On May 8, 2006 a man entered the Jackson County court house with a briefcase full of important papers.
He was slightly overweight from age, but made the first flight of staris as easily as he had in the past 10 year of being in that court house.
Walking to the judge's chambers on the thrid floor, the man by-passed the elevator already packed with moring rush hour traffic. As he passed front desk the smiling clerk took the paper the man had been carying and asked for the judge's signature at the bottom.
One name was already scribbled across the bottom on the stright, neat line with flare. Now it only needed to blessing of an offical to make the document legal, binding, resolute.
Judge ________'s office was emacluately decorated and clean. Only bad news comes from well organized letters and offices. The good news is always hastilly thrown together with little regard for looks becasue the news itself is the attractive part.
Judge ________ took out his pen from the desk and did not even read over the document in front of him before signing it. He was unfazed. It was not his kid or his father he was seperating. It was just another day.
That day my father asked a judge to remove me, legally, as his son.
On May 9, the man called me to wish me happy birthday. I turned 22 and the man on the phone was just anohter person with well wishes and good regards on this day of celebration.
I have not spoken to him since that day. On Tuesday we will be in the same room for the first time since I graduated from school. On Tuesday we will go before that judge once again but we will not speak to one another.
No, that is for the highly paid porfessioanls. They will talk for us, like some half-wit advocate that pretends to know what is going on around them.
These people in the future courtroom setting are the reason I hate lawyers. Its all an act for $300 an hour.If they really cared about what was going on here today, they would do it for free and help us take out the beats for free.
But this is not their battle, they are just the hired guns.
This was most evil mind-fuck to have suddenly dawn on a man after blowing through $500 of booze and drugs in a signle night.
I was back in CoMo for the football game and to reminise with old friends and peers. It has been on e ofhterare times I have actually been around people my onw age that seem aactually interested in what I am doing in life.
Stories and bloody battles unfoled before us at the heidelberg once again. I enjoyed my time. But at the end of the night I knew I was going home to this foul mess that has been festering in the corner for more than a decade.
I enjoyed the drama of the night in Columbia. It was temporary, it was nacient. It was something that, in the end, makes a great story to tell over your next hiundrend dollar tab.
This story. This is a story about a bitter man who took down his ex-wife and eldest son in his twisted version of events. He didmn't care about anything else. He had started a new life that he could simply photohop his real son into.
One big happy family that, according to the computer, makes all look whole.
No, this story, this mistake has put me in a place that is not sad or angry. It does not irritate me or make me want to strangle the first thing I come to.
The feeling I have when recounting this story in my mind or to those who might become inconvienced by me being gone to deal with it, is simply numb.
I would be happy with being angry. it makes me resolute and want an end. I would be happy with being sad because then I could find the people who make me happy and put it out of my head.
But numb? I jsut don't want to do anything. I jsut sit. I feel nothing but a knot in my stomach that i used to get when I was going to a test for a failing class or realized I missed deadline on a story.
This is nothingness. This will hopefully be over by Tuesday.
But that line is false. Even as I wrote it I was lying. There will never be an end.
I sometimes wonder if I will go to my former-father's funeral.
I don't know.