Read Online The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club by Laurie Notaro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Notaro
Tags: Fiction
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to help. Where did you sleep last night?”
What a curious question, I thought. Who are you, the Morality Police?
Where did I sleep last night?
Sure, give me a sandwich and expect me to spout off my entire sexual history so you can get your kicks.
“Probably in a bed,” I answered a little snottily.
“You don’t remember?” she asked in a softer voice, tilting her head in a subtle action of pity. “It
was
in a bed? Was it at the women’s shelter?”
What the hell? Then it hit me.
“OH MY GOD, YOU THINK I’M HOMELESS!” I said, throwing the bag back at her. “I am not homeless, I just didn’t take a shower today, that’s all. I didn’t want to deal with eyeliner, OK? I am not homeless. I’m just dirty.
I am just dirty.
My parents live in Scottsdale, I swear. My mother gets her nails done. She was once on a jury, here, in this very building, really she was. I’m not homeless, for Christ’s sake. I’m wearing deodorant.”
And then I ran as fast as my lungs would let me up the stairs and into the building, into the juror’s assembly room. I sat down, took a deep breath, and figured maybe I was reading too much Bukowski, and it was beginning to show.
Then I looked around. The assembly room looked like a trade show for Metamucil or Polident. I was the only person in the room that wasn’t alive when a Roosevelt was in office. Boy, this was going to be a fun day, well worth the twelve dollars I was going to make.
I had to fill out a biographical form and watch a video hosted by Channel 13’s Linda Hurley, who informed me that if I am dismissed as a juror, I mustn’t take it personally, because, I was told, somewhere, in some courtroom, I am the perfect juror.
That’s right, I thought to myself, my friend Junior is coming up for trial for allegedly selling acid to an undercover cop at a Sonic Youth concert, assaulting a police officer, and then resisting arrest. I’d be the perfect juror for that. And then I wondered if Junior was going to put all of his teeth in when he went to trial, to try to impress his jury. I thought that would probably be a good idea, especially because I’ve seen him without his teeth, which he considers optional, since he has to take his partial out when he eats. It’s not very pretty.
After I thought about Junior, I sat there. And sat there. And sat there. I sat there while everybody else got called to a courtroom and got a juror’s badge. I sat there while the woman next to me, Dottie, babbled incessantly about how she was a nanny and how she was a widow and how those kids just fill up her life now that her son is married to a public-relations person and just doesn’t call her anymore. Dottie was happy that she got called for jury duty, because she felt good for being able to serve her country as a citizen, it was an honor and that she didn’t see any better way that she could help her fellow citizens than to get drug dealers off the street. She looked at me and shook her head. I prayed for Junior.
At 3:47 P.M., while I was completely immersed in a show about lesbians who stole men’s wives on
Jenny Jones,
my name was called just as a woman from the audience asked if all three of the involved parties had ever had sex together.
Damn! I thought as I stood up (before the lesbians could answer—damn!) and took my place with the other forty potential jurors, and I found myself standing smack next to Dottie.
Half of us filed into the elevator, standing shoulder to shoulder. Dottie’s blue polyester rubbed against my cat hair, and I noticed that she smelled an awful lot like the ointment aisle at Target, topped by
eau de
Mother-of-God-you-really-need-to-sink-those-choppers-of-yours-into-a-fizzling-bath-of-Efferdent. As more people crowded into the elevator, her odor became more and more apparent until I thought I was going to be sick. When the doors started to close, however, Dottie shrieked and held up her hand.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she chanted. “I can’t do
What a curious question, I thought. Who are you, the Morality Police?
Where did I sleep last night?
Sure, give me a sandwich and expect me to spout off my entire sexual history so you can get your kicks.
“Probably in a bed,” I answered a little snottily.
“You don’t remember?” she asked in a softer voice, tilting her head in a subtle action of pity. “It
was
in a bed? Was it at the women’s shelter?”
What the hell? Then it hit me.
“OH MY GOD, YOU THINK I’M HOMELESS!” I said, throwing the bag back at her. “I am not homeless, I just didn’t take a shower today, that’s all. I didn’t want to deal with eyeliner, OK? I am not homeless. I’m just dirty.
I am just dirty.
My parents live in Scottsdale, I swear. My mother gets her nails done. She was once on a jury, here, in this very building, really she was. I’m not homeless, for Christ’s sake. I’m wearing deodorant.”
And then I ran as fast as my lungs would let me up the stairs and into the building, into the juror’s assembly room. I sat down, took a deep breath, and figured maybe I was reading too much Bukowski, and it was beginning to show.
Then I looked around. The assembly room looked like a trade show for Metamucil or Polident. I was the only person in the room that wasn’t alive when a Roosevelt was in office. Boy, this was going to be a fun day, well worth the twelve dollars I was going to make.
I had to fill out a biographical form and watch a video hosted by Channel 13’s Linda Hurley, who informed me that if I am dismissed as a juror, I mustn’t take it personally, because, I was told, somewhere, in some courtroom, I am the perfect juror.
That’s right, I thought to myself, my friend Junior is coming up for trial for allegedly selling acid to an undercover cop at a Sonic Youth concert, assaulting a police officer, and then resisting arrest. I’d be the perfect juror for that. And then I wondered if Junior was going to put all of his teeth in when he went to trial, to try to impress his jury. I thought that would probably be a good idea, especially because I’ve seen him without his teeth, which he considers optional, since he has to take his partial out when he eats. It’s not very pretty.
After I thought about Junior, I sat there. And sat there. And sat there. I sat there while everybody else got called to a courtroom and got a juror’s badge. I sat there while the woman next to me, Dottie, babbled incessantly about how she was a nanny and how she was a widow and how those kids just fill up her life now that her son is married to a public-relations person and just doesn’t call her anymore. Dottie was happy that she got called for jury duty, because she felt good for being able to serve her country as a citizen, it was an honor and that she didn’t see any better way that she could help her fellow citizens than to get drug dealers off the street. She looked at me and shook her head. I prayed for Junior.
At 3:47 P.M., while I was completely immersed in a show about lesbians who stole men’s wives on
Jenny Jones,
my name was called just as a woman from the audience asked if all three of the involved parties had ever had sex together.
Damn! I thought as I stood up (before the lesbians could answer—damn!) and took my place with the other forty potential jurors, and I found myself standing smack next to Dottie.
Half of us filed into the elevator, standing shoulder to shoulder. Dottie’s blue polyester rubbed against my cat hair, and I noticed that she smelled an awful lot like the ointment aisle at Target, topped by
eau de
Mother-of-God-you-really-need-to-sink-those-choppers-of-yours-into-a-fizzling-bath-of-Efferdent. As more people crowded into the elevator, her odor became more and more apparent until I thought I was going to be sick. When the doors started to close, however, Dottie shrieked and held up her hand.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she chanted. “I can’t do
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