe jury selection is just legal Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe. Either way, there I was, ready to dispense justice—or at least try my hand at not dozing off in court.
Then came the twist. Hours of waiting later, just as we geared up for opening statements, the case settled out of court. One minute I was steeling myself for weeks of civic duty; the next, I was free! It was like we’d all just survived a mild group trauma—part escape room, part DMV line.
As we shuffled out, one juror turned to me and exclaimed, “Praise God!” Finally, a crack in the ice! I shot back with gusto, “Yes! Praise God!” Did we share the same faith? No clue. But at that moment, we were spiritual siblings, united in our gratitude for not being roped into a three-week trial.
The camaraderie in the air was almost tangible. Some jurors exchanged knowing smiles; others griped about the parking validation. It felt like we’d been through a war together—albeit a war against boredom, bad coffee, and questionable fashion choices (mine included). For one fleeting moment, we were brothers and sisters in arms, united by the glorious victory of avoiding a weeks-long trial.
As I walked back to my car, the mist doing its best to turn me into a human broccoli floret, I couldn’t help but laugh. Jury duty isn’t glamorous, but it’s a weird little slice of life. A place where you cross paths with people you’d never meet, admire suits that defy the color wheel, and bond over the universal dream of freedom.
And isn’t that what life is really about? Camaraderie, unlikely connections, and finding joy in life’s odd, ridiculous moments—ideally while looking slightly less sleep-deprived than a raccoon.