with bells on

Looking at her in the lawyer’s office sitting next to me I realized that things had not been the same for a long time…but for how long? For me it was the constant fighting that led to sleeping with someone else. What was it for her? That was the million-dollar question. She won’t even make eye contact with me anymore. Well, at least her parents can feel a bit of satisfaction in being right for all these years. Remind me to swing by the trophy shop to see if they make an award that has someone on top of it with their head up their own ass. I’ll take two of those.
Her lawyer is in the midst of his bullshit, $150-an-hour jargon when I come to the realization that there are 87 tiles in the ceiling. Is that possible? Although my carpentry knowledge extends about as far as making paper footballs, and poorly at that, I was under the impression that those sorts of things ended in even numbers. That and that my wife was willing to put a bit of effort into her life’s endeavors. 0-for-2. I’ll recount just to be sure.
“…So now that we’ve gone over all the verbage of this paperwork, do either of you have any questions?” Her lawyer asked the both of us directing the question at me.
36, 37, 38…
“Ben?! Mr. Holton is talking to you.”
Yes, Chastity, putting a title in front of Steve’s name does make me forget about you blowing him in the office we currently reside in.
“Sorry, just having a hard time swallowing all of this.”
Nothing? C’mon! HARD time SWALLOWING this?! Man, sometimes I feel like I’m trying to teach Helen Keller how to samba with these people.
The meeting, which feels more like an intervention, slowly sucks my life force away for the following hour until I follow the Hoover vacuum through the thick, wooden door with Mr. Holton’s name on it, out of the office building several hundred dollars poorer. After everything that has happened, the only thing I’m truly grateful for is not having any children. Don’t get me wrong, I would like to not pull out for once after a sweaty session with the ol’ ball and chain, and hop on the emotional and dietary rollercoaster for nine months as predictable and called upon as my father’s bowel movements, but being a child of divorce I know how hard that all can be, and currently I would rather not hear the pitter-patter of little feet who would surely one day resent me for all of the current events.
“So, same time next week?” This was my former wife’s sad attempt at humorous ice breaking.
“I’ll show up with bells on, dear.”
I really am considering showing up in a suit made entirely of bells. That couldn’t be all that difficult to fashion. I think jingle-jangling myself on the catwalk into Mr. Holton’s office would really spice up next week’s intervention, while simultaneously pissing my previous life partner off. 2-for-2. I couldn’t ask for anything more.
I make for the door of my “rustic” ’93 Volvo – how befitting, a car with the male insignia looking more appropriate for an age 40 cafeteria woman – when Chas stops me.
“Ben, wait. Look, I’m…I’m sorry.”
I stop fidgeting with my keys and gaze into deep oceans she calls eyes. This is the girl who at one time I would’ve thrown my finest jacket into a puddle after the greatest storm for her to cross over. I would’ve run across a busy highway to recover her hat that had blown off during a sunny drive in our convertible for her. The day after Thanksgiving, I would’ve gone to the mall…for her. Her sorry streaks down her face alongside the egg.
“Stuff your sorries in a sack, mister.”
I love that show.