After getting the twice-over, I courageously proceeded to “security,” a process which made the Dunkin’ Donuts–Duane one-two punch seem like a day at Canyon Ranch. Reluctantly, I placed my cell phone in a crusty plastic box and then onto the rickety conveyor belt. Cringing through the metal detectors, the chanting predictably began.

“Phone in the bucket. Phone in the bucket. Phone in the bucket!”

What did that mean anyway? Why did they say it repeatedly? Most important, why were a dozen people involved? Not to mention, all the screaming drew presumably unwanted attention to their most unusual uniforms: clip-on bow ties (for women also), pleated pants, which created the illusion of pregnancy (for men also), and some form of facial hair (especially for the women). After everyone in the tristate area was made aware that there was some phone in some bucket somewhere, I flashed my ID card and retrieved my offending phone.

Which brings me to my ID card. Tragic. I just couldn’t understand how I—a watered-down version of Indira Gandhi—managed to look like a battered Janet Reno in the picture. I looked like an old white woman with gigantism, a bowl haircut, and yellow teeth. Particularly mysterious for a short, long-haired South Asian. As if that weren’t enough, the chanters wouldn’t give it a rest.

“She’s got the red phone! She’s got it!” A female guard looked at me with pity after studying my picture. Being pitied by a woman with a bow tie and mustache had to be the dictionary definition of rock bottom. Thankfully, she lost interest in me the second she had the chance to belittle someone. “No red phone. Check it, kiddo,” she growled at the district court clerk behind me. Self-esteem restored. The red phone signaled an individual’s right to bring a mobile phone into the courthouse. All judges enjoyed this right. So, too, law clerks to court of appeals judges. All other court staff, including district court law clerks, were required to check their phones with security. Lucky for me, I was an accomplished appellate law clerk, which, according to the government, meant that I was less likely than my district court comrade to blow up the building.

By the time I approached the elevator, I was exhausted and it wasn’t even 8 AM. Now it was time for the elevators. While seemingly innocuous, they presented their own set of problems. The courthouse elevators represented everything that was wrong with the current state of American conversation.

My first week of work had thus far provided the following breakdown, and I had a feeling it wasn’t an anomaly:

Monday: one overweight black lady; one underweight white guy, bad teeth; one Indian Janet Reno. Bad everything. “Howwasyourweekendtooshort,” the lady said to the elevator wall. Guy: “Aren’t they always.” Reno: Nothing.