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A New York Escorts Confessions

So Tuesday morning at 8:45 (ugh) I and 1699 other New Yorkers reported for duty. First I sat in the very hot Central Jury Room. And then I sat some more. And some more after that. For a very very long time.

Luckily I had smuggled some secret contraband in to keep me busy—a copy of The Sexual Life of Catherine M, the Parisian non-fiction scandal of a book about the erotic adventures of Catherine Millet, a famous French art critic. I even made a brown paper cover for it so no one would know I what I was really up to. If the situation itself wasn’t going to provide any real thrill or drama, I was going to have to create one for myself, right?

When we were finally excused for lunch hours or maybe days later, I ambled my way over to Chinatown. The one good thing about jury duty as those in the know can attest to is the nearby cheapo but authentic Vietnamese place Nha Trang. I was salivating just thinking about it. In fact, I had already worked out just what kind of Pho I was going to order. Unfortunately I wasn’t the only one with this idea. As I was getting on the elevator to go down to the lobby, I saw a fifty-something man with coke bottle glasses, old school saddle shoes and misbuttoned shirt watching my every move. I thrust on my sunglasses and bolted out of the building as soon as we touched ground.

Turns out he was more spry than he looked. “Hey there,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t been blatantly following me. “You doing jury duty?”

“Yeah,” I said, quickening my pace.

“You get on a case yet?”

“No.”

“You’ve done it before?”

“Yeah.” Was this guy really going to think my one word answers indicated any sort of a conversation?

“Oh me too. Are you a school teacher or something?”

That made me stop. “What?” No one EVER confused me with a school teacher.

“You were reading a book with a brown cover. Like the kids make in grammar school?”

Okay. That was creepy. He was obviously watching me the whole time. “Excuse me,” I said pulling out my phone and pushing the first speed dial I could hit.

“Oh alright. I was going to see if you wanted to get lunch but—”

When I got back to the Jury Room an hour later, I ended up sitting next to this girl about my age who had just finished a stint as a paralegal. “Lucky you,” I said. “No one’s ever going to pick you.”

“Yeah, I know. But I still have to sit here. I’m supposed to be moving to San Francisco next month and I haven’t even packed. Totally sucks.”

“Couldn’t you have tried to get out of it?”

“I suppose. I thought it might be cool to see how the process worked from another angle. Silly me.” We both laughed. Then she said,”It’s so annoying. There’s not even any cute guys to scope out.”

“Oh well I managed to get hit on by a guy who looked like he was either a rocket scientist or a serial killer.”

“Oh God. You have to point him out. which one is he?”

I scanned the room to look for him. When I didn’t see him on our side of the room, I got up to look at the other side. Nothing.

I came back to report my lack of findings. “I guess he got on a case.”

“Either that or he’s The Guy.”

“Wait. What guy? What do you mean?”

“The Guy. You know, The Guy. The one who hangs around the jury pools every week to try to ask girls out.”

“You’re kidding me. This is true?”

“Everyone in my office talked about him.”

Now I really wanted to find him. That was so wacky and New Yorky all at the same time it was just perfect. I was willing to buy him some Pho just to hear his story.

Unfortunately I never saw him again.

By the time yesterday hit, I was desperate for answers. I approached the main desk during a lull. “‘Scuze me,” I asked a woman who was sorting papers. “I’m just curious. Have you heard about this guy who stakes out jury rooms looking to ask women out on—”

“Is he bothering you?” she fired back.

Before I could answer another court official interrupted. After a quick conversation, the woman scooted out of the room. I never saw her again either.

Anyone else heard of this guy? Or is he about as real as the alligators in the sewers?