FL-110 by Ross Flournoy

The room is stuffy — almost suffocating. It’s a few degrees too warm and there’s nary a window in sight and no air conditioning ducts, or at least none I spy. I can feel tiny sparkles of sweat ring my forehead before I even set foot inside, in part because I can’t seem to make it through the metal detector in less than three tries. My car keys are still in my back pocket.

“Put them in that dog bowl and run it through the machine,” a sheriff’s deputy says.

Once more through the breach — BEEP BEEP. I’d forgotten my phone was still in my pocket. Back to the dog bowl. BEEP BEEP. Lighter in my hip pocket. Finally, I make it through, but not without pissing off a phalanx of potential jurors waiting impatiently behind me. Welcome to the Ventura Hall of Justice.

Room 208. That’s the place I’m looking for. It’s down that hall. No, it’s up the stairs then down THAT hall. It’s 9:01 and my appointment is at 9 a.m. I hate being late for shit like this. And I already hate this place and the reason I’m here.

I reach what I think and pray is the destination, obsessively checking the room number by the door three times. This is the place. I get in line behind four other people: a couple sitting on some plastic chairs arrayed next to the line watching something together on a phone, an attractive woman perhaps a little younger than I who, for some reason (I guess it’s related to work that’s been done), actually looks older, and a cheerful, raven-haired lady who’s definitely younger and seems to know everyone in the joint.

The contents of my messenger bag — which I clutch tightly to my chest like an infant even though it offers the conveniences of both a strap and handles — are as follows: a half-empty pack of Marlboro Reds, an almost full Dasani plastic water bottle, a pale blue Bic lighter, numerous Japanese pens I’ve wasted money on, a pouch of watermelon Big League Chew, and three clear, plastic folders, each defaced with Sharpie in my abysmal handwriting indicating what’s inside: FL-200, FL-105, and FL-110.

Do you ever feel like, when you’re sad, your face just radiates it? Like, no matter how hard you might try to straighten your lips like a level or keep your eyes focused, anyone who looks at you can immediately read the despondency like a stop sign? I feel my lips turned downward like they’re paralyzed in that position. My eyes are on the precipice of welling up with tears no matter how vividly I imagine the scene from Trading Places where Eddie Murphy’s character goes to jail. The attractive but weary-looking woman stares at me for a moment. I look away so our eyes don’t meet any longer than they must. She knows.

Chipper Ravenhair at the front of the line gets called up and starts chatting with one of the clerks while her paperwork is being processed, filed, and stamped. It’s a Monday morning, and she returned late last night from her sister’s place in Arizona. Her sister and brother-in-law moved there a couple years back — he’s a cop. I can’t hear what she says when she mentions the name of the town but, based on the fact that it was a nine-hour drive home yesterday, I imagine it’s somewhere in the eastern part of the state. Or maybe south of Tucson. I know it’s not north of Phoenix because she says she hates the desert and north of Phoenix is actually quite temperate.

That goddamned frown again — hard as I try, I can’t get it off my face. A couple of lawyers get in line behind me: one, a middle-aged woman wheeling one of those giant legal briefcases that looks like the nuclear football, the other a guy in his late thirties whose suit pants are just a little too short and whose dress shirt constricts around his paunch like a boa (and who should also fire his barber). They sit in a couple of the plastic chairs and start chatting with Ravenhair. The middle-aged lady had surgery last week for a detached cornea. The tears now feel inexorable — I  don’t know when they’re coming, but they’re definitely coming. Attractive, weary lady shoots me another glance — she knows they’re coming, too.

The room is Soviet chic, which is to say, bureaucratic drab: all grays and muted blues. The area where the clerks sit lined in a row isn’t even separated by an actual wall, but rather some kind of cheap partition. The glass that protects the clerks from the riffraff isn’t even real glass, but plexiglass. Ravenhair is STILL at the window — I haven’t moved an inch since I got here twenty minutes ago. My legs are planted firmly on the carpet as I maintain the straight posture drilled into me by my parents, steady and still as a King’s Guard.

Another window opens and the attractive, weary woman (who I’ve decided must be named Stephanie) walks up with the poise of someone who’s been to this rodeo many times. Now the only people stopping me from filing my first ever legal documents is the couple watching YouTube on their phone.

The faint ring of sweat around my forehead has turned into a full crown.

A happy-go-lucky process server appears just behind me in line, scaring the piss out of me. He banters with the lawyers behind me. Shit. I forgot to call the process server back this morning. I make a mental note to do that as soon as I get back to my car. I glance at his corporate polo shirt — wouldn’t you know it, he works for the same company I emailed last night. I wonder if this is the same guy who will serve my documents. Probably not — they must have fifty people who do this every day.

This whole scene reminds me of when my best friend Ben overdosed and died in the house we shared — the jarring dichotomy of banal procedure and overwhelming personal grief. The cops and EMTs that showed up after Amy called 911 could not have been kinder or more sympathetic. But when they thought they were out of earshot, they were cracking jokes and just going about their business; there was a casualness and ease with which they did their jobs — they’d probably already been in this exact situation two or three times that day. Me? It was my first time.

Another lawyer pops up to my left like a gopher out of a hole. He starts chatting with Ravenhair, too — she really is the belle of the ball. It’s immediately apparent that he’s a family lawyer. I seriously consider interrupting to ask for his card, but fear my voice will break — I’m afraid the tears will come. Everyone here seems so happy that I don’t want to spoil the fun. I stay silent.

Woohoo! Ravenhair and Stephanie both finish at almost exactly the same time. Two open windows! YouTube couple ambles to one while I wait for the clerk at the other to wave me over. I feel like I’m about to puke. The wave comes and I walk to the window.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

“Good morning, how are you? I need to file some things.”

“What are you filing today?”

I struggle to remember the form numbers but somehow manage to recite them clearly: FL-200 (Petition to Determine Parental Relationship), FL-105 (Declaration Under Uniform Child Custody Jurisdiction and Enforcement Act), and FL-110 (Summons). I hand over the paperwork — three copies of each filing: one for the court, one for me, and one for service.

“Oh, did no one tell you that you need to use a two-hole punch at the top of the copies for the court?”

My heart sinks into my stomach. I’ve been in this hellhole for the better part of an hour, and now, I’m sure, I’ll be sent packing because I didn’t know about the two-hole punch rule. Those fucking tears are sitting right behind my eyes, ready to pounce.

I mumble and stammer. For the first time, the clerk looks at me. Her face is soft and warm and kind, and she sees in mine what everyone else in that room must have seen. She quietly takes the documents and uses the two-hole punch on her desk.

“Oh, on this one, you need to write the name of the case at the top. On all three copies. Here.”

She hands me a cheap pen festooned with what looks like plumage—from bottom to top it’s about eight inches long. I’m guessing that’s to safeguard it from theft. Why anyone would want to steal such a shitty pen, though, is beyond me.

“And what’s the case name?” I ask politely.

She briefly scans one of the documents.

“Ross…FLOWERNOY?”

“FLUHR-noy,” I laugh sadly. “Don’t worry — no one ever gets that right.”

“Ross FLUHR-noy vs. Amy Crilly. Or just FLOURNOY vs. CRILLY. Use that.”

My whole life, I’ve had atrocious handwriting. I actually never learned how to hold a pen correctly. When I was about two years old, the pediatrician told my mother that I had “slowly developing fine motor skills.” Even under the best circumstances, it takes enormous physical and mental concentration for me to write something legible.

FLOURNOY vs. CRILLY. I look down at the space on the first copy where I need to write that. I stare intently at the blank box. My hand starts shaking. I will it to stop as hard as I can. These days, a lot of people in my orbit talk about “manifesting.” I try to manifest a steady hand. Turns out, manifesting is bullshit.

I begin to write as slowly and deliberately as I can: FLOURNOY vs. CRILLY. I keep my head down. That hand is still shaking like a washing machine. My cheeks get really hot. This is it — those fucking tears are on their way. I feel the first hint of moisture on my face, the tears momentarily cooling my cheeks. One copy down, two to go.

Seven years together, never married — that’s the only reason I’m not filing even more motions or briefs or whatever the fuck these are. Seven years of love and connection (well, maybe only two years of that) and a beautiful, redheaded, blue-eyed baby girl all reduced to FLOURNOY vs. CRILLY. That little kid — now three-and-a-half years old with as pure a love as I’ve ever seen in my life for unicorns and rainbows and animals — is why I’m filing anything at all.

And she has no idea any of this is coming—no clue that her mom and dad are splitting up, that her mom and dad are in a vicious, nauseating fight over what her future will look like, no idea how much time she’ll get to spend with each of us, no idea that mom is moving to a new house in a new city. She possesses none of that information. At this exact moment, she’s at her preschool approximately sixteen miles away, most likely harvesting some of the carrots that she and her classmates planted earlier this year.

I start sobbing but I’m good at keeping it quiet.

I hear the THUMP THUMP THUMP of the clerk stamping some of the documents. I keep my head down. I don’t want anyone to see what’s happening to me. But, by some miracle, I’ve finished writing the case name on the third and final copy. So I meekly say to the clerk, “Here you go.” I push them through the little hole in the plexiglass but I’m very careful not to meet her eyes. I’m doing a great job of hiding this, I tell myself. There’s a pause in the action, like time has stopped, ever so briefly. I’m staring at that hole.

Then everything snaps back to life and a short, cheap box of tissues appears in front of the hole. The clerk has silently shuffled it toward me. I look up slowly and our eyes meet, and I see the faintest outline of a smile on her face — not a smile of happiness, but of recognition and concern and empathy. She’s been to this rodeo before, too. I snatch a handful of tissues and, voice breaking, say, “Thank you.”

She knows I’m trying to hide this, so she doesn’t say anything in response. She just nods and smiles with a sweetness I can’t describe — a sweetness as deep as the Pacific, almost maternal, even though she can only be a few years older than I am. She talks me through what to do with the copies I keep, which ones to serve to Amy, which ones to give to my lawyer if I decide to retain one. I look at the faint red outline of her stamp on one of the pages and see her name: A. Robles.

I carefully slide all of the file-stamped papers into their plastic folders and put them in my bag. I look at her one last time and say, “Thank you so much.”

She smiles through the plexiglass and says something but it’s hard to hear, though I can read her lips mouthing, “You’re welcome.”

Now I’ve been to this rodeo, too.

Image by Steve Rhodes, via Flickr Creative Commons