Corkle and the Common kids

“Yesterday’s bread.”

In our POS system it’s labeled “Day old bread.” In fact, that’s what we usually call it around the store, and that’s what it is in its simplest terms. But I saw the sign in our store advertising “yesterday’s bread” and had to marvel at the marketing wisdom behind it. Day old bread is damaged goods. Yesterday’s bread is a story. It implies the whole series of events that starts with laying out dough, takes one through a day of interactions and ends with saving and reusing what would otherwise be waste. It’s a tiny picture of disappointment and redemption.

That’s such a clear case study for what a story does. It pulls you along on a journey and leaves you with a gift, some bigger idea about life. The best stories give us hope to deal with difficulty. Whether they tie up neatly or examine suffering and uncertainty, stories do their best work by showing us that there is beauty around us and that beauty is possible.

I missed work Monday a week and a half ago. I had jury duty. I had known I’d have jury duty, or “jury service,” as the orientation video called it, for two months prior, but I wasn’t sure what to expect. 

The jury assembly room in the courthouse far exceeded my imaginings. It had a café, no fewer than five rooms with TVs playing Frasier, free wifi and computer terminals. There was even a mezzanine with a pool table and board games. The dress code was business casual and 200 other jurors, Mecklenburg residents selected at random. It was the most diverse crowd I’d seen in one space since moving to Charlotte. These people fascinated me. I looked at each one and wondered all day what lives they had put on pause to fulfill their obligations here.

I heard from friends I’d probably sit around for a few hours and then be sent home. The sitting around was definitely true, but at 3:30 the PA called all jurors to the main assembly room. A coordinator started listing names of jurors to report to a courtroom that afternoon. I whispered to the woman next to me, “It’s like Russian Roulette!” She smiled, winced and nodded all at the same time.

“Seagle?” “Here.” “Miller?” “Here.” “Eleezer?” “Here.” Click. Click. Click.

“Noble?” “Here.” “Gibson?” “Here.” “Sirico?” BOOM.

“HERE,” I heard my voice go low and loud. “Damnit,” I muttered, feeling my neighbor’s pity stare.

In the courtroom, names were called again at random to select 12 jurors from our group of 25. Click. Click. Click. Click. Boom. Called again, what odds. I guessed I had made at least the 80th percentile of unlucky jurors that day. So I took my seat in the jury box. All of a sudden I was part of a drama that wasn’t about me at all.

Jury selection got under way, meaning we were “interviewed” by each of two attorneys. For the next hour and a half we were grilled by the DA’s assistant, the prosecuting attorney. It was a criminal case. He started building his story, summarizing allegations involving a firearm. It sounded serious. Indeed, he told us the trial would likely last two and a half days (not including the day now spent). The prosecutor asked us leading questions to test our sympathy for the defendant, a scared looking young black man with bloodshot eyes. Often his questions sounded more like assertions. He said circumstantial evidence is equal to direct evidence in the eyes of the law, and the defendant raised his eyebrows. The defense attorney didn’t even blink. Again the prosecutor lectured sternly about “reasonable doubt,” asking if we would use common sense, not some “beyond a shadow of a doubt” standard. I couldn’t stop thinking about the length of the trial. I hadn’t planned to miss the better part of a week’s wages. I hatched an escape plan, a way to avoid a second day at the courthouse. 

Sensing an opportune moment, I piped up. “Have I seen you before?” I asked the prosecutor. He made a puzzled face and said he didn’t think so. I recounted a story of having a traffic ticket dismissed at the assistant DA’s window. It probably wasn’t him, he said. “Do you think you can be fair and impartial despite that experience?” he asked. I thought momentarily and answered with a defeated “yes.” “You hesitated there. Is there some reason you wouldn’t be able to separate yourself from any feelings you may have as a result of that experience?” The prosecutor was thoroughgoing, so much so that one couldn’t help wondering what he was trying to prove. “I don’t believe it’s possible to eliminate all bias, but I’ll certainly try,” I said. This was evidently not the answer my interviewer was looking for. “Can you promise to do your best to disregard any feeling you may have about that experience and evaluate this case solely on the evidence presented here?” He asked again. “Yes, absolutely,” I said, now just trying to appease him. My plan had failed. Five o’clock came and we were given instructions to return the next morning.

I went home defeated, but I was also intrigued. I was surprised by the showmanship of the exchange. The prosecutor wasn’t cordial or winning. Instead his manner was authoritarian, chiding, even antagonistic. The defense attorney had looked bored, almost inanimate. Instead he sat by waiting his turn. It felt a little like watching a stage play. I was hooked, sucked in to the drama. By the time I made my way back the next morning I had excused myself from work again and was prepared to see the trial through.

We picked up where we had left off. The prosecutor wrapped up his questioning and requested three jurors be dismissed. The judge obliged. Soon it was the defense attorney’s turn, and his character came to life. He was older, with an angular nose and thin, protruding brows that smooshed together for a moment before each point he made. He looked the part of a villain, but I found myself wanting to be sympathetic to him. He provided a foil to the prosecutor’s overbearing didacticism. He was serious but with a dry wit. He started vetting us first with questions he admitted were odd. He asked who had traveled to other countries in recent years and if anyone spoke any foreign languages. I responded yes to both. His questioning was more brief, and he focused on three of us jurors: a business man, a professional looking woman, and me. He asked about my exchange the day before, inquiring again if my experience would bias me. I assured him that it would not, especially since the prosecutor was not the man who pardoned my ticket. I backpedaled. As he continued asking us questions I began to feel dismayed, misunderstood. Didn’t the defender realize I’d be sympathetic, reasonable?

Soon enough the defense attorney asked the judge for permission to dismiss three jurors. Click. Click. Boom. I heard my name called one third and final time, along with the business man and the professional woman. I felt like someone had kicked me in the chest. “Thank God,” I heard the woman say as we walked out of the courtroom. The man agreed. “They seem happy,” I thought. “Shouldn’t I be?” 

Hey folks, sorry to bring this story to you late. I broke my bike and bought a new one this week and haven’t had much time to write. Here goes.

Our store is always short-staffed on Thursdays. Yesterday was no exception, and we were extraordinarily busy. There was a list of late deliveries filling the dispatch screen until well after 1 p.m. Later, I found myself recounting some of the day’s fallout to a lady that works at an office tower reception desk I often visit on delivery. She was middle aged and bubbly, with a poofy blonde bob. Our conversation had turned to comparing work stories.

I told her about an order I delivered to a woman named Susan early in the shift. “Well I’m just surprised to hear you’re not concerned about that,” I heard Susan say over the phone as I stepped into her office in a government building near the highway. She hung up and I said “Hey, how’re you today?” “Not very good,” she said. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied, expecting to hear about some health problem or financial crisis. “It took forty minutes for you guys to get me that sandwich,” she said. “Oh, did it?” I asked, genuinely unaware of how late the order had been. I had delivered a catering order before I got to Susan, and I spent several minutes gathering all the sides. I saw some of the orders in the store had been 20 minutes old before even going out.

“And that manager there is a real jerk! I just got off the phone with him, and he didn’t even care that I had to wait 40 minutes.” I listened and tried to be empathetic. Susan restated the same sentiments at least three or four times during our conversation, and in such invective tones I had to pause to be certain she hadn’t been swearing. She complained that my manager was unhelpful and rude, that she just could have gotten a pizza in the time she waited. She didn’t raise her voice toward me, however, and I apologized for her wait and for my manager. She sat staring at her credit receipt, pen in hand, shaking her hand. She was so worked up she struggled to form a sentence. “Well, I’m not going to sign–I’m not paying twelve dollars,” she said. She explained that she refused to pay for her sandwich, which I was to take back to the store, but that the other was for her coworker. I called the store to figure out what I should do and got an earful from my manager, who was audibly flustered. He sounded as ill-equipped to handle the situation as the lady did. “Well yeah, she’s upset because you took too f—ing long getting there. Chris, just bring the sandwich back,” he said. “Listen, I’m going to cross out the total and write in the total for the one sandwich,” I said, insisting that he approve a course of action before hanging up. He finally agreed, and Susan signed the amended receipt. She marched off with it to make a copy for her records, and when she returned I saw “$5.50 ONLY!” written in pastel blue gel pen at the top of the ticket. She vented about the injustice dealt to her for a moment more before conceding that she wouldn’t penalize me for my boss’s behavior. Then she handed me two one-dollar bills.

“Thank you very much for that,” I said, feeling surprised. “Here’s hoping that the rest of your afternoon goes better,” I offered, and she gave a sullen, pathetic nod. I was convinced that she would not feel alright for a long while.

I told the receptionist, whose name I learned was Joanna, about another lady I delivered to an hour later. Her name was Christina. She worked in a Bank of America office building, and she had been waiting for some time in the lobby when I got there. “Oh, ugh, it’s dinner now!” she exclaimed. “It’s not lunch anymore!” “Oh, I’m so sorry, did we keep you waiting long?” I said, gathering that she was both joking and excited to finally have her long-awaited lunch. We had kept her waiting long. Christina trotted over to the security desk and tore open her sandwich bag, smiling wryly and continuing her playful dramatic complaint. I played along, commiserating about how grumpy I get when I’m hungry. She smiled and handed me the credit slip with a $2 tip written in. I thanked her for her patience. “I wasn’t patient!” she protested as I turned and strode for the door. “Well thank you for being gracious!” I shouted behind me as I stepped out, full of wonder at how well the delivery had gone despite the circumstance.

“So you see all kinds of attitudes delivering uptown,” I summarized to Joanna the receptionist. “Oh, don’t I know it,” She said. “I cannot believe these people sometimes. Sometimes I just tell ’em, ‘You need to walk right back out that door and change your attitude. If you’re not grateful for your job, there are 10 or 12 other people out there that would be glad to have it!” “Good for you! You set ’em straight!” I laughed. “I do!” she said, “I tell ’em to their face. I’m like the mom around here.” “Yeah, she keeps us in line!” chimed in the woman whose sandwich I was holding. We both laughed as I gave her the sandwich, collected my slip and said goodbye. “Keep it up!” I said to my new friend Joanna and made my way to the elevator.

I ran a delivery to the Charlotte Plaza building two weeks ago. I had just dropped off the sandwich on the 20th floor and was looking down as I tucked the credit slip into my wallet when I heard the elevator arrive. I must’ve stepped into the wrong one because I found myself going up rather than down. I arrived at the 27th floor, where two men and a woman joined me. They were dressed in business attire, young to middle-aged, but the woman looked younger than the men. She wore a suit jacket and a red and white skirt. She was tall and had shoulder length red-brown hair. “Wait, your name is Ashley?” one of the men asked. “Yeah,” she said with a quick laugh. “Oh, I thought it was Carly.” “I guess they’re pretty close,” she said, tilting her head. “Nah,” “No, not really,” said the men with a little embarrassed laugh. “Wait, who’s Carly?” said the first man, turning toward the second. “I think Carly was the intern,” said the other man. “At least we didn’t call you Dalina,” said the first. “Yeah!” laughed the second. “I definitely would’ve said something if you had called me Dalina!” said the woman as she started chuckling along. I wondered

Ashley seemed to be carrying herself with an air of feigned confidence. She seemed to strive to fit in. The men also tried their best to be smooth and authoritative, but they weren’t totally at ease. Soon I realized the context of the conversation I’d stumbled into. “Yeah, your résumé has your middle name on it too, doesn’t it?” asked the first man. “Yeah, it does,” said Ashley. The man tapped his phone a couple times and then said, “Yeah, it’s Marie.” “You should’ve said something when we called you Carly!” the first man reiterated, evidently still embarrassed. “I just figured you’d realize it sooner or later,” Ashley said accommodatingly.

We all stood in silence for a moment, nervously glancing around so as to avoid eye contact. The elevator whooshed downward.

“You know, when I was in school I had a teacher who always called me Anita,” Ashley started, filling the silence. “I couldn’t get him to call me by my right name. I would say, ‘It’s Ashley,’ and he’d say ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Okay, Anita,'” I started chuckling at this point, less because of the anecdote than the growing absurdity of the situation. My quiet giggle spilled into a laugh, and the second man started laughing too. I was feeling playful when the doors opened so I stood waiting for my reluctant travel companions to step out first. They all looked around again, wondering who was to go first. The men started, then hesitated, a stilted gesture of courtesy for the lady who was now the reluctant center of attention. We all finally disembarked, and I smiled as I descended an escalator, musing at the fortunate mistake that had led me into the whole scenario.