NONFICTION - 
​     with a focus on the Pandemic

Mask Wardrobe   -    Jane Hudson                                     

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The Postcard
by Jill Stovall

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Slotted between my PG&E bill and array of junk mail (including a hard-to-resist offer for $50 off a Botox treatment) the postcard appears in my mailbox. Like a dentist’s edict announcing that the time has arrived for a root canal, it decrees: 

YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED FOR JURY SERVICE
Superior Court of California, County of Alameda

​What? NO! Aren’t the courts closed? This must be a mistake. I believe in jury duty. I think it’s my civic responsibility. But during a pandemic? To sit entombed in an old, poorly ventilated building for hours with a bunch of strangers? No. No way. No matter how many COVID-19 protocols they say they have in place. And I certainly don’t want to sit on BART for the 45 minutes it takes me to get to Oakland. No. No way. No matter how much BART says it’s fogging and disinfecting.
 
I look up the court’s website. *^%#@&*! Not a mistake. Jury service resumed June 29th.
 
I can’t postpone. I already did that for my trip to Germany in December. And I can’t count on not having to report. Trials have been delayed, the courts are behind, and somewhere in the Constitution, there’s that guarantee to a speedy trial. Surely, seniors, who are AT GREATER RISK FOR CORONAVIRUS are exempted. I search and search and search through pages and pages and pages of updates and information and general orders regarding COVID-19. The website, determinedly user unfriendly, has nothing about seniors or high-risk individuals being exempted. Apparently, the ONLY way to be excused from jury duty, even for seniors during a pandemic, is to submit the pro forma hardship request:
 
“The court will consider excusals for undue hardship for a limited number of serious circumstances.”
 
I think my circumstances are serious. But will the court? And if I’m not excused—then what? I need a back-up plan. What’s that Maya Angelou quote? I Google. I love Google. How did I live before Google? I found it! It’s from I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings: “Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between.”
 
Okay. Prepare for the worst: make a backup plan. Make several.

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Plan 1
I mask and drive to Oakland. Not much of a plan. Besides, the website says parking is extremely limited and expensive. I’ll pay whatever the cost, but what if I can’t find a parking space?
 
Plan 2
I double mask, buy a face shield on Amazon and a pair of gardening gloves. I brave BART. Maybe I should order three pairs of gloves—one for the ride to Oakland, one for the courthouse, and one for the ride home. That’s better. I should probably invest in one of those portable UV decontamination wands too.
 
But even geared-up like a medieval knight, riding on BART during a pandemic is not what I want to do. What if there’s a problem and I get stuck on the train? That’s happened before. I don’t want to sit for hours breathing stagnant BART air, laden with COVID droplets and aerosolized particles, eagerly waiting to infect me. And even though BART requires masks—I just checked—lots of people aren’t good about wearing them. (Correction: cloth face covers. I think that’s what they’re called now. More encompassing, I suppose, to include bandanas, scarves, tee-shirts and other creative iterations.) Anyway, never-maskers won’t wear them at all; and sometimes-maskers seem to think they’re a new fashion accessory to be worn around the neck, or as a chin guard. Neither group appears receptive to suggestions, either to pull them up, or to put them on. Evil eye suggestions don’t work either. I’ve tried them. Big mistake.
 
And the politicization . . . Okay, let’s not go down that rabbit hole. But I’m really sick of people who shout about their individual freedoms and their rights to not wear masks and to congregate however they want. I have freedoms and rights too. I have the right to remain COVID-free, the right to stay out of the hospital, and the right not to be infected by lunatic anti-masker mass-congregators. Okay, stop. Point made. Move on.
 
I also read that BART posts signs politely requesting riders to stay six feet apart. Seriously? The noncompliers will noncomply. And even the compliers can’t judge how far away six feet is. I have a very good friend who constantly mistakes two feet for six feet. When I back away, he closes in, determined to remain inappropriately socially distanced. Maybe I should bring the old Lufkin wood rule I inherited from my dad with me. It unfolds to six feet. If someone’s too close, I’ll just back them up like a lion tamer. On second thought, that might get me seriously mauled. Best to rethink.
 
Plan 3
I buy a hazmat suit. Simple solution! Clean. Neat. Resolves all the problems of Plans 1 and 2. But do I want to invest in a hazmat suit that I might only wear once? I Google. They run anywhere from $17.99 to $1,046 on Amazon. Wait. Better yet . . .
 
Plan 4
I buy a beekeeping suit. They’re more expensive than the average hazmat suit, but my son and his wife keep bees. They told me they have an extra one for me, which sounded good until they said it would be a little big for me. And they would duct tape me in. Not a confidence booster. 

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Interregnum
 
Assuming I opt in to one of my four plans, and I survive the ride on BART, and I arrive intact at the courthouse, then what? I still have to sit in the jury room and possibly the courtroom, and (new glitch) I’ll surely have to use the restroom if I’m there for any length of time. Ugh, ugh, ugh. Light bulb flickers in my head, then pops on. I remember Lisa Nowak. The astronaut scorned. She drove halfway across the country in diapers so she didn’t have to stop for bathroom breaks on her revenge mission. Hadn’t thought about adult diapers . . . I see ads on TV all the time—lots of choices available these days. Okay. Got that covered.
 
But I might still have to serve. Possibly in a bee suit. Wearing diapers. How to assure that I’m sent home ASAP? Think.
 
Nichts. Nada. Nothing. I take a break to let things marinate. I eat a piece of cheese I don't want. I go on a short walk. Walking’s awesome for unsticking the stuck.
 
I return home. With an idea.
 
Plan 5
I’ll wear my penis mask! To clarify, it’s a mask made out of fabric with a penis design. I got the idea from the internet. The idea is: anyone who gets close enough to identify the motif would, surely, back up far enough away to be appropriately socially distanced. I Googled penis fabric. You’d be amazed at how many patterns I found. I ordered three, for variety.
 
End Interregnum
 
Here’s how I envision this working: If my group is called into the courtroom, I’ll swap my outer mask for my penis mask. Then, when my fellow jury poolers (pool-ees?) see my mask and retreat—in offense or in horror—the judge will realize I’m obviously unfit for service and send me packing. Or he’ll cite me for contempt and order me to jail. Jail is not a good place to be during COVID. Or anytime. I decide to sleep on it and reassess in the morning. 

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An overnight miracle has occurred! I’ve come up with a final eyes idea; a last ditch-last ditch plan.
 
Plan 6
Courts are under the jurisdiction of counties. And counties have supervisors. And supervisors have district offices. And district offices have constituent services. And constituent services are there to help constituents. I am a constituent. Therefore, I’ll call my supervisor. I’ll put my government to work for me.
 
I Google Alameda County Board of Supervisors. There are five district supervisors. I’m pretty sure I’m in District 2. I call, and the aide who answers tells me I’ve contacted the wrong office. As she looks up my supervisor’s number, I mention my dilemma. She says she doesn’t know if seniors are pandemic-exempted from jury duty, but, she adds, she can give me the email address for the Chief Executive Officer of the Court.
 
What? I never knew a court email existed. I’ve had questions before, and tried every way imaginable to contact them. It’s like squaring a circle. Impossible! The website’s impenetrable, calling is futile, and don’t bother writing. It doesn’t work. And never, ever, send a letter to the judge presiding over your case. It’s not allowed. I learned that the hard way. My attorney almost killed me. But I digress.
 
Hope rises in my chest. I compose, Joe Friday style, a brief email to the Chief Executive (having also learned from the above-mentioned attorney that courts like things direct and to the point). I explain my situation as concisely as possible—“Just the facts, ma’am”—and respectfully request to be excused. I rewrite. I make revisions to the rewrite. Satisfied, I hold my breath, click, and send. 10:48 AM.
 
I wait. An eternity. At 10:58 I check my inbox. Nothing. I check again at 11:08 and 11:18 and 11:28 and 11:38 . . . OMG, I received a reply at 11:33 AM.
 
The Chief Executive has forwarded my email to the Jury Services Manager who, he declares, should be able to help with my request. I exhale, and release a long sigh.
 
Still in limbo. But . . . I’ve received a reply (that’s positive). It wasn’t the reply I wanted (that’s disappointing). It wasn’t a full-out rejection (that’s a relief). I might still get excused (that’s hopeful). However, no answer yet (that’s anxiety-inducing).
 
I open my Calm app. Waves crash. Nothing to do now but wait. Waiting is hard. Uncertainty is hard. This whole damn coronavirus thing is hard. I wonder if I’ll have to wait as long as some people do for the results of their COVID test. God, I hope not. That could be weeks. What if I have to wait so long I haven’t heard anything before I have to report? Don’t overreact. I have until August 3rd. And I have back-up plans. Three deep breaths. I go to the fridge and forage. I eat blueberries. No cheese today. I’m trying to maintain something close to my pre-COVID weight. The other day a friend joked that the “19” in COVID-19 stands for the 19 pounds you put on sheltering in place. Ha-ha. 

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​Sloth time continues. I can’t wait. I can’t stand it. I have to check my email. I probably would’ve failed the marshmallow test as a kid. I’d probably still fail it today. It’s 12:52 PM. I’ve waited over an hour! Not bad. Maybe I’d pass the marshmallow test after all.
 
I open my Inbox. There, at the very top, sits a message from the Superior Court. My heart stops, or at least misses a few beats. Then sprints. I brace myself. I click. The message reads:  

Good Afternoon,  

​I hope this email finds you safe and well. Your request to be excused has been granted. No further action is required.
 
Best,
Jury Services

"Victory! Sweet Victory! I send a jubilant thank you to the court and dance around the room.
 
That seems like a good place to end. But it's not quite the whole story.
 
Last year, when I was summoned to jury duty, my group was called into the courtroom. After explaining what to expect in the coming days, the judge asked those who wished to be excused to form a line. When it was our turn at the microphone, he instructed, we should state our reason for requesting excusal and he would determine our fate—on the spot. I lined up. When it was my turn, I said that I’d had difficulty hearing the clerk and the bailiff. It was an old courtroom, I explained, with a bad echo, and . . . The judge held up his hand, palm out, to stop me. He mulled for a moment. Then his eyes widened, his eyebrows raised, and a Mona Lisa-like smile crept across his lips. He leaned forward, gestured to the jury box immediately to his right, looked directly at me and said: "I think you’ll be just fine. You can sit right up here next to me."
 
If there is a moral to my story, I think it’s simply this: Sometimes you’re lucky. But, then again, sometimes you’re not. 

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jill Stovall grew up on the East Coast and transplanted to the Bay Area in the early 1990s, after a 7-year expatriation in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. While in Saudi, she started a small cottage industry, taught English to kindergarteners on a Saudi Royal Air Force Base, and served as board president of an international pre-school. After relocating to California and receiving an MA from California State University, East Bay, she began work in a congressional district office where she became Director of Constituent Services for an East Bay congressman. Since retiring, she has earned a certificate in grant writing and volunteered at several nonprofits. She joined OLLI at SF State in 2015 and currently serves on the Curriculum Committee.

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