A Lone Juror’s Quest To Find A Single Fork

This short story is based on true events.*

*Let the record reflect that all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, or buildings is intended.

Trust in the fork. May the fork be with you. The fork awakens. I may have omitted my many Star Wars puns from the body of this story, but here: they live on. You’re welcome.

I could tell you that Chipotle simply forgot to give me my fork. I could tell you that.

But, you see, it falls on the customer—mobile order or no—to grab their own fork. So, in truth, I forgot the fork. But let’s be real. Why would food in a mobile order, intended to be eaten with a fork (or spork, to be inclusive) not have one included in the sealed bag containing said food? It still eludes me—though upon arriving home, I was informed it is California law in order to conserve plastic. But alas, unbeknownst to me at the time, I left Chipotle for jury duty: forkless and fecklessly unaware of said forklessness.

You get free parking when you’re a juror. They tell you in the fine print, and boy is it true. Free parking in Pasadena? Say no more, I’m in. I’ll juror all over the place. You get free parking unless you forget your juror badge.

It was right there on my bag, I swear. I’ll get out and check the backseat.

Nothing.

Under my jacket? Nada.

Maybe it fell off and it’s on the floor? Unlikely, and on further inspection, untrue.

I’ll come back, I think I left it at home.

The attendant is disdainful at best.

I park temporarily to check one more time. HA! It was on my bag; it was simply on the wrong strap. Misfortune averted. Surely, this will be the only bad thing to happen in the next half hour.

As I reenter the garage, the parking attendant rolls her eyes so hard that I glace around to check that Earth’s gravity isn’t shifting. I may have held up the line earlier.

I park and open my precious brown paper to-go bag. First thing’s first, make sure there’s a fork.

No fork. Not even a napkin.

This is solvable! I think I have an extra set of plastic utensils in my glove box. The kind that come in a little baggy with a napkin.

No joy. Though it should be noted that I do have some napkins in there—a rare achievement for me. I take a few napkins for the road.

I weigh my options as I walk to the courthouse. Odds that someone will have a fork? Low.

However, people do work here, meaning it’s possible there’s a break room. I can’t go back to Chipotle or go home—that would be too embarrassing, and potentially make me late.

I walk the plank to the courthouse unsure of the future, but somehow optimistic.

The security is fine with bringing food in. They don’t know that I’m currently unable to eat it. A few stray thoughts regarding the radiation from the x-ray machine and its effect on my food float around, but I don’t give them much weight.

Time to find my fork.

I wander the courthouse aimlessly. I get a few odd looks but it’s mostly empty. I try the Juror Assembly room. They had an office there with— nope, closed.

There’s a stray security guard near the back, maybe she’s nice. I did see a sign to a cafeteria, I’ll try that next.

“Cafeteria? Closed down three months ago,” she says. “Lady in charge packed up and left.”

I didn’t realize that was an option.

“How about a break room?”

“No forks in there, we just wing it,” she says. Sigh.

I head to the only functioning water fountain in the building, located on the sixth floor. Hydrated and ready for round two of this nightmare, I make my way to a vending machine.

Time to improvise. I buy two bags of chips: one plain Lay’s, one classic Dorito’s. If I can’t use a fork, I’m still eating my goddamned bowl. Chips it is.

Defeated and preparing myself for the inevitable occurrence of the Lay’s immediately breaking with the slightest application of dipping pressure, I take my prizes from the machine.

As my hand exits, my watch-band catches. The door slams shut on my two bags of chips—the crunch of perfectly shaped chips breaking into innumerable shards is felt in my entire body. Somewhere deep inside myself, a young boy weeps for what could have been. I press on through the merciless trial that is my day so I can attend an actual trial with a full belly.

Rounding the corner to my final destination, I decide I’ll try one more person. I approach the traffic department window.

“This is a weird question, but, do you have any forks?”

A confused lady shakes her head at me. Just then, at the precise moment that I finished my sentence, a man walks by behind her.

Forks? I see him mouth the word. She nods at him. He continues walking.

I slowly turn away, my optimism in tatters.

He reappears just before I’m out of sight. He approaches the window hesitantly.

“You a juror?” he asks.

I answer with an affirmative, glancing to see if he brought me a fork. I’m practically foaming at the mouth at the promise he holds in his hand.

“I brought food,” I say. I hold it up. You see? See it? Look at it. The promise of nourishment in my hands. I’m holding up the brown paper bag for far too long. They get the point.

“I forgot a fork,” my mouth says sheepishly. But they left me without a fork, the voice inside me says. They left me without my precious. *ahem* Sorry, I’m not me when I’m hungry.

(This isn’t an ad for Snickers, I promise.)

“Don’t tell anyone where you got this, we don’t exactly hand ‘em out.” He gives me a wink.

I nod reverently. I could cry. Whatever you say, mister. You’re my hero.

A fork of beautifully crafted, sturdy, black polymer emerges from his hand. It is pristinely wrapped in transparent polyethylene. It is perfect. It is the most wonderful instrument I’ve ever beheld. Hephaestus himself would struggle to forge such a piece. Poseidon’s trident trembles at the very thought of being so inferior. I accept the gift. I say thank you.

Angels begin echoing a chorus of song—not heard since a single birth in Bethlehem two millennia ago. The gardens of ancient Eden bloom anew. Did I mention it was raining? No longer—the sun begins to shine. The universe rights itself.

My quest may have ended, but I will never forget the kindness of the traffic-department-man that day. His descendants will know great fortune, and mine will speak of the feast held within the buff and red-oak halls of superior court. I eat.