“Excuse me,” Destine said to an Asian man wearing a starched light blue button-up shirt and holding a grande Starbucks cup in his hand. “Where’d you get that cup of coffee?”

He paused on his way back to his seat still empty from when he left it 9 minutes ago. He knew it had been 9 minutes because he had to sign-out and sign-in at the front of the jury duty waiting room.

“Starbucks,” he said pointing out the obvious. “But there’s also a coffee vending machine over by the bathrooms.” He took a quick step toward his seat, but she caught him.

“Where’s the Starbucks?”

“You have to leave the building. It’s just down the block toward the subway.”

“Oh, ok. I love Starbucks. All of those flavorful syrups? Yum.” The Asian gentleman was already walking away, so Destine finished her thought to a man sitting on the aisle across from her. “Turns coffee into a treat, don’t you think?”

“Well, I like Dunkin’ Donuts,” offered the guy from across the aisle. He cracked his knuckles as though to loosen up for the conversation. “Then I get a bear claw with the coffee. Breakfast and coffee all in one stop.” He wore thick glasses and worn-in Carhartts above unscuffed, untied Timberland boots.

“You have a point there,” Destine said. “I can’t argue about the value of a good donut. You know what I mean? It’s hard to find a bad one.” Her voice reached the ears of at least 150 people. It bounced from seat to another like a bouncy ball from a grocery store toy vending machine.

Destine fancied herself a warm-blooded, friendly person. Each of the few hundred people in the room was from Brooklyn and was sharing this jury duty experience together, and that was enough of a commonality to make all of them her next of kin. This warmth, she believed, was important to living a happy life in a city where you’re surrounded by new people every day. This she had tried to teach her twin daughters. “Look at Oprah,” she would tell them. “The most powerful woman in the world is all about compassion.” On a good day, the girls would roll their eyes. On a bad day, they’d accuse her of wanting to get them kidnapped, raped and killed by all of the crazies in the city. Destine could make friends with strangers, but not with her own two daughters. To people who witnessed these arguments on the train, in stores, on the sidewalk, she’d dismiss her girls’ argument and create a tighter bond between herself and the passersby. “It must just be their age. I was a pain in the butt when I was 12 also. I bet you were too,” she’d say to the nearest warm body.

She shifted in her seat to talk to Donut-man more directly. “Ever been to Peter Pan Bakery in Greenpoint? They have the best donuts. Of course, I’m talking on a scale of good to best. Like I said, no donut is really bad.”

“You speak the truth. No donut is a bad donut. Never been up to Greenpoint, though. I live out east in Canarsie,” he said.

“I live in Flatbush, but I go up to Greenpoint for those donuts. It’s worth the trip—not on the G train though. Nothing’s worth that pain in the butt. I have my boyfriend drive me up there sometimes. So why do you think you’re here?”

“Well, I think it’s just pure luck. My number got called. And now I’m here.”

“Did you go out and register to vote so that you could vote for Obama? That’s what I did. And I think that’s how I got on the county’s radar. This has happened to three other people I know. Register to vote, support Obama, get called to jury duty.”

Donut-man considered being put-off by the question. He was never one to talk politics. But he did like the way she smiled. “Actually I didn’t have a chance to vote. I had to work all day and never made it to the polling place in time. I’ve been postponing jury duty for a couple years now. And they wouldn’t let me postpone anymore. So here I am. Losing money by the minute.”

“You mean your job won’t pay you while you’re here?”

“No they won’t. So this is me paying more taxes. I just hope I don’t get called for a long trial. Then I won’t be able to pay my bills. I’ve got a daughter too to support. And as I’m sure you know, they aren’t cheap. Need the newest things, every month it’s something new.”

Destine wanted to reach out to hold his hand as she said, “Lord, don’t I know it. Little girls are hard to please. No one gives me as hard a time as my two girls.”

But she had yet to meet Julie.

Julie, a flight attendant, was grounded. It was as though there was a blizzard spanning the whole Eastern half of the U.S. and she had to get home from O’Hare, but every New York airport was temporarily closed. She fidgeted in her pleather chair that was connected to 24 other pleather chairs by shared arm rests. But it wasn’t winter. It was the first warm day of spring, when all of New York dusted off and glowed refreshed. And it wasn’t the airport. It was a King’s County courthouse—jury duty. And she had never wanted to go home as much as she wanted to get out of that room right at that moment.

The walls of her one-bedroom apartment in Park Slope were white, unpunctured by nails, unfettered by artwork. Her refrigerator had only natural peanut butter, blueberry jam, a Britta filter and honey mustard. The kitchen cabinet where the previous tenant kept pots and pans, she stored washed plastic takeout containers. The dishes in the cabinet were unscratched. The coffee table, kitchen counter and bathroom sink remained unstained. The couch a mod design in bright red from Ikea, but uncomfortable to sit in for long stretches, sat stark like a sudden stoplight on a dark, country road. A fruit bowl held bright oranges and Granny Smith apples. This was how she liked it—like a picture from a catalog.

And that’s how Roger kept it. He just wanted to fit in to her life, to burrow out a nook and stay there till death did they part. She loved him more than his own mother did, he thought. So he slept, brushed his teeth, shaved, showered, stretched out on the couch to watch TV, and poured himself evening drinks of Jonny Walker Black, without leaving a mark. At least 60 percent of his time at home was spent wiping, sweeping and smoothing. He loved her.

In the courthouse Julie stretched in her seat to try to see the street without getting up, but couldn’t, even though she had placed herself at the outer edge of the row. She only saw the stationary and bland second floor of nearby buildings. So she decided to watch the activity of this bottled up swath of Brooklyn around her, a few hundred of her strangest neighbors sitting under the fluorescent lights waiting just like her. Some people read the Daily News. A minority read The New York Times. About 20 percent of the people were engrossed in books and 50 percent were on laptops. There was one man making what she knew to be friendship bracelets out of thread the colors of the Jamaican flag; one young woman with thick eyeliner and combat boots slept deeply; one overweight black woman struck up conversations with every person within a 10-foot radius from her seat; and yawns. There were many, many yawns rolling through the room like far-off thunder.

She had brought her computer with her. But to get it out of her bag, open it and boot it up would be to commit to her spot, to build her chair into a little nest. That in Julie’s mind would be like surrendering to her situation, to her container. So she decided to text Roger. He didn’t need to wake up until 10:30 this morning, but he wouldn’t mind hearing from her even though it was only 8:33. “Holy Christ, this sucks,” she sent. And then she waited.

*Dedicated to Shel Silverstein.

“I cannot go to work today,”
Said Mrs. Peggy Ann McKay.
“The subway trains are going slow,
My car is covered up with snow.
The sidewalks have still not been cleared,
The building’s super is not here.
My gloves are lost, my scarf is frayed,
My earmuffs don’t keep warm my brain.
My thick socks don’t fit in my boots,
And wait, they are not waterproof.
School is out, the government’s closed,
Drippy boogers are in my nose.
Bad shivers are shaking my knees,
I should drink an Airborne now, please.
The flakes still fall, the snow drifts grow;
The cold wind at fast speeds still blows.
My office, I’m sure, is quiet,
There’s no need for me to try it.
I’ll stay inside for my safety,
Because I’m a real smart lady.
A step outside could cause a slip,
At this age, I could break my hip.
Only rarely do blizzards come,
Let’s relax, stay warm and enjoy this—what?
What’s that? What’s that I hear?
Is that my Blackberry I fear?
My boss says, a meeting at 3;
‘You’ll teleconf’rence in,’ says he.
My email dings, my voicemail beeps,
My! I’ll barely have time to eat.
My PowerPoint is fired up,
I’ll go refill my coffee cup.
Responsibility’s lurking,
Ain’t no snow day for the working.
In this job market oh so tight,
I should feel lucky and no slight.”

By Willow Duttge

Read the original version Sick.