Or, rather, I did, but the computer didn’t save it. I have to rewrite my Miami stuff. Ugh.
All of the upper management (read: predators and harassers) are going to be out of town for a meeting until Friday, and I forgot how it feels to be in my office and not feel someone coming up behind me and immediately tense. Bad feng shui to sit with your back to the door, but I think they make me keep my desk like this to make me tense, keep me on edge.
And I got a car, a new 2003 black Mitsubishi Galant. I can say this online now that I am divorced and David can’t get his crummy spendthrift hands on my hard-earned car-car. I know, another black Galant?!? But I love her, she was all I could afford and still feel proud of the car I was buying, and she has a sunfroof and leather. So there.
Did you catch that?
Yippee. I want to be superexcited-omigod-i’m-divorced!!!…but it’s not working out like that right now. Not yet. It’s not like I lived with the man for the last two years or anything, barely heard a peep form him, and I wish I could give him advice. Tell him that things die a slow horrible resentful death when you’re not man enough to just come out and say or do anything, so strap some on next time and just help finish it. Coward. You’ll feel a whole lot freer.
It was the day of the divorce, stressful because we sat in that courtroom forever, waiting-waiting for someone to show up to defend David, waiting for David, because he never said anything to me again about the divorce, waiting for the judge (who was more than an hour late). I am so gl;ad he never showed.
We (Mama the Great came, too) sat through numerous prove-ups of divorces with children and property, and I silently prayed that my microknowlegde of the law (all I know is it’s strict, scary, and arcane) was correct. That if David didn’t show up and I did, I would automatically win. I had no lawyer. If today made me need one, I woul dget one, but I am not spending my sparse paycheck on a lawyer, the ripoff machines. I wanted nothing from David that I didn’t already have. I just wanted out. Deep in my thoughts, listening only when the judge read out a case number, I was stunned when the bailiff said, “All Rise!”. The court reporter started filing out of the room, the judge left, and the bailiff walked around his desk.
“Did I miss something, Mama?”
“Maybe they’re just going on a break…?”
Suddenly stiff with terror and a drive to complete this bullshit, I stopped the bailiff and asked him about the divorce. He looked at my papers and agreed that they should have called my name up, but for some reason, the judge didn’t. He asked us to wait, and he would look for my file.
fidgetfidgetworryworry…Mama and I gritched about the stupid process and what do they think they’re doing misplacing my file, and of course i was on the schedule we saw it outside…but we said these things in the hushed undertones of the cowed, because, after all, I was asking an enormous favor of this judge: my freedom.
The only ones left in the courtroom, we worried about the day, whether the judge was already on the golf course, etc. When the baililff came back in and said, “All rise!” and Mama and I stood up, I realized the absurdity of the situation. Just us chickens here, my own private divorce hearing.
The judge asked me how to pronounce the name, asked its origin, and noted that David and his lawyer were absent. I agreed politely with his statements, and he said, “Alan Chen has been in this courtroom maaaany times…” and let it hang. I was dying to get some dirt on David’s lawyer, so I said, “Really?”, and the judge, ever aware of the court reporter, said, “Yes he has.” I knew I wasn’t going to get anything else out of him, and then the judge said, “So is there anything you want to tell me?”
I seriously thought, “Oh my God, where do I begin?” Do I tell him about the emotional alienation, how he made out in front of our friends with his work-related whore? Do I tell them about the fake divorce letter he sent trying to stall for his green card? A million insults and aches crossed my mind, then I remembered the script. The script that a year ago it simply killed me to read aloud, that I couldn’t read aloud without crying huge sloppy tears. The script given in the divorce papers.
I picked it up and read it, word for word, like it was mine. I owned that script. It was what I needed. The judge smiled at me, and gave me my papers back, signed, and declared me a free woman. It’s seriously about time, ya know? 😛