The County Courthouse is a cool place to be. It’s brand new, nice-looking, and comfortable. And it’s super fun when you get to go for free. No indication of how close to equitable distribution I am, but if associated history is any indication, it’s going to be a minute. In the interim, a portion of my assets will be released. And subsequently, there will be a flight, sand, and sea.
In any case, a good suit and a nice silk blouse, a pair of kitten-heel slingbacks and arriving curbside to appear in court all blended, resulting in a pretty good way to begin the day. Court Day fell during the latest heatwave: the town sweltering with high temperatures and high humidity. Up a few floors- the heat already there.
Coming off the elevator, there’s a brief scan of the hallway for a pleasant place to sit while awaiting my attorney. The County Courthouse has wide, curved halls with floor-to-ceiling windows. Evenly spaced along the windows are wood dividers also full vertical height, with benches centered between each. I note two metal and plastic chairs in a shady alcove off to the left, and the first bench along the windows empty and open. There is an old man slouched on one of the plastic chairs in the alcove so that isn’t an option, and the nearest bench is rather close to the alcove; perhaps a bench further along is open. After a peek (two benches further along are filled), it’s back to the first bench.
The bench is comfortable enough but as predicted, sunlit and steamy. The heat and humidity- even when early in the morning- is no match for glass. Off the elevator, I noticed that the new kitten-heel slingbacks were making a squeaky sound against the courthouse floors. The shoes were exciting because they were from Neiman Marcus, and in a rare bit of serendipity sold below original price. Three digits still, but on the lower end. The squeak wasn’t quite obnoxious, but this was the third pair of shoes under evaluation, pending return. They were not only comfortable and professional but also looked good with my navy suit. Figures that they squeak. So I sit and bend to remove a shoe, adjust the strap.
Sitting on the wooden bench, it felt pretty good to be so close to going into court without a bit of aggravation or agitation- or even a trace of nervousness. Nervousness has never really been part of the repertoire. I just don’t get nervous. There had been two previous jaunts to the County Courthouse, but this felt different. Most likely because the other experiences were years before and early on. On those occasions there had been no real idea what kind of shit show might be waiting, or whether I might have a leading role in it. This time around all that could really be felt was the heat coming through the window. And satisfaction that I’d leave with something substantial headed in my direction.
An estimated twenty minutes until Court time. With a little time to think, there was some anticipation about the experience. Courthouses are interesting places, and there’s always something appealing about being in a courtroom: the goings-on, the people, the whole strange little production. The mind with her thoughts all sort of rolling along put a sort of anticipation into the mix and I was nearly in a fugue state when the old man stood up and left the shady alcove. Relocation might be possible! Initially entering the hallway, there had been a sort of immediate casual impression of him: disheveled, poor posture, slumped down in his seat. When he returned, my peripheral confirmed a resumption of that same position. Going back to thinking about the courtroom, my thoughts were interrupted. I’m the type of person that will try to ignore an unwanted verbal invitation if I’m not in the mood to speak. Not in the mood to speak, that’s what I did. I didn’t want my head anything but clear of interaction before my attorney arrived.
The man spoke to me. I ignored it. Then he spoke again.
Looking over at the old man, a sort of fascinated horror struck- and then dissolved into a pleasant surprise. The disheveled old man with the bad posture was actually my husband of nearly twenty-five years. Of course most men in such a situation would digress into an argument of Date of Separation, but that is simply a route of law. The old guy is my husband. Impossible to reconcile- the impressions upon first entering the hallway with the fact that the old man sitting in a plastic chair has been connected to me legally for over a quarter century.
There was almost a little impulse to tap my feet against the courthouse hall floor like a child.
He told me that I looked good in that voice of his that is a mixture of cool assessment run through with a peculiar gravity that always seems to arrive fully convinced of itself. It’s a voice I know well, and it is always a segue into something that he, somewhere within himself, finds very weighty and very important. It is a voice delivered in a way that gives you the sense that if you decide to walk forward into the tall, fluffy grass, you’re going to find very quickly that you’re moving into a marsh. Soon, you’ll be hip-deep in mud, with the enzymes of chiggers breaking down your skin and causing a deep itch and all different types of mosquitoes biting your arms and neck and sinking their proboscis into your flesh.
He didn’t disappoint. But the things he chose to say are irrelevant, as they were meaningless. Side note: enough meaninglessness and for many of the married, the County Courthouse is the end of the rainbow. And there we find a pot of gold. There I sat, flipping a proverbial gold coin straight from the pot.
Looking at him, there were faint traces of who he used to be, visually. He had aged so much that the fact that he’s two and a half years younger than me but appeared to be at least fifteen years older than I knew him to be, was a jolt. The last time anything remotely similar swung around, dizzying, was during lockdown. Not because the canals in Venice had cleared up or because there were monkeys running rampant in the streets of other countries, but because of the realization that something like that could be. I sat there shocked that this could be.
I know some have lived a hard life. There are people who seem to find themselves in ongoing, psychologically tumultuous interactions, and somehow that seems more comfortable than just getting along and going with the flow. The allostatic load combined with oxidative stress is a curious biological accumulation, and over time it can become visible in ways that are difficult to ignore. Consequences are curious little things, and rarely in my decades-long observations do those who fail to consider the various outcomes of choice acknowledge consequence until she’s smeared all over the inside of their lives. For those of us who are the observers, to see consequence manifest becomes the indicator that patience and discernment can be good weapons against the train wreck results that are people unsettled, who become unattractive, who begin to look like the lives they have lived.
Because there it was.
Sitting in a shady little alcove in the County Courthouse.
Looking like an old man.
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