A few weeks ago I started this journey with the hope of opening up a forum for the frank discussion of art. I think it has gone quite well. So, let us continue hand in hand down this golden path of enlightenment.

I really worked hard on this

During most weekends, I have the good fortune to spend my time organizing small plein air panting classes for a few the artistically inclined locals of Muskegon Michigan. It is not a real big thing, usually about 5 or 6 of the same people each weekend. We meet at the Mr. Quick on Airport road on Saturdays at 1pm. I'm not a fan of a parade of cars trying to keep up with me as I find pretty places to paint, so everyone crowds into my van and off we go. Well, it's not like a van full of seats type of van. My van is one of those very spartan windowless white work vans with only two seats and crank windows. The van is a 'shotgun' calling wet dream. To be honest, I am surprised that my little group of artists have returned every week for a bumpy ride sitting on the bare steel floor of my van. But, they have been returning and we all have been painting like little crack smoking chimps.


The idea of leading a gang of artists, taking possession of their god given abilities and showcasing it in the wild west of Michigan, had been a dream of mine for quite a long time. My first step to realize my dream was a two pronged attack that entailed a Craigslist post and a paper plate sign posted at my local Plumb's shopping market. The first three weeks were a little slow and I began to think that I was only spinning my wheels. But then I started to get phone calls and a few emails. People were really interested in painting and my dream was maturing. Life was becoming very exciting.


Getting the first gang together for a paining trip was quite an adventure. A few of my posse are older and don't 'do' e-mails and are not really adept at the modern skill of leaving voice mails. The first to respond to my paper plate signage pinned to the communal board at Plumb's ended up calling my cell three times within an hour Sunday morning and never left a voice mail. After waking up, I saw that someone had called me from a 231 area code and redialed the number. It rang for a very long time and I hung up. An hour later, the phone call was still nagging me and I redialed the number. It still rang for a very long time. This time I let it ring. Someone very old answered.


We spoke for quite some time about her marriage, her late husband and her son who lives with her in Muskegon Heights. Her name was Kay and she sounded rather excited about the idea of painting and asked what she should bring to our little outing. I told her that I had not scheduled a date yet and she handed the phone to her son when I tried to explain what she may need in the way of art supplies. Her son, Wayne, was not very talkative but was very tenacious at writing down my recommended list of art supplies. "Can we get this shit at Hobby Lobby", he asked, "How much will all this shit cost?". I told him that if he uses the printable coupon that Hobby Lobby posts on their website and shop during a sale, they could get most of it pretty cheap. Our conversation dwindled down and I informed him that as soon as I get a few more people to sign on that I will be calling Kay and scheduling our paint date. I don't think he liked the idea of me 'dating' his mother and explained that if I had that 'shit' in mind, he would 'fucking' kill me. I calmed him, "NO NO NO, it's not like that kind of date. I meant schedule a day for painting".

SHOTGUN

I had one person in the bag and thought that it would be fun if there were at least 8 people in the group. But, I would settle for three.


Over the phone, Bob sounded like a very effeminate man. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I just found his voice interesting. Bob had contacted via an email in response to my Craigslist posting. As with Kay, Bob seemed very excited to be included in our little gang of painters. He informed me that he had always been a little bit of a closeted artist and felt it was his time come out. We spoke for a short time. When asked about art supplies, Bob stated that he believed he had everything that he would need. "Good", I said and then told him that I would contact him again when we have a nice group of volunteers signed on. He again stated how excited he was and that he would await my call. 


A few weeks passed with out a phone call or an email. Kay and Bob had called quite a bit. I felt bad telling them that I was having issues finding more people. Bob suggested that I post another Craigslisting and I thought that was an empire idea. Not only did I post another Craigslisting, I also replaced my paper plate sign at the Plumb's supermarket. This new one had a magazine photo of Bob Ross at his easel. It was very dapper. 


It took about a week and a half for my phone to ring. Her name was Susan and she had seen my paper plate sign and ripped off one of my telephone tassels. She was very curious. Although we had a nice chat, Susan was not quite sold on my dream. I could feel all the work I had done to solidify my dream about to go up in flames when Susan asked how much it would cost. She was under the impression that she would have to pay for the class and she had been burnt before on art classes that did not measure up. When I told her that the only thing she would need were a small collection of art supplies, she told me that she was 'in'. "That's great", I said, "Let me call Kay and Bob and schedule our first day together". When I hung up, I thought I was going to wet my pants, I was so happy. I had a real art posse, bitch.


Several days and about twenty phone calls between Bob, Kay and Susan later, we had our day and time set in stone. Using Mapquest, I was able to determine that the Mr. Quick on Airport road in Norton Shores was  an ideal spot to meet. The second Saturday of June was selected and invitations were convinced. There were no dropouts and everyone said they had all the needed art supplies. 


Game on bitches.

" A little long, but nice story". Thanks, but I wonder if they have seen my art? I have a habit of starting large things and not stopping until they are done. Like my 8 foot engraved plexiglass works that take eight months to complete. Or the 30 foot roll of drawing paper that I have been drawing on for over a year. Every story I post on this blog will take a large portion of your time to read. There will be few non-mouse wheel scrolling stories. That's how I roll.

...Or so I had thought.

At the point at which both sides rested their cases, the judge turned the trial over to the jury. She informed us all that we were to ascertain the guilt or innocence of the defendant using only the given testimony. She then explained the meaning of 'reasonable doubt' and listed the four items the defendant was on trial for. The first two were home invasion in the first degree and armed robbery. The third item was receiving and concealing stolen property, in this case it was his use of the stolen brown mini-van to drive to and from the house he had robbed. And finally the big one, a very big felony firearms conviction. The rub here ran both ways. We could find him guilty of "pretending" to have a gun during a committed robbery or find him guilty for using the stolen shotgun in the robbery.  I thought it was pretty slam dunk and was starting to plan my afternoon.

Single file we were lead into the jury room. It was a small room with a very large table surrounded by very old office chairs. Towards the rear of the room was a chalk board and to the right were two small windows that did not open. Everyone quietly took a seat. I was as if we were not to speak about the case until we were told it was OK. The deputy broke the stalemate and informed us that we will need make a list of all of our names and highlight the person who had been elected lead juror. I had never been elected to anything in my life up until then and thought this may be an interesting time to start campaigning. "I would be happy to volunteer as lead juror, raise your hand if you are not cool with that", I spoke. It was unanimous and I now ruled over all in the room. As lead juror, I took one of the sheets of paper in the middle of the large table and wrote my full name and in parentheses " LEAD JUROR". I then handed the paper to my right and asked all to write their name under mine.It went around and came back and someone asked "What do we do now?".

I stood up next to the chalk board and wrote the four things the young man was on trial for. I did my best to remember to write them just as the judge had spoken them to us, but there was something lost in translation. One of the jurors asked if we could get the formal definitions of each of the charges. I thought that may be a great idea and wrote the request on a scrap of paper and knocked on the closed door. The deputy opened the door read the note and said, "We are getting those for you" as she closed the door. It was now almost 4pm and I thought that they may not get delivered until the morning, if we don't convict right not. So, I asked that while we are waiting, we should all take a scrap of paper, one of the plethora of little gold pencils that were in a box on table and take a secret vote. We would vote on only if each of us thought the defendant was guilty or innocent on all four charges then hand each ballot forward. I again asked if there was anyone who had a problem to raise a hand. No one did, and we started to vote.

The scraps of folded paper began to make their way in front of me. I swirled the pile of paper like an idiot child shuffles playing cards. Reading the votes, I began to understand that this could go on for a very long time. The votes were for 11 not guilty and 1 guilty. I was in the minority and amazed that no one else thought he was guilty. Had we all not watched the same video where the defendant admitted to every charge? It would now be on me to convince 11 strangers of the young man's guilt. My money making scheme of prolonging civil participation looked like it was coming to fruition. As an artist, my calendar was wide open and I would welcome the chance to try and sway the beliefs of a roomful of people. During this quiet moment of adding up the money Wayne County will be paying me per day, one of the older housewives spoke up, "I voted not guilty because we don't have the proper descriptions of the charges". Another women  agreed with that statement with a quick "yea, me too". It was late in the afternoon and my doubts about finding a guilty verdict began to bear fruit when a knock came. The deputy entered and told us we were done for the day and gave us instructions to return in the morning. There was the expected demand that we not speak of the case to anyone and we all nodded knowing full well we were all going to talk to someone about it. Quietly, we all then went our separate ways.

Evening came and I told my wife all about my day before bed. The morning commute gave me time to plot my course. It wasn't that I wanted to convict an innocent man. I really believed that this young man was guilty and he needed to have small room reserved in one of Michigan's many prisons. I wasn't willing to give in to the majority. I would need to convince them of my beliefs or they would need to convince me that I was wrong. My morning was beginning to have a routine, casino parking, courthouse security, and then the wait to enter the court room. We were all escorted to our small room and the door was shut. Everyone took the sames seats as yesterday and I noticed that there was a small stack of stapled forms on our table. Reaching for them, I saw that they were formal descriptions of the four charges. This was a good start. Our vote hash marks and my less than perfect descriptions from the day before were wiped away in a cloud of white dust. I then explained to the group that we should break the process down into four chunks that were easily swallowed. The first course would be 1st Degree Home Invasion. Writing "Home Invasion" on the board, I read aloud it's description from the prepared form and readied a public vote.

The vote did not go as planned. A show of hands and 3 guilty versus 9 innocent hash marks were placed on the board. As lead juror, a discussion as to why 3 of us believe the defendant would begin. My theory of guilt was that the defendant admitted on video that he entered the home of the victims uninvited and with the intent of robbing its inhabitants. By either using a gun or pretending he had a gun, he 'invaded' the space of a family home that was not his own. A gun or promise of a gun equals violence and uninvited entry into a dwelling equals the definition of Home Invasion. "I bet they didn't think anyone was home", added one of my fellow guilty vote jurors. I made my argument for guilt on this charge, now I explained that it was up to the remaining 9 to try and change our minds. A middle aged housewife with a Russian accent spoke,"What kind of family buys a young boy a Scarface coat for Christmas? I think he was in on it". Her comment was like like someone slapping me in the dark. "Yea, maybe he was gonna sell the stuff and split the money with the boy" another juror added. "Wait, when was this brought up during the trial?" I explained, trying to wright a boat that was about to turn turtle. "We are only supposed to look at facts, none of these things were brought up. Don't you think the defendant would have mentioned this during his questioning?", I offered. I again reminded my fellow jurors that we were asked to use the given facts and none of what they expressed were based upon reality. "This isn't Judge Judy", I reminded them. The fact is that I too felt that a jacket, meant for a child's Christmas gift, emblazoned with the embroidered image of Al Pacino portraying a drug king pin murderer stunk of poor white trash. In so many words I agreed with the two women, but added that a poor choice of children's Christmas gifts do not make a family free to rob. The defendant and his accomplice entered the home uninvited using the promise of violence if they were denied entry, the nine jurors standing on the opposite side of the fence would need to show why they believe he is innocent of this first charge. "Well, if we are only voting on this one thing, then yes he is guilty of home invasion. I think", the one housewife who yesterday demanded the formal definitions spoke. 4 guilty and 8 innocent. The tide was turning if only for this one count. I began to imagine how hard it was going to be for the next three counts. The rest of the jury that was in the not guilty camp was asked to state reasons. The young man in the Red Wings jacket began to fluster and then spoke, "I didn't believe the guy who lived there, he said the kid had what looked like a long gun under his coat. If you are in the army, you only call rifles long guns". He made a valid point, but I reminded him that the prosecuting attorney is the one who asked if it looked like he had a long gun. The guy was only answering that yes it did look long. One of the retired line workers blurted out, "What the hell do you know about being in the fucking army?".

A few minutes of simmering down took place. I was shocked. The juror that had made the coarse statement about being in the fucking army was one who was voting from the not guilty camp. I thought he probably was having a little problem with changing his vote and was feeling uncomfortable. So I comforted him by reminding everyone that votes may change as we discuss the case and we all heard what we chose to hear and must rely on others in this room to help fill in what me missed. Acknowledging that I indeed missed the long gun gaffe, but reiterated that as a member of the armed forces, the witness, would probably not find it prudent to correct someone who he deemed as a superior. "So do you think he was lying about believing he had a gun?", I asked. "Well, no. I just think if the guy was faking, the army guy should have done something" he bubbled up. Well the guy did what he was told of him, by a man who he believed had a gun pointed at him. "Would you have risked your life for an Xbox and a Scarface coat?", I asked. A quiet "No" could be heard. So, I added, did the defendant gain entry into the house by either pretending to have or really having a gun under his coat. I asked for a show of hands. There were a few jury members who hesitated by waiting to see how the person next to them would vote, but in the end I counted 12 guilty verdicts. Home Invasion in the first degree was down, only three more counts to go.

Time had really slipped by in the closed room. A what had felt like hours was indeed hours. Thinking that the wind was at my back, I thought that we should move towards the stolen car charge. In the video the young man readily admitted to using the 'found' car to drive to and from the robbery. The cop on the video doing the questioning asked the guy, "You stole the car?". His response was that they found it in an apartment complex unlocked and he didn't steal it. Like everyone who finds a car unlocked is free to drive it around. So, I wrote Receiving and concealing stolen property on the chalk board and read aloud the formal definition. Reminding my fellow jurors of the video of his confession of driving a stolen van to the robbery, I asked for show of hands. My belief that this day was becoming an augment over the price of tomatoes with a group of mongoloids began to fade like the morning fog as I saw 12 hands voting guilty on the second charge. It was a true ray of light and I added guilty next to the charge on the chalk board. My happiness was tarnished as I remembered the last two charges, probably the most difficult to argue, armed robbery and the felony firearms charge.

So far there had been a few jurors that had remained quiet and I began to really want to know what they felt. I thought if I could get them to share their feelings, I could exploit them and possibly get them to vote guilty on all four charges. I called for a secret vote with scraps of paper after writing armed robbery on the board and again reading the prepared formal definition. The count came up 5 versus 7. Not guilty had won this battle and I was a little disheartened. First welcoming the fellow members who voted for guilt to state their case and not getting a response, I took the floor. Reading from the definition of armed robbery, I found a line that stated that the defendant only needs to pretend to have a weapon. It doesn't matter if he had a gun or was using his finger. If he intends to make his victims to believe he has a weapon in order to rob them, it is armed robbery. "But, I don't think he had a gun", came a voice from the far corner. She was a middle aged black woman. "Do you believe he pretended to have a gun?", I asked. She said she didn't know. I reminded her that she had voted guilty on the count of home invasion and, according to the witness, the defendant invaded the house using what he believed to be a gun. "Do you want to change your home invasion vote?", I asked her. She shook her head no. Then the housewife with the Russian accent spoke up, "But they didn't find a gun when he shot the cop. You would think they would do a gun powder test on his hand". This idiot woman would be a problem. Her stupid comments at the wrong time only worked to direct focus away from reality. "The guy is not on trial for shooting at the cop", I stated. But she continued about ideas of police corruption and insurance scams. I cracked, "Shut UP! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TAKING ABOUT?". Maybe her husband beats her mercilessly, but I found it refreshing that she shut up when a complete stranger yelled at her to shut up. A quiet knock upon the door and the deputy poked in. "Everything all right?", she asked. A quick YUP and nods from a few fellow jurors dispelled any rumors that I was being a complete asshole. Cooley, wanting to put my little outburst behind me, I reiterated that we can only use the facts that we have been given and this is not some television crime drama. This trial is not about crooked cops and insurance scams. Our job is to find guilt or innocence with the facts we heard during the trial and not dreams we saw on late night television.

It was nearing 11 and I figured we would asked to take a lunch soon. Not wanting to undo some of the earned guilty votes, I chose to talk about little things about the trial and play out the clock. It was good call and I liked the idea of riding the People Mover train. Things were looking good and the idea of this experience being solely a money making venture was replaced by a feeling that I could do something really important. I could help place a young criminal in jail for a very long time. With that Idea, I felt invigorated and ready for an afternoon of vote swaying. Lunch was over and I returned to the hall of justice.

One by one, jurors were let in by the deputy. One of the older housewives crowed that she won $500 at the casino. Everyone was happy for her. I thought that I could use news of her win later on, if I needed it, to show the example of long odds. Soon we were all seated and our afternoon together could begin. I began by standing and offering my best heartfelt apology to the Russian housewife for loosing my cool and raising my voice. I told her that today had been very stressful and that I was sorry.  She uttered a quiet "ok". SUCKERS. A quick reminder of where we stood in regards to guilt, reminded most what we where there for. "So far we have voted guilty on both home invasion and the stolen car charges", I called out. There were no objections and I did not ask if anyone wanted to change a vote. I read aloud the prepared armed robbery description and asked if everyone understood it. There were a few nods, so I asked again "Is there any questions about armed robbery?". A younger girl juror spoke up, "But he never took anything". I agreed with her. But, I also remarked that he need not steal anything to be charged with armed robbery. He would only need to take part in the robbery by not preventing it or allowing it to happen by holding the victim at gunpoint. "But what if he didn't have a gun", blurted one of the jurors. I again reminded everyone that the vote for home invasion was unanimous and that he invaded the house using what looked like a gun. A few nods sprouted. "We all voted that he is guilty of home invasion, right?", I added. More nods sprouted. I had to choose my next words very carefully as I could feel that a majority of my fellow jurors were picking up what I was putting down. "How many people think he pretended or really had a gun?", I asked. A collection of nods and hands made me happy. "But he didn't take anything", the older black juror spoke. Then a spark, "He took the cell phone and the shotgun", I said. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea and eyes became very wide. You could see a very dim light being turned on in the heads of several jurors. "Yea, he took the shot gun", one of the older factory rats bloomed. Armed robbery had to be in the bag. I demanded a show of hands.

Goddam it. Four jurors voted not guilty of armed robbery. What the fuck was wrong with these idiots? "He didn't take anything and what if he didn't have a gun", one of the female jurors asked. I looked directly at her and in a very calm voice asked, "Did he take the cell phone or the shotgun?". She did not want to answer. "Can we watch the video again?", came from a member of the not guilty camp. Good idea. I wrote the request to see the video one more on a small scrap of paper and knocked on the door. It took a couple of minutes but the door opened and the deputy took the scrap of paper. The door shut quickly, but I could see the two tables in the courtroom were occupied by a new set of lawyers and a new defendant. It was interesting how quickly the wheels of justice churned out new trials before one was even finished. I stood for a few minutes, expecting the deputy to wheel in the television and the DVD player. No one really spoke as we waited for the television. After what felt like an eternity, we heard a soft knock and the door opened. The deputy stepped in and closed the door. "The judge wants you to use only what you remember, I cannot bring the TV in", she said. DAMMIT. I kind of wanted to see that little asshole admit to all the crimes he is being accused of doing again. The deputy turned and left, closing the door.

"Did he take the shotgun or cell phone", was the only ammo I could muster. I then asked if anyone remembers how they were able to trace him to the house he was staying at the night he ran from the cops. "He had that cell phone he took", the factory rat bubbled. A few of the jurors looked as if their fight against armed robbery was a lost cause. But, I could see that a few jurors may have thought that the theft of a cell phone may not warrant such stiff penalties. A few even brought up the idea that a cell phone was not worth going to jail for. We are not handing out penalties, we are only asked to find guilt or innocence, I reminded everyone. I then began a ring of circular logic that began with the idea that if he invaded the house pretending to have a gun, and he stole something, he had to be guilty of committing armed robbery. If we all thought he invaded the house with what was believed to be a gun and things were stolen, then that's armed robbery. A show of hands was asked for. The Russian housewife and the remaining three jurors caved. It was unanimous. Three charges were down and one very big one was left.

I dressed the chalk board for the final charge by underling the unanimous votes and the word guilty beside each of the charges. I read the definition of a felony firearms conviction and wrote it on the board. This was going to be a very hard uphill struggle because the only firearm he ever admitted to having possession of was the shotgun. In my eyes, just holding a stolen shotgun during a robbery made him guilty of felony firearms. But, getting all twelve of my fellow jurors to see my way would take an act of a very angry god. I thought that, if I start slow and gather a following, I could pull the fence sitters toward my side and have a majority. A quarry of circular logic needed to be mined. If home invasion equals armed robbery, then armed robbery equals felony firearms I began. "But what if he didn't have a gun", spoke the black female juror who was not buying my logic. "They never found a gun", she added. Yes, they never did find a gun. But he admitted to taking the shot gun I thought. The stolen shotgun had to be the key towards a felony firearms conviction. "He had the shotgun", I stated. "If my house was being robbed by two strangers and one of them pointed my own shotgun at me, I would be pretty scared", I said. "But, he didn't use the shotgun to rob the house", the Russian housewife added. JESUS, why was she not shutting the fuck up?!

Yelling at the fucking idiot was not an option. I knew I had to address her deepest fears. Family is probably everything for everyone but your average American. So, I began to weave a detailed 'what if' tale and placed the family of our Russian bride in the center of it. It was a great story, worthy of the worst television crime drama. The story took root when I reminded her that her kids are at home alone without her, the police never did find the stolen shotgun and we never did learn if they ever arrested the other guy. I ended by asking her how she thought her child would feel if there was a stranger standing over them with a shotgun and she was not home to protect them. A few of my fellow jurors chimed in with a helpful, "Yea, what about your children" and a "He could have shot that guy if he fought back".

At this point, I didn't want to take a vote. I wanted those people who really believed he was not guilty of felony firearms to believed they stood alone. I believed that the second the defendant touched the victims shotgun, he was guilty of felony firearms. I threw the few not guilty jurors a bone by agreeing that he was not guilty up until he touched the shot gun. That did it for one juror, she was a younger girl who was doing her best to be compassionate and was having issues ordering someone her own age to prison for a very long time. I reminded her that up until he took hold of the shotgun, the defendant could have just walked out of the house and not been charged with anything (a lie). But, he made a choice to take hold of the shotgun. He made a choice. He made it himself. I think I had her vote.

"You people don't know what its like", came from the corner of the room. She was a middle aged black woman who was one of the last of the hold outs. Throughout the day, her chair had been moving slowly away from the table and towards the far wall. She was sequestering herself. This trial was becoming very personal to her. "You don't know what it's like for that boy and where he is from. You all just want to put him in jail". she stuttered. She was right. I knew nothing of growing up in poverty and robbing people at gun point. I did want this kid in jail. "What do you mean? You know nothing of who I am or how I grew up." I said calmly and compassionately. I added, "The only thing you know about me and I know about you is the color of our skin. We promised the judge that our decision would not be prejudiced by race". I quickly put together a story of my life that turned my white suburban upbringing into an urban childhood ravaged by drug violence and death. The woman and I were now connected by a fragile thread. Then I added a sprinkling of choice and consequence. Everyone in that room has made choices in life, even me and I'm was not proud of some of the choices I had made in my own life. But I did not share the dire consequences of my poor choices with others. Looking at the woman who had won at the casino during lunch, "You made a choice to play the slot machines at the casino at lunch. You won. Are you going to share your consequences? Are you going to give us all a share of what you chose to do on your own?". "Hell no!", she laughed.

"There you go", I said. This young man woke up that day and every choice he made led him towards this robbery. He could have said "No" to stealing the mini van and we would have never been called for jury duty. There was quite a few nods from people who just before had little or no opinion. It was a good sign. "He could have knocked on the door and then just walked away. But he didn't", I urged and then added "He could have stopped his friend from going upstairs to steal Christmas gifts, but he didn't". Then I reminded all of them that those two thieves stole a wedding ring. OK, I'm married but I don't wear a wedding ring. Hell, I don't even know where the damn thing is and I don't give a rats ass about the whole wedding ring idea. But, me fellow jurors didn't need to know that. No, they needed to know that I felt wedding bands were a representation of the love between two people. How those two people made a promise to each other, they made a lifetime vow of love. And those two thieves broke that vow by stealing the ring. It was a very good speech. I was better than when I've been on job interviews and they ask "Why do you want to work for us". At that point, I thought a very pretty bow was on the wrapped package and calmly called on a final vote on the felony firearms vote. It was unanimous. Fucking-A. We now had guilty written on the chalkboard next to each charge, but I need to confirm. I asked that we all vote one last time. This vote would be a blanket vote for all four charges. There were a few hesitating hands, but it was also unanimous. The cat was in the bag and I knocked on the door.

The deputy opened the door and I told her we were finished and it was unanimous. Nodding she said, "Ok, it will be a few minutes" and she closed the door. I figured they had to call the lawyers back and go next door to the county jail to get the defendant from his cell. My nightmare at that point was that someone would start talking about the case and someone else would change their fucking vote. That could not be allowed to happen, so I started a joyful conversation about how lush the Detroit casinos are. (They are shitholes) Most everyone lit up with some story of a friend of a friend who won big at the MGM. A few agreed that the luscious buffet at the Motorcity was the best in the city. Everyone was lit up with banal conversation. Everyone except the lone black woman in the corner. She was having a problem with this entire experience. Well, tough shit on her. I had the votes and this kid was going to prison.

It felt like an eternity had passed when a knock came. The deputy opened the door and quietly ushered us to our seats in the jury box. In the courtroom audience was maybe five people. The defendant's family? The defendant was still wearing the same new clothes from the first day we saw him. I found that interesting. The judge entered the room from her chambers and we were ordered to stand. "I have been told that you all have reached verdicts in regards to the four charges", she spoke. She then asked that all may be seated except for the lead juror. It was a kind of weird standing alone. All eyes turned towards me. The judge then ordered me to state my name. What the fuck was that all about? This kid is going to prison and for the next two decades and the only name that will be rolling around his thick skull during his shower rapes will be mine. Eh, so what. "ChrisTopher Wayne Crowder", I spoke in a clear voice. She then began on the list of charges, "On the first count of Home Invasion in the first degree, what is your verdict?" In a clear voice I spoke, "Guilty". She moved to the next, "On the second count of Armed Robbery, what is your verdict?". "Guilty", I repeated. "On the count of Receiving or Concealing stolen property, what is your verdict?", she asked. Again I stated, "Guilty". As I had been confirming our findings of guilt, my eyes never left the defendant's gaze. I looked him right in the eyes and he never flinched. "What is your finding on the fourth count of Felony Firearms?', the judge asked. "Guilty", I stated.

It was over. The judge instructed the deputy to return us to our assigned room and she did as instructed. The  room was very quiet as we just stood there, then one of the housewives spoke, "He didn't even blink". I think they all now understood that the young man was indeed guilty and what he did was a terrible thing. He was not a weeping brittle snowflake. He was a thug. The door then opened and the deputy softly pushed her way in and closed the door. When she turned around she had the biggest smile on face that I had ever seen. "You guys did good", she announced. "Did you know that the guy he did the robbery with confessed and plead guilty. This guy thought he could get off", she added. I could see a sign of relief come over some in the room. They were now comfortable with their votes. "And last night the kid wrote a letter to the judge admitting to everything and saying how sorry he was for what he did. He knew he was going to be found guilty", the deputy said. Because there had been so much confusion on it, I wanted to get confirmation on the felony firearms charge. "Did the simple act of holding the stolen shotgun during the robbery make him guilty? What about just pretending he had a gun?", I asked. "Hell yes", the deputy stated in a quick snap. With that answer I could see another wave of relief float over the faces of a few of the jurors. At that point the door behind the deputy opened. It was the judge. She was a small lady. She was smiling. She thanked us all for our service and repeated the deputy in saying that we did a very good thing.  Our day in court was over.

It was official. When I left that courtroom, I was an adult. Just as an old man wags his finger for stray children to "get off my lawn". I ordered a rude young man to get out of my world. Well, until he is released from prison. Being an adult is fun.

Several months later, I checked up on the young defendant via the internet. The Michigan Department of Corrections maintains a website for accessing offender information. http://mdocweb.state.mi.us/OTIS2/otis2profile.aspx?mdocNumber=643293
The above link points to Mr. Joe Leroy Gentry. The earliest he could get out of prison is 2020.
It is good to be an adult.

I am not an adult, DAMNIT!

If your feet were placed to the fire, what would be you determine to be the point you deemed yourself an adult? I know many people that would list marriage or having children. But, is marriage really that adult and we all know that children are now having children in copious amounts. Ah, I hear "Buying your first house". I would argue that millions of lifetime renters, are at times, more adult than myself. No, I think the one event that matures us into adulthood is jury duty. I'm not speaking of the mere act of filling out the paperwork that our courts send you every few years in an attempt to update their records or being called for duty only then being sent home with in a few hours. I'm talking about the entire voyage of completing out the paperwork, being called, being selected to sit on a jury of your peers, and finally selecting the guilt or innocence of a fellow American.

I'll be honest, I'm not sure how my state selects individuals for jury duty. I have been told that your name goes in a big pot when you vote. Others have told me that when you renew your drivers licence your name goes to the top of the list. I haven't a clue and lack the willpower to Google it in an effort to educate myself. Regardless of how they received my name, I always allow myself some creative latitude when completing the juror information form that is mailed to me every few years. Over the years, just as I have done with High School reunion questionnaires, I have found that a rambling tale woven with red pen and green crayon, a few backward letters, an ample sprinkling of misspellings and a questionable job history (JANITERS) usually exempted me from future service. That's why a mixture of both dread and excitement came over me when I received a summons to appear. Surely someone had made a mistake.

I quit my good paying job for this shit!

It was the spring of 2007. The season before, I had just quit my career as a field engineer to become a full-time artist. In one fell swoop I had left behind a life of depressing financial security and entered into a lifestyle of joyful adjunct poverty. Dark morning commutes full of dread to earn a paycheck quickly evolved into late afternoon naps melting into late nights of art creation that offered no payday. Art was being created but money buys certain things that happiness can not. Yes, there was an amount of dread upon receiving the letter informing me that I had been chosen for jury duty. But I quickly remembered that, if selected, jurors were paid for their service and if I played my cards right, my act of public service could become my first paying gig as an artist. Dreams of a year long O.J. trial flashed. An artist could indeed buy a modest amount of paint for doing very little.

I was grateful for the three weeks Wayne County gives it's citizens to tie up any loose ends between being notified and the date they had to be at the court house. Being an artist allows for very few loose ends and the weeks anticipating my date moved by very quickly and soon it became time to actually find out where the hell I was supposed to go. I knew the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice was within the city of Detroit, but a quick Google would confirm that the Hall of Justice was cornered by the new sports stadiums, the Music Hall and Greek Town and its Casino, it was both easy to get to and in a relatively tame area of the city. With my Google Map print out, my least wrinkly sport coat hanging on a chair and $15 dollars of quarters for parking, I was ready for the morning and went to bed.

The alarm screamed, I entered the shower and then dressed for my day. I'm not a coffee and eggs in the morn' type of guy, so a 44 oz. Super Gulp of Diet Dr. Pepper sufficed and my re-entry into the hell that is the Metro-Detroit morning commute began. I had forgotten how bad it really was with gravel haulers throwing rocks right at windshield height, A-holes playing fighter pilot with their Honda's trying to get one more car length ahead, and upper lower middle managers straddling two lanes checking emails between sips from their gallon cup of $8 Starbucks coffee. The city rose on the horizon and I soon made it to my destination with plenty of time to spare. Across from Mr. Murphy's Hall of Justice is a dirt lot. A tired fat man dress in jeans and stained grey shirt sits beside a plywood sign that reads "All Day Parking $15". I knew I could do better than $15 a day. The money spent on parking or tickets would surely wipe away any profit I was making from my public service. Lady Luck smiled upon the cash strapped of Metro Detroit when she opened three new casinos. Since their grand openings, I have avoided them like the plague. But, today I would cash in on their neon lit generosity and accept the Greek Town Casino's offer of free, safe and well lit parking. I would just need to remember to get my ticket stamped within the casino before trying to leave for the day. Upon entering the casino parking structure, I was amazed at how empty it was compared to the dirt lot across from the court house. Suckers! They are all going to blow their court house cash on parking in a muddy field.

I walked through the casino, it was like gambling in a soup kitchen. Someone's grandmother, wheeled oxygen tank in tote, was making sweet love to a slot machine a nickle at a time while a trio of poorly dressed unshaven men were doing their best to roll a seven. I found the closest exit to the court house and walked a short while to its front door. The security check point was really hopping as I entered the line to the metal detector. At the entrance of the check point was a sign. On it were several things that are not allowed to be brought into the Hall of Justice. There were the obvious knives and firearms, but to my surprise were listed all electronic devices including cell phones, gaming devices, laptops, cameras, and pagers. I was glad I left my cell phone in the car as it was such an antique that it needed a pull start. While awaiting my turn to enter the metal detector, many a person was seen loudly arguing with the armed Wayne County Deputy on duty to the fact that they "NEEDED" their cell phone or Gameboy. His stoic look was accompanied with a point to the posted signage, a gentle gesture towards the exit and a loud "NEXT!". It was my turn, shoes and belt came off, wallet and keys went in the grey plastic tray and I stepped through. No beeps, no buzzes. I collected my things and was directed towards a common waiting room.

Wonder Twin Powers Activate!

The gentlewoman at the front desk asked for my paperwork and I handed it to her. Handing it back she stated, "Have a seat until you are called". The room was a windowless florescent lit pale yellow with rows of chairs that were all attached at the sides. The chairs had no arms and could not be rearranged away from or towards the two out of tune mute televisions hanging on shelves from the ceiling. I walked past several rows towards the rear of the room and found a seat with my back to the wall and next to a table (welded to the side of the chair). On the table was the remnants of this mornings newspaper and a collection of several women's magazines. The magazines averaged three years old and I grabbed the newest, it was a Glamour. Like a starving man saving a morsel of food, I would save the newspaper for last. Time did not fly. The room began to fill as the empty seats separating each of us began to disappear. Strangers would now be forced to almost touch elbows. A reminder of just how painful an early start can be became apparent as a few individuals occupied a trio of spaces as they napped off last night's Colt 45. Soon, even those wounded few would be asked to sit upright and donate their seats to the growing masses. Glamour became Better Homes and Gardens and Better Homes and Gardens became Parenting. Hours passed. Names were called and people stood, then they disappeared past the front desk. The magazines gave up the ghost to the business section of The Detroit Free Press and I began to make daring daylight raids on the other immovable tables.

Just as I had found a two year old copy of Time that looked very interesting, an announcement was made. Numbers that were assigned to us in relation to our last names were to be called. If your number was called, you were to be thanked for your service and allowed to leave. One by one, numbers were called, people stood and left. The numbers soon stopped and the remaining individuals spread across the room made eye contact. Were we the chosen few? An answer came as we were asked to follow a deputy to the elevator. It was my guess that this day, I would be asked to earn my money as public servant. So far it had not been a total waste as I would have still been in bed. Along with remaining twenty other people, I entered the elevator. Not a word was spoken. Not a single question was asked as the doors opened onto a hallway of dark wood and closed doors.

The deputy asked us all to have seats on a set of long wooden pews against the wall. It was good mix of people. A man younger than me with a goatee and black Red Wings jacket sat between two women who looked like they were looking forward to what Oprah was going to show them this afternoon. Two older guys made jokes. They were the alpha dogs and had obviously earned their position during many a year on one of Detroit's factory floors. The sound of a locked door being unlocked and opened made everyone turn. A deputy appeared from behind the door and motioned us all to enter the court room. A row of orange cloth upholstered chairs dating from the early Seventies were waiting for us on a podium against the far wall. The judge sat to our right behind her raised bench. To the left were two tables. The closest table was shared by two attorneys while a second oak table was shared by neatly dress very young man and his public defender. Well, I assume she was a public defender. The kid may have been a millionaire for what I knew at the time. But I could tell that he was dressed in clothes that looked a little too new. They were clothes that looked like they were bought by a loving mother at a time when her son could not be there to try them on. The tan shirt was a little big while the slacks rose all the way to the young man's waist and were topped off with a brand new black leather belt. Nope, he would be instructed NOT to wear baggy ass flashing pants in court. No Timberland boots here please. Brand new brown loafers and black socks would be mandatory. Even with a thick layer of polish, a rough edge that could not be hidden could still be seen. This young man looked like trouble.

From behind her bench, the Judge began to read aloud from a list. As she loudly and clearly stated a name, the matching individual would raise a hand or state "Here". She would then ask one or two questions such as "What is your profession?" or "Have you served as a juror in the past year?". One person did state that they were an attorney and knew a member of the prosecution. He was thanked for his service and shown the door. More than 3 or four times, a lawyer from either side would object to an individual, not stating why, and that person would be asked to leave. My turn came. Thoughts of acting the fool to get kicked off the line came to me. But I never got the chance. The judge asked one question of me, "Are you employed?". My answer was that I was self employed as an artist. To that she let out a small squeal, "OH, That must be fun". Neither table objected to me serving and the judge moved on to the couple more people left. Finally, the judge began to talk about serving on a jury and what was expected of us. The deputy walked towards us and handed each of us sticker with large red letters "JUROR". We were asked to wear this at all times and not take it off until we returned home. We were told not to discuss the case with anyone and to return at 9 a.m. We were all free to leave.

"Did you get picked? What kind of trial is it?", my wife asked as soon as she got home from work. "I don't know, they didn't start it yet", I said. Blowing the rule about not talking about the trial completely out of the water. The rest of the evening was spent watching television. I hung my wrinkled sport coat on a chair, set my alarm and went to bed.

Don't drive angry.

The morning commute was another living hell but this time a sense of urgency came over me that never did when I made the same trek towards my former job. I never felt the pangs of being tardy as I always felt I would arrive when I arrived. But this morning I didn't want to be late. I really wanted to do this thing I had entered into and I wanted to leave a good impression and complete a job well done. I rolled down my window and took my parking stub from the casino parking structure. It was a little busier than yesterday and I had to park nearly on the roof of the structure. A quick walk through the casino and I was soon in line to enter the court house. No beeps or buzzes today and my elevator awaited my entry. I entered the dark wood paneled hallway and took a seat on the wooded pew next to my fellow citizen jurors. There was the guy in the Red Wings jacket, the two retired line workers and a handful of women who looked as if they had better things to do. In a corner of the hall, the two prosecuting attorneys were talking quietly. The sound of a door unlocking was followed by it opening. A deputy appeared and asked us all to enter the court room and take our seats. I found it interesting that both the young defendant (dressed in the same newly purchased clothes from the day before) and his attorney were seated waiting for us. We were all instructed to please rise as the judge came through a door at the rear of the court room, nodded towards the deputy and took a seat at her bench. Once we were again seated, a lawyer for the prosecution quickly stood and began to make his prepared opening statement. He spoke of a crime that had been committed and how the State would prove the guilt of the defendant seated before us. He then sat and the defendant's attorney stood and began her best to gently explain about certain circumstances that had transpired that would prove her client's innocence. Game on!

The prosecution called their first witness. He was a young man wearing a suit that was a little to small for him. It was noticeably tight in the shoulders and the hem of the pants were a little to high and revealed a little to much sock. The suit looked as if the wearer had grown and matured since its purchase. Probably because he had. He was a war hero, a member of our armed services in Iraq and on leave home for the holidays. The young man began to tell his side of the alleged crime that began shortly before Christmas 2006. He told a story of how two young men forced their way into his home located in Redford Michigan. Well, they entered an unlocked screen porch shortly before noon and knocked on the front door. Answering the knock was our witness. Through the window of the closed front door he saw a strange brown van in the drive and two strangers asked if our hero's younger brother was home. They were told he was not. Stating that they were told to meet him here and pick an item up, gentle confusion between the three parties soon ensued. Thinking that some semblance of order could be made on his part, our witness unlocked and opened the front door. Standing before him were two young men with their hands in their jacket pockets. One of the strangers made a very public motion to reveal what appeared to be the outline of a handgun from beneath the pocket his winter coat. The prosecuting attorney asked the witness if the man who stood on his front porch that morning pointing what looked like a gun at him was here in the court room. He stated that indeed he was and pointed to the well dress defendant, who made no eye contact and remained emotionless.

The witness's testimony continued that the two strangers entered his house, instructed him not to do anything stupid, and told him to sit on the couch. Pointing what looked like a handgun from under his jacket, the defendant stood over the seated young man while the second stranger ran upstairs. From his couch, he could hear that a mess was being made. The sound of heavy footsteps thumped between the sounds of things being moved and dropped. Soon the stranger came back down the stairs holding a large black plastic garbage bag. Sharp corners from boxes and soft shapes stretched the thin plastic skin of the bag. The witness was then instructed to lead then to the basement. So far no one had been hurt and our witness complied. The basement was the shared bedroom of both the witness and his younger brother. Ordering the witness to take a seat on the unmade bed, the defendant returned to his watchful position while his accomplice rifled through the personal belongings of their hostage. A second trash bag was filled with a Sony Playstation 2, a classic Xbox, and several video game disks. Eyeing a cell phone on the nightstand and not really interested in an answer, the defendant asked "Is this yours?". The young man nodded as the defendant slipped the phone into his front pants pocket. Finally, a large black plastic case was pulled from behind a chest of drawers and laid on the bed. Opening revealed that the case held a pristine pump-action shotgun. Taking his hand out of his jacket pocket, he grabbed the shotgun. Again, not really interested in an answer he asked "Is this yours?". The witness nodded yes. Collecting the two full garbage bags and the prized shotgun, the two strangers turned and exited up the stairs. From his seat on the bed, the witness could hear the front door open, then the screen door of the front porch slam shut. 911 was called and soon a trio of Redford Police cars were in the driveway.

Along with the pump-action shotgun and cell phone, the thieves had also taken unopened Christmas presents for the family. A brand new XBOX 360, games for the new XBOX, a Scarface jacket embroidered with the the likeness of actor Al Pacino, and a woman's diamond wedding ring meant to replace one that had been lost or pawned some years before.

The defendant's attorney only had a few questions for the witness. "Did you ever see the defendant actually holding a gun?", she asked. "Other than the shotgun, no.", was the reply. "Did the defendant hit or touch you at any time?"...."No", answered the witness. "No further questions your honor", and the witness stood and left the court room.

Boy, making money does not get any better than this, I thought. I get paid to send some kid to jail. Ok, I know that I'm supposed to be impartial and everyone is innocent until proven guilty. But this kid had guilt spray-painted all over his face. How bad could his case get? So far his ONLY defense was that it was  his finger, he may never had a gun and that he was invited into a strangers home to rob it. Sounded to me like a long time in jail is what the kid needs to straighten his life out. I almost wanted to raise my hand and say "OK, I'm done here....GUILTY".

Go nuts for DONUTS!

The prosecution called their next witness, a very over weight Detroit Police officer. Redford police contacted the Detroit Police department and shared information regarding the location of the thieves. The cell phone that was stolen had GPS capabilities and all that was needed was for a call to be made to it. If it were answered, they would know the location of the phone. A call was made, the phone was answered (With an instant hang up) and it was gathered that the phone was located in a neighborhood of western Detroit. The Detroit Police department was asked if they could spare a car to go and stake out the approximate location of the GPS coordinates. A description of the suspects was also passed along. Sometime after 11 pm, the officer witness two males exiting a house, enter a brown minivan and drive away. The police cruiser followed from a few blocks away until the van was observed blowing through a stop sign. The officer now had a reason to stop the van and turned on his flashing lights. The flashing lights sparked a very short high speed chase through three Detroit neighborhoods that ended in a tree filled vacant lot. The officer stated that he observed 2 individuals matching the given descriptions running from the van and one of the individuals was carrying what looked like the box to an XBOX 360 game console. Then a major hole appeared in the very large officer's testimony. He insisted that he leapt from is cruiser and, like a gazelle, made chase after the suspects. He ended the chase after he heard what sounded like gunshots being aimed towards him. Returning to the squad car, a 'SHOTS FIRED' call for assistance was made. Soon, the neighborhood streets were bathed in flashing lights of red and blue. The officer was thanked for his time as the prosecution ended their questions, handing over the floor to the defense. Again, the defense only asked the witness a few questions. "Did you see the defendant's face?", "Could you identify the person getting into the van as the defendant?", "Did you see a gun?" and "Did you see who, if anyone, was shooting at you?", to which the officer answered "No" to all of them. The officer was thanked and left the court room.

Lunch was called. The judge instructed us that we were to keep strict silence regarding the case and return at   2 pm. Damn, a 3 hour lunch break?! What the hell was I going to do in downtown Detroit for three hours? Well, it wasn't that bad. I had a gyro in Greek Town, rode the People Mover tram for an hour, and then visited the classic car display in the GM world headquarters. It was fun.

The last witness called was a detective for the Redford Police department. Quite a bit of detective work went into the apprehension of the defendant. A search warrant was ordered for the house that the cell phone was traced to and a number of items were found that matched descriptions of the same items taken in the burglary. The stolen shot gun was not among the recovered items. Within days of the robbery, the defendant was found and brought to the Redford Police station for questioning. At this point in his testimony the detective was stopped and the prosecution asked that a video made during the defendants interview be shown to the jury. There were no objections. The grainy video started and we could see the defendant sitting at a small table in a small closed room. He was dressed very differently. A baggy pants and shirt were topped off by a sideways Starter Baseball cap. The kid was really playing the whole gangsta' rapper shizizzle  part well in dress and demeanor. Then we saw a door open to the small room and the detective walk in and take a seat at the small table.

On the video the defendant was asked about the robbery. Without any prodding or duress, the defendant eventually admitted to using a stolen minivan (The same brown minivan involved in the chase) to drive to the house of the friend of his younger brother. After some questioning he also admitted on video to entering the house by "pretending" to have a gun, taking the cell phone (which he had brought to his questioning at the police station) and taking the shot gun. He did not admit to shooting at the cop and refused to say if he was a driver or passenger during the high speed chase. The video ended and the television was wheeled away. The prosecution rested and the defense stood and announced that she had no questions. Game, set and match!
Closing argumentation were made by both sides and the job of putting this turd away for a very long time began. Or so I thought....

I am an Artist Dammit!

I like to believe that every time I put pencil to paper or paint to canvas, in some small way, my dreams come true. My Masters of Fine Art degree allows me to call myself an artist. And my job as an adjunct community college professor allows me to call myself a teacher. But, neither one allows me to call myself wealthy. Happily, I am able to make a few art sales once in a blue moon to make studio rent and with Ebay auctions of my shrinking toy collection I am able to 'almost' afford a few luxuries like power, internet, and art supplies (you will notice that heat in the winter is not listed). Winter heat in the studio is something that my degree and teaching position never has been able to provide. They have also never been able to quench a very personal dream I've had for quite a long time. No afternoon spent painting or day at the lecture podium has ever been able to give me my dream, my passion, that has been Hooter's girls.

Well, maybe not the girls themselves. More precisely, Hooter's girls and the really shiny pantyhose they wear. The hours I keep as an artist and the few days I'm scheduled to work at the college allows me to enjoy quite a bit of time and my local Hooter's eatery. Their chicken wings are to die for, but the fried wings are not the attraction for this chubby little man. Nope, it would have to be Peavey brand high gloss pantyhose that encase every nimble leg of each Hooter's girl. Many an afternoon I have spent, usually in a back booth, gingerly waving down a Lycra Spandex armored serving goddess. "Can I have a little more iced tea?". "I think I will have an appetizer". "Oh, be a dear, I dropped my fork". I can't help trembling as they walk towards me, watching their legs move beneath what appear to be excruciatingly tight orange shorts. Every coy request is completed with a smile or some sort of warm compliment. If i'm lucky, and I sit a certain way, I can get them to brush my knee or bump my hand with their nyloned thigh as they walk by. It's those epic days that make my hard earned Masters Degree wilt.

Every afternoon I spent indulging in polite conversation, strategizing new ways to make tender contact, imbibing countless gallons of iced tea and ending my visit with a painfully large tip, drove me closer to the realization that my actions were not getting me any closer to my one true dream. There had to be a better way to achieve what I desired. A way that did not include unwanted calories that were destroying my slim boyish figure or ways that did not balloon my already enormous credit card statement. What if I could be paid for living my dream? I know it can be done, I'm an artist damn it. My usual day at work starts by surfing porn and then throwing paint on the wall. Why not combine my lust for Hooter's girls and my need for winter heat?  My version of the American dream would be spent hanging out at Hooter's, surrounded by a plethora of young women sporting pairs of Nylon Spandex covered legs, and getting paid for it. I'm still young, I've had a somewhat disappointing life, why should I not have my most personal and precious dream fulfilled? Why should I be denied heat in the winter and the luxury of being surrounded by shiny tan toned female legs?


Up until this year, I never thought I would be working at Hooter's. I know it sounds crazy, but I knew that even with my limited work experience, Hooter's would be fools NOT to hire me. Hooter's has a wonderful internet based job search page. Within a few minutes I was able to find that the very Hooter's eatery that I frequent was indeed hiring. Daydreams of becoming a Hooter's manager and receiving 'special' favors from the tender waitstaff goddesses in return for scheduling them during prime hours flashed into my head. Could I really manage a Hooter's. Did I have the clock weights to be a boss? The answer to those questions would have to wait to be answered as that only positions available, outside the realm of becoming a Hooter's girl, was that of a dishwasher. There were no million dollar boss jobs listed. Could it be possible that with a Masters Degree from an accredited University and experience working as a community college professor that I would be deemed over qualified?  Would the hard work I spent earning the right to call myself an artist and teacher dash the very dream that kept me awake at night abusing myself?

A Sea Of Nylon Spandex

The online application was pretty straight forward. I found it odd that I was not asked to upload PDF files of my transcripts. It meant that any boob could apply for a job at Hooter's and say they had a Masters Degree since they had no real means to check, or were not interested in knowing. I did list my jobs at the local community college and my summer working at Kroger's as experience and hoped that they would make my application shine. My hands flew along my laptop keyboard stitching together every bit of employment and personal experience I could muster for the posted job. Soon it was time to click send and allow the waiting game to begin.

The days waiting for a response consumed me. During my time at the podium, I found myself wandering into uncomfortable corners. Half of one class was spent showing my students how to complete a drawing of a female leg. Every sinuous leg ended up sporting a white tennis shoe and tight shorts. My art appreciation course fared no better. Two weeks was spent on contemporary art and pantyhose. I still have no idea how I was able to fill 3 hours of class time and find 34 slides of modern art that included pantyhose as a theme. My art suffered too. I had not touched the painting I was working on for months and every 5 minutes I would be drawn into checking my email or looking to see if someone had called my cell and I had missed it. I could not bare the suspense anymore, I needed to know if my dream had even a sliver of a chance to be fulfilled. Hooter's needed to be contacted and my dream needed to be brought to fruition.

I still don't know how I was able to dial my cell phone. My hands were shaking so hard that the first number I dialed was some black guy. I couldn't understand what he was saying and he had no idea what I was asking for. It was a perfect storm of two diverse cultures meeting. Thinking the gentleman on the other line was the manager of my local Hooter's and not wanting to tarnish my hopes for employment, I remained on the line for as long as possible asking probing questions about the job I had applied for. Several obscenities later, by the gentleman, the line went dead and the call ended. It was then that I realized that I was one number off. A three had taken the place of a five. Damn those tiny buttons and my fumblingly large manly hands. One more attempt and bingo, it was ringing. Three rings and Dave answered. Dave sound like a very nice guy. I told him about my application and he stated that Hooter's was very interested in me as a team member, it's just that they get so many applications that it is hard to contact everyone within four day's time. He appreciated me calling and asked what day would be good to come in for training. I told him, that as an artist and a community college professor, my schedule is pretty lose and that my calendar could accommodate a Tuesday morning meet at greet. Dave liked that idea, told me to dress casual, wished me luck and said he looked forward to meeting me. I swear that I almost wet my pants, I was so happy.

The day I learned that my dream would be coming true was a Thursday. I was not scheduled for training till Tuesday. The time seemed to drag. By Friday night I had already laid out what I was going to wear. I know Dave said casual, but this was my golden ticket. There was no second bite at this apple, baby. I planned to dress to impress. I had a pair of classy woolen dress slacks and a stainless lime green polo shirt that still looked smart. It had been some time since I had the opportunity to wear the pants and my many afternoons spent devouring Mr. Hooter's fried chicken wings had earned me a few more pounds. But, the fact is they did fit and I looked fabulous in them. Impress indeed!

I thought Tuesday morning would never come. I awoke early, enjoyed three self made golden pancakes, diet RC cola and left for my new life. Arriving a few hours early gave me the chance to case out the joint. Hooter's had yet to open, but I wanted to see where the best parking places were, watch my fellow team members arrive for work and memorize what type of cars they drove. Slowly the parking lot began to fill and one by one people began to enter the establishment. To my amazement, it appeared that the female team members did not wear their Classic Hooter's uniform to work. I was shocked and a little disappointed. I was so hoping to begin this day with a glimpse of a tanned nyloned leg moving gracefully under breathtakingly tight orange shorts. The realization came that I would have to start my new workday if I wanted to partake in my dream of enjoying a buffet of Hooter's legs. So, begin my work day I did.

Knotty Pine Heaven

I entered my Hooter's and took a seat at its golden knotty pine bar and immediately noticed that there was not a single Hooter's girl on the dance floor. But somehow I felt right. It was as if, for the first time in my life, I was finally driving in the right direction. It was at that very moment, sitting at the bar, I remembered why it had been a very long time since I had worn my woolen dress slacks. The pants made me itch as if there were a colony of ants doing the mambo under the shade of my loins. My upper thighs were on fire. Then came, "I'm sorry we are not serving yet.". Looking up from the hell that was embracing my thighs, I saw Dave. I knew it was Dave from his Hooter's name plaque on his plump man breast. The plaque was gold toned and in black engraved letters was Manager and Dave. In my most confident voice, I mustered  a "Hello, My name is Chris and I am your new employee". I use 'Chris' sometimes because some people are uncomfortable around 'Topher', plus it sounds more professional. Dave informed me that employees are not invited to sit at the bar and that we should go in the back, behind the swinging aluminum double doors, to begin our journey together as team members. OK, he did not use those exact words, but that is how I heard it. I rose from my bar stool furiously scratching the fire that was raging under a thin layer of fine domestic wool, nodding to Dave's inquiry, "Are you OK?".

Dave's office looked comfortable. A small beige steel desk and matching file cabinet neighbored a modest leather chair and a spartan plastic chair. Dave motioned me to sit while maneuvering towards his leather seat. He began by explaining that today will be the beginning of a training period for both myself and Hooter's. This very Tuesday we will both have the opportunity to get to know each other and see if we are a 'good fit'. I explained to him my dream was to be a member of the Hooter's family and that he need not worry about not fitting with me and that I was sure that this would be a wonderful marriage. I again nodded to Dave's, "Are you sure you're OK?". At this point, I was not even aware that I had been still scratching out the fire that was consuming my upper thighs. I stopped scratching long enough to extend a warm hand shake and pronounce my gratefulness for Dave to allow my dream to come true. "Great, let's get started then", He said standing and guiding me out of his office and into the common back room.

"Hi Dave" pranced past us a Hooter's girl fully gowned in classic Hooter's armor. She headed through the double doors, out of view and into the front of the eatery to begin her day. My wool pants were uncomfortably becoming tighter as three more women passed us. "Dave!", "Hi, Dave", "Mornin', Dave". Focus dammit. "Chris?", it was Dave. He had been explaining where my 'station' was and I had not not even heard a word he had said. The sight of an entire gaggle of Hooter's chicks took every ounce of my attention. "Yes!", I blurted, hoping that it would cover my cerebral drift. Dave informed me that my station would encompass three areas of the back room, the dish washing machine and sink, the drying racks and the dish storage area behind the food prep area. The buss staff would bring me tubs of dishes and return to the floor with a clean empty tub. My duty would be to sort and rinse the dishes in the large stainless sink, and then load the washing machine. All uneaten food scraps would be dropped into a 50 gallon plastic can that I would have the responsibility of emptying when full. When the loaded dishwashing machine's orange light turned to green, it was ready to unload. Dishes would then be placed onto a large wheeled rack and moved towards the food prep area for reuse. It sounded very simple.

Dave then introduced me to Jayden. Jayden was a thin young man in his late twenties and still wrestling with what looked like a painful case of facial acne. Dave informed me that I would now follow Jayden and learn from everything Jayden had to teach me in the realm of dish washing for the Hooter's family. Dave then turned and exited through the aluminum double doors and left Jayden and myself to exchange pleasantries. We spoke for a few minutes and I learned that Jayden was not enrolled at the community college I was presently teaching at and that he really was not interested in my complex admiration for women in Hooter's style Peavey brand footless high gloss pantyhose. While Jayden seemed to be at the top of the game of washing dishes, he lacked a certain polish. I began to feel that his salty language may be coming between him and the female members of the Hooter's family. He in return explained that my leather dress shoes may have not been the best choice for my new job, and I agreed with him as I could now feel that my navy dress socks were now soaked to my skin. It also became apparent that , via Jayden inquiring several times if "i was all right", I had completely quit attempting to try and hide the flames engulfing my upper thighs.

The lunch crowd was just starting to come in and the 50 gallon drum quickly filled with uneaten Hooter's fare. Jayden elected me to empty it into the steel dumpster in the alley and I was happy to take a short break from the work. The fresh air helped me place my dream in focus and strengthen me. It also brought to my attention that I had drank a quart of RC diet cola for breakfast and that my bladder was now screaming from within a cacophony of barbed wire wool. Jayden pointed me to the restroom. Having relieved myself and washed my hands, as per company sanitation rules, I found myself drawn to what was my favorite booth as a civilian. It was empty and I felt I deserved a break. The Naugahyde bench was a cool welcome and the table top hid my incessant scratching. Soon 'Beth' came to my rescue. "Hello" Beth chirped. Before I could express a hello in my best 'Don Draper" voice, Jayden came through the double doors. "Dude, you gonna work?" he interrupted. A look of disgust flowed upon Beth's face as I tried to voice a noble "Yes". She turned, I stood and we both parted. I returned to my station. Four tubs of dishes had accumulated since my excursion and Jayden ordered that they needed to be attended to. He insisted that I would work alone as he watched. Washing dishes was baby crap for a Masters graduate and my attention began to wander towards Beth. I could see her walking past the circular windows of the aluminum double doors and felt that our meeting did not go as planned.

Hello Beth.

I had hoped to introduce myself as a new member of the Hooter's family and discus the comfort of her Nylon Spandex costume. Jayden had inadvertently squelched my entry into Nylon Spandex conversation with a female expert. The water from the stainless sink soaked my woolen pants and my crotch was now going super nova. I could now see the concern in Jayden's eyes regarding my clawing hands. Jayden asked me if I needed help. I told him that I needed to use the restroom again. His only response was "Dude, go". I went.

I entered the second stall, dropped my woolen slacks to my ankles and scratched for what seemed like and eternity. I was able to kill, for a very short time, the army of ants that were waging war with my testicles. The pants went back on, I washed my hands as per the rules, and I re-entered the Hooter's family homestead. My regular booth was still empty and after my conquest, I felt I deserved a small break. Besides, I thought, maybe Beth would sit by me and we could share stories about our shared Hooter's family. Beth made darting eye contact and I smiled coyly. I moved to my left, expecting her to sit. But, she walked by, through the double doors and into the back room. Within a minute, Dave came through the same doors. With a stern look upon his face, he informed me that members of the Hooter's family are not allowed sit at customer reserved areas during work hours. I retorted that I was on break and if Beth was returning.

You know that time during a forth of July fireworks celebration, that point that you know that the beautiful display of exploding gunpowder flowers are coming to an end? Dave's words, "I don't think we are a right fit", were the end of my fourth of July dreams. I reiterated my dream of being surrounded my Nylon clad Hooter's girls, he recoiled and I was informed that a check would be sent to me for the two hours I worked. I think at this point Dave expected me to stand leave the establishment. My idea was that I could finish my morning with a fine lunch of chicken wings and the company of Beth the Hooter's girl. But, Dave let me know that former employees were not welcome to enjoy the company of  former Hooter's family members and the authorities would be contacted if I returned. My dream was dashed.

I remember screaming something through my tears and two Hooter's girls laughing as I left. I spent the remainder of my afternoon working on the painting that I had been neglecting and preparing for my Wednesday courses. Through the tears, I realized that the grandest dreams are sometimes left unfulfilled. An unfulfilled dream allows us all to treasure what could be and not what has been. I would like to think that my Hooter's experience has allowed me to grow. My passion for common waitresses wearing shear hosiery has been replaced by strong professional women wearing full fashion Cuban heel stockings.

Busted Tie Rod

See that car? I loved that car, and still do. I may have loved other cars that I have owned more, but I don't hold title to those cars anymore, I happen to still own this one. I don't drive it and it doesn't even start, but I still have it tucked in the back of my garage sleeping under several blankets.


It is a rare 1992 Chevrolet Caprice Classic LTZ. The LTZ specified that it had beefed up suspension and interior amenities that ordinary Caprice's did not have. This car was the first car purchased all on my own, no borrowing money, no co-signing and I didn't even need a ride to the car dealer to pick it up. I saw it in the dealer's used car lot, changed into my big boy pants and took if for a test drive even though I knew I would buy it regardless.


It was 1996 and I had a job working for Hewlett-Packard as an on-sight computer field technician. My job required me to drive over a thousand miles a week and my ride at the time, a maroon 1986 Caprice Classic, was not up to the task. I was not proud of my 86' Caprice, it was purchased a couple of years earlier out of desperation. Don't misunderstand, I liked the car, but it was purchased via a loan from my future mother in-law during a time when I wasn't quite sure what the fuck I was doing with my life and all other automobile prospects had evaporated. Up until I saw my 92' Caprice on the dealer lot, I had always relied on the generosity of friends and family when it came to my automobiles. I somehow found myself happily or unhappily falling into ownership of these cars and never fully appreciated them and for the most part I had abused, neglected and taken them for granted.

The very day I traded her in.

My life was changing, taking direction, and evolving in a way that outpaced my 86' Caprice. It ran well, but while on a service call the rear end had been bashed in by an uninsured driver and my no-fault would not cover such a massive repair. Without trunk space, my new job would not work out as I needed the secure space for boxes of printer parts and my tools. The last straw came as I was taking a late night trip to the Leland City Club. While in the left lane, I quickly came upon a fallen construction sign. Traffic made swerving into the neighboring lane to avoid the sign an impossibility. Swerving as much as possible, I nicked a corner. I felt the hit, it was not that bad. But then came the driving on ice feeling and the all too familiar 'thump thump thump' that began to emanate from the driver's front tire. SHIT...

I made the Michigan Ave. exit, put on my flashers and started to do the dance. The spare was not a full spare, it was one of those little crappy doughnut spares. The car had a goddam full sized trunk that would fit at least three dead hookers, why GM chose a space saving doughnut spare is beyond me. I blame myself for not swapping the spare out months before. But, hindsight is 20/20.

The flat had what looked like a perfect triangle of meat taken out of its side wall and the spare went on quickly. So quickly that I had time to ponder what to do with the rest of my late night. It quickly flashed into my mind that I should return home, wash the hairspray out of my six inch pompadour and turn in for the night. But just as quickly, the idea that my car is whole, the night is young and Pep Boys will be open in the morning entertained me like a drunken prom date. When life gives you a drunken prom date, you have to take it; rules to live by indeed.

OK, open confession. I have never had the pleasure of entertaining a drunk prom date. All of my prom dates were, if anything, very vanilla. Regardless of prom night entertainment, I finished my work by throwing the flat into the back seat of the Caprice and re-entered the freeway towards an evening's night of fun. Fixing any problems could wait till late morning or more likely early mid-afternoon. Driving carefully and at the posted speed limit I did my best to avoid the many potholes and arrived in a timely manner at my destination. I even saw an epic curbside spot available, almost waiting for me. The usual empty lot half a block away called to me, but you can't pass up a front row seat, so I moved my car right in to the parking spot. There was ample space, no backing up and making love to the steering wheel, I could drive right into the space. So I did just that. And then it happened. I nicked the curb with my doughnut spare. There was no rubber bump, it was a metallic scrape that equated to the possibility of a bent rim. Knowing that the night was not going well and believing it could only get better, I parked, pocketed the keys, observed the fresh scrape on the rim of the spare but did not hear any hiss of air. The tire felt plump and solid, it would appear that a second bullet had been dodged and I headed for the bar.

The Leland City Club was one of those bars that stopped serving at 2 but was open till 4 a.m. At a time when my life was heading in directions that I felt I had no control over, the City Club was a point of unchanging singularity. It was my lodestone. As much as I could, I enjoyed myself . The prior events of the evening were washed away by a team of cold Rolling Rocks and I was ready to leave by 3 a.m. (only hardcore desperate people stayed till 4). Besides, the cool summer air felt good on my face and I had a good job and made good money. Life at this point was pretty good. I was hammered, but if I could make it to the freeway, I would be home free and place this weekend night behind me. Then my car came to view. I could immediately see the tilt. It was as if it was sinking. SHIT....

Three in the morning, center of Detroit, no cell phone, no one to call and no spare. SHIT. Think dammit, think. The only thought was that GM was the leading seller of automobiles in Detroit and that the wheels on my Caprice were pretty common. With the thousands of abandoned vehicles in Detroit, the odds of finding one with wheels that fit mine had to be pretty good. So the open road called and I sure as hell wasn't going to walk. The flat would have to carry me on my journey of adventure. Southwest Detroit is a pretty rough area with a plethora of abandoned industrial areas, just the kind of areas that if I were a thief I would abandon a stolen car. 3 a.m. became 4 a.m and the Rolling Rocks I had imbibed were slowly releasing their suffocating grasp on my sobriety. Although I figured I was still drunk because it never occurred to me at the time that I could have probably made it home in the time it was taking driving the darkened streets of Delray looking for abandoned cars. My guess is that after a couple hours, it became a conquest. I felt that I needed to succeed or never return home (something I had tried several times in my past).

You know that part of the night when you start to hear the birds singing and the sky starts to turn funky colors in anticipation for the sun to rise? That is when I passed a junk yard slash scrap metal recycling center. My adventure was looking up as junk yards were notorious for having cars dropped off outside their locked and angry canine guarded chain link fences. A mid eighties Buick would have to do. Park, wait 5 minutes to see if anyone is around, get out and get started. The light from the street lamps illuminated a set of locked wire rim spokes adorning the Buick's wheel covers. Two of its four tires were flat but two were golden. I just had to work a bit to get the wheel covers off to gain access to the lug nuts. I now know why they make locks for chrome wheel covers. These babies were not coming off with the limited tools I had available. A new plan had to be hatched. What were the odds that this Buick had a plump spare waiting in its trunk? A trunk that could easily be popped with crow bar and a few ounces of sweat. The locked trunk surrendered faster than I thought and inside was a plump little doughnut spare....for the win. The pit crews at Indianapolis would be envious at the speed I swapped spares. The night was coming to an end and my journey home could begin. Home and sleep came quickly and around noon I asked if my roommate could drop me off at Pep Boys to buy two new tires. I was going to replace that fucking doughnut spare with a real steel rimmed tire. Hindsight was beginning to become forethought. That next week, while on a service call in Utica,  I traded the vehicle of my misadventure in, purchased my future love and my life changed. It changed for the better. My two toned Caprice LTZ still stands as a reminder that life can be pretty good, that's why my LTZ stays with me in my garage.