Jury Duty Hats

The envelope is unmistakable before you open it. What follows is one of the few genuinely universal experiences left: a fixed date, a room full of strangers who would all rather be elsewhere, a number instead of a name, and an entire day in which the most interesting thing that happens is a recess. What makes it funny is the collision of registers. The institution treats the whole business with enormous gravity — oaths, titles, a man in a robe — while the actual lived experience is waiting on a plastic chair wondering whether the cafeteria is open. Both things are true at once, and everyone who has been called knows it. The people who tried to get out of it know it best. These hats are worn by the juror, not the court. They are about being summoned and having feelings about it — the small vanity of being selected, the private campaign to be excused, the civic pride that arrives about an hour in and leaves shortly after lunch. Nobody is on trial here except the wearer's enthusiasm.