Saurian Saint

After a week or so in Europe this past April of 2008, I finally got up the nerve to check my mailbox. As a rule, I hate checking snail mail because it’s just so boooooring – no one ever writes a nice letter or card anymore. So after a few days of mail procrastination, amongst all the bills, I found a big red Jury Duty summons – for the Very Next Day – ulp. I got it deferred, naturally, but it got me thinking. Everyone gets these. I think they could give a tad more than 10 days’ notice for folks who travel a lot. One more day and I would have been in some sort of major horrible trouble, likely as not.

So this July, I made a new foray down to the courthouses, expecting some sort of exciting Law & Order-type experience. I was disappointed to pass the Jack McCoy building and discover that it was not the address on my ballot. Somehow I had entertained all these visions of myself walking down those stairs in some sort of spiffy suit, hounded by reporters, repeating “no comment” in manner of Angie Harmon or someone equally glamourous.

Well, as anyone could have told me, the whole process is pretty femur-crushingly boring, and I ended up spending 2 days in a fluorescent lit, morgue-cold room with a silent cross-section of New York society. On the second day; after finishing my book, watching a zillion episodes of CSI wrapped up in 3 scarves, and in the middle of my 8th magazine, I surfaced a bit, and noticed that at least half of the folks there had no reading material, no iPod, no computer, were aimlessly looking around, and obviously had been doing nothing else the entire time.

I have always been mystified by these folks when I see them on planes or in airports – but I can’t fathom anyone being quite as clueless as I about Jury Duty. Everyone apparently knows that it’s a ‘sit and wait’ situation, and even in my wildest TV show inspired imaginings, I figured there might be some down time, and came ultra prepared with an activity bag full of fun. Why would they show up with nothing, I wondered. Perhaps they were meditating, or had cataracts (possible for a few), did not own a computer or iPod, or maybe were illiterate (but then how would they have read the summons?), or, possibly, I finally had to accept, some folks like to do absolutely nothing but sit around and stare, at nothing. This is about as comprehensible to me as covering oneself in Goober and jumping up and down naked on a harpsichord shouting nonsense.

I must say, though, that we were treated pretty nicely – much better than my other two experiences downtown. A little hint here to anyone who has to do NYC Jury Duty, and can’t take the time to do it – they never check ID! I was astonished. There is an Xray, but not once did I need to pull out my passport. So, in theory, one could just send one’s grandma, if one is busy. I wonder if anyone has ever pulled that off. Also, they have a 13th floor, but not a 12th. Could it be that someone miscounted the popular floor superstition? I have never seen that before, and I meant to ask about it, but was so in haste to take advantage of my newfound jury duty-free life for the next 5 years, and get a hot dog, that I forgot to bother.

After 6 years of immigration ordeals, weird visas, emergency paroles for travel, heaps of money for lawyers, making only 35 percent of whatever concerts I played, and five 10 – hour days in line down at One Federal Plaza, I received my green card, unceremoniously, in the mail, in 1998. Mine was an ‘extraordinary ability’ green card – meaning that I had to prove I must be me to do what I do.

(It sounds better than it is – and if I had to do it again, I’d just marry a friend – which is way easier, I’ve heard).

A green card is basically just as good as being a citizen, so I was quite pleased with my newfound travel and work ease, until, in 2003, an immigration official pointed out that I had been over 5 months out of the US and if I were gone more than 6 months within 12 they would have the right to take my card away. After 5 years of green cardage, one is allowed to apply for citizenship, so I figured I’d better hop along that path.

Should it have been required to give up my Canadian citizenship, I would never have given it a second thought, for the record.

Happily, you can keep both, so I applied, all went swimmingly, and in the summer of 2005 after a test-like interview for which I had studiously memorized 43 presidents (even Coolidge), finally convinced myself that Ben Franklin never was one, and read a few history books, I passed with flying colours and received my 9 AM swearing-in notice. (It turns out they only ask you who the first president was as though you might be eight, or equivalent, dagnabbit).

So I dressed all nicely in a skirt and short-sleeved blouse, and went skipping along down to Pearl Street. For an hour or so, about 400 of us stood around in a hallway, which was sort of normal temperature, probably because there were 400 people in a small space. Then we were all herded into a huge, high ceilinged walnut-paneled courtroom with loads of eagles clutching arrows everywhere, which was quite impressive, except that for some reason there appears to be a law that courtrooms must kept at about 54% Farenheit (12 Celsius) like a sort of meat locker. Which, I suppose, they are.

After about an hour of shivering, the Dutch lady to my right and the Somalian lady to my left decided to get inventive. It turns out, if you huddle up next to each other, and cover yourselves in newspaper, you can actually stay quite warm. This is probably listed somewhere in The New York Judicial System / Inuit Survival Guide, but none of us had read that. We were given 5 minutes each hour to go to the washroom, which of course, for 200-odd ladies in a freezing room, is not enough. We were told that if we left the courtroom, and our name was called, we would be penalized, so everyone started to make friends, to stand up for the other just in case, so we could rush outside when there was no line.

We had all learned the anthem, and were looking forward to singing it in some sort of blaze of New World glory (and had even planned some operatic vibrato on FREEEEE) and cheering afterwards like at an all-American ball game, when four hours later the judge remembered to show up. He muttered some gibberish, we repeated after him (kind of), with our hands up, and then he pounded his gavel and took off. No song. 400 names were read alphabetically (aha! enough time for me to dash out for a quickie!) and we got a piece of paper and that was it.

Now, personally, I didn’t much mind, because I am Canadian and was doing this for convenience; but there were folks there with Stars and Stripes ties, flags, hats, even shoelaces; some older, some obviously finally achieving their American Dream at last with their families waiting outside with confetti and balloons (I kid you not – it was very sweet) and I really thought the INS could, and certainly should have managed a more considerate realization of the pinnacle of some folks’ life ambition.

Way back in the hot summer of 1997, when Giuliani was in his Zero Tolerance phase, and folks were getting arrested for jaywalking, my American friend Louise and Australian friend Alissa and I decided to take an evening stroll, get a refreshing cold brewed beverage at the local deli and sit on the front doorstep of my building watching passers-by.

We were under the impression that if one wanted to drink a beer outside, it was perfectly legal if one kept it in a paper bag. This is true to an extent – (TAKE NOTE!) because police are not allowed to touch your property without a search warrant. However, if two folks come over, ask what you’re drinking, and you jovially say “beer!” and they turn out to be plain-clothed cops, you’ve got a wee problem. We were all legal age, so it could have been worse.

We each got a summons to Night Court, which oddly enough was for 8 AM. None of us wanted any trouble, so we were 15 minutes early, and were made to sleepily stand in line for a couple of hours with some few hundred other sleepy folks. At one point, an extremely pregnant lady tried to sit on the floor, and was barked at to stand back up again. That didn’t go over very well with any of us, but the barker was a 300 pound dude with two huge guns and a scary uniform, so we settled for sympathetic glances her way, and angry muttering. (As Louise has reminded me, the only thing to look at in that hallway was a circular sign with a slash through a drawing of a face in profile with the mouth open and germs coming out, with the words “COVER YOUR COUGHS” printed underneath it).

We were siphoned off into a sort of pew-lined classroom with about 50 other folks – the least offensive offenders, it turned out. There was an Annie Hall look-alike up front and a bailiff with lots of guns and head-hitting sticks on his belt, and I’d like to say whips, but it’s ages ago now and maybe I am dreaming things up.

For some reason, we were the only girls in the room. We sat together, and attendance was called. “Alberto Gonzalez” Annie yelled, and two men stood up so everyone started to giggle. The bailiff hollered at us all to shut up, but when three girlfriends are stuck in a room that is part classroom, part church, and all hilarious situation, the giggles have a way of coming to the fore unstoppably. One by one, the offenses were called. “Urinating In Public” got a few snorts out of us and a stern glance from the bailiff. “Unlawful Camping” seemed sort of funny at the time, and he came over to warn us to shut up. Finally, at “Unlawful Possession of Combustible Gas” when Alissa stage-whispered “what did he do, fart?” we lost it completely. We were screamed at that we would be sent to jail immediately if we couldn’t control ourselves.

Naturally, we could no longer look at each other. After lots of fake (covered, of course) coughing and sneezing, we finally paid our 10 dollars, which seemed a little better than the alternative one day in jail. (Louise recalls: “I was insulted when the judge announced that i was being charged for an illegal open container of ROLLING ROCK… Rolling Rock?!?!!!!! As if!!! it took all of my self-control to not shout, “it was NOT a Rolling Rock, your Honor! I don’t drink that piss-water! I had an Anchor Steam!!!”)

Well, the summons was erased, so we have no criminal records from enjoying ourselves for 5 minutes on a hot summer night.

Alissa later found out that Giuliani had a certain quota of arrests/summons that each officer was required to make each month, and we were caught on the last day. It probably would have been $20 for jaywalking, or, say, two days in jail, so we figured we got off easy.

As most people assuredly do, I wish to have my dental checkups in a sparkling clean, bright environment, preferably overseen by a youngish, soft-spoken, sober, clean cut and caring dentist.

It would be unfair of me to generalize by country, since I have but two (vastly disparate) experiences, one in Canada, the other in New York. I’ll start with the first.

Usually, I end up at or near my Mum’s house in London Ontario at least once a year, and always go to visit Dr. Mike Hornyak, well described by the above. My Mum drives me out to Strathroy (pop. not many), and I get 2 easy Xrays, a lecture about upper 3rd posterior molars (wisdom teeth), generally get to watch a movie on the ceiling flat screen TV as cleaning is being done, and walk out happy and fresh-mouthed, in a better sense than the usual.
Some time ago, when it seemed unlikely I would get anywhere near that part of Canada for a while, I went to a dentist recommended by a friend, whose practice was on the upper East Side of New York. After all, thought I, you shouldn’t neglect your gums!

I had a rather odd feeling as I walked in to the office, at the ungodly hour of 8 AM.  (I had 4 diffeent alarms for that one – 7 AM is just too early for musicians).
The wallpaper was peeling off the walls, the carpet was worn and ancient, and the place sort of smelled, well, different. Normally I don’t notice such things, but there were no trashy gossip mags to read, so I spent the time in the waiting room looking around with trepidation.

Rather later than 8, a bossy Russian lady showed up, ignored me for another many minutes, then finally told me to go down the hall to the only room on the right.

On the left, there were two rooms – both open. One of them must have, long ago, been an office, but now was a makeshift storage facility for plaster casts of a few thousand folks’ mouths. They were on the desk, on the shelves, on the floor and the chairs like some sort of forgotten graveyard of teeth.

My anxiety increased somewhat.

I sat in the ‘chair’, and was told by Bossy Lady she would be doing Xrays. I am used to Xrays being quick and painless  – a small paper thing on which you have to bite down, and then, the other side!
Well, in this case a monstrous piece of dirty looking plastic was brought out, and a film inserted. I stared for a bit, wondering how I could possibly get that into my mouth, when she brought around the Xray machine itself – some sort of Soviet era possibly brain cancer-inducing massive contraption of rusted metal. I opened wide, and this plastic thing was shoved into my mouth. I gagged, but experience told me it would be only twice. I started to worry when she only moved it a tiny bit, and then went into the other room again.

Seems as though, for some reason, this particular practice feels the need to Xray every single tooth individually, with a tongue depressor Xray module that cuts in to the back of one’s throat and makes one want to puke. It was all I could do to keep from completely yakking. Good thing it was so early (no breakfast!). I guess I have 30 teeth, but we had to do at least 40 because of my convulsive movements.

A teary eyed hour later, we finally got around to the cleaning part, which, as we know, is necessary every so often – one can only do so much with brushing and flossing!

As this was happening, I started to hear a strange noise from the other (non-tooth graveyard), room. At first I thought nothing of it, but as it became louder, I grabbed the gleeful hand of Bossy Russian Lady so the drill cleaning thingy would stop. I realized it was a man screaming. I listened in horror for a few seconds, then yelled “Omigod! We have to help him!” only to be stuffed back into my chair by B. R. L. who explained ” dyah, dyon’t worrrrry, hyee is jyust hyaving an impryession done’.

I started to wonder how many screams were silently emanating from the tooth graveyard-office.

Just before I bolted, the dentist himself made an appearance. The screams had stopped. He looked to be about 70, with a greasy comb-over, dandruff, a massive pot belly, and hair growing out of his ears. Both of them told me to stop squirming, but I was really just trying not to ingest seborrheal epithelials. He told me my teeth were fine.

I took my leave as soon as possible, with clean teeth and a queasy stomach. The receptionist asked for my number so they could remind me to come again in six months. I told her not to worry, that I would certainly remember, and darted.

That visit, which nearly made me lose it a myriad of times, and was disgusting, at best, cost me nearly 600 dollars.

The same thing, in Canada, at a lovely place with super nice folks, costs $160-190. I realize there is a difference in rent between a New York high rise and a small town in Canada, but I figure for that price, the New Yorkers could at least get some equipment from this century. And maybe close the freaking doors.

It seems to be worth the trip home.