4 Sentences and a Thank You

 Mr. Kim,

Hello, my name is Claire Huckster and I have been retained by Ms. Jones to represent her in your upcoming dissolution.

We have filed the paperwork and a case has been opened. We would like to arrange to have you served.

Please let me know what days and times and place work for you to be served this week.

 Thank you.

*

4 sentences and a thank you ends the marriage. Ding, ding. 

I reread the email a handful of times and was amazed at how passive and innocuous the words were. Dissolution? For you to be served?  Its delivery was rhythmic, bouncing from ‘we” to “we,” as if it were a poem. Like all recipients of this type of email, I irrationally thought, “19 years of marriage ends with a short, carefully worded email?” It has to end some way. Why not like this?

Most of my questions were about being served. With little to no knowledge of how you’re served, I assumed it was the “chase and surprise” method shown on TV. This could be fun, I thought. 

I waited a few days to respond. When I did, I asked for a favor:

Hello,

Thank you for the email. 

I can be served at my home address after 3 pm.  Any day of the week is fine.

A favor: I’m not sure how I will be served. A tap on the shoulder while shopping at a mall? Approached while walking through a parking lot? Even if I’m served at my house, I assume there will be drama to it. Because of this, I request the following from the server, if possible:

 Knock on the door and ask for me. When I come to the door, ask, “Are you Greg Kim?” I’ll reply, “Who’s asking,” in an angry voice (don’t worry, I’m acting). Hand me a 11”x 8” envelope and say, “You’ve been served!” As quickly as possible, throw a provided smoke bomb (I’ll leave a smoke bomb at the foot of the stairs) at your feet. As the colored smoke rises, make a magician move with your hands, look me in eyes and mouth “gotcha.”

Thank you, Greg Kim

I hit enter. 4 days passed and no reply. She wasn’t my lawyer so I couldn’t casually send an email asking if she read my email. I assume if I did this, my ex would be charged for 15 minutes of her time, which was probably very expensive. 

5 days after the initial reply, I received a text from the server asking if I was home? A bit perturbed because I never received an email saying when I’d be served, I asked, “Did the lawyer give you my special instruction for being served?  Within seconds, the dancing 3 balls of texts wiggled: “I don’t know what you’re talking about! The exclamation point denoting anger. “OK, leave it at the door, if you can.” 

Most of my bullshit is met with blank stares and bewilderment. If it’s online, it’s usually immediately cancelled or met with fake indignant replies. I’m used to it, but I never give up hope that someone will play along with my games. It never happens, though.

Upon returning home, a manila envelope sat eschewed on our doormat.

Nestled between Amtrak train tracks and 880 freeway, the Hayward Hall of Justice of Alameda County looks like every other Hall of Justice in California that hasn’t been renovated. A brutalist structure of concrete and glass, it’s the opposite of welcoming and airy. It’s somewhere you don’t want to be, where no one wants to be. Inside is like all courthouses: Lots of marble; old, large bathrooms with wooden stall doors and public defenders and teenagers sitting wood benches, huddling and talking in low tones.

I followed the sidewalk to the front entrance, my left hand clutching a manila folder with an FL-120 form inside – the form used to respond to initial divorce papers.

The front of the courthouse was blocked by three large, rectangular tables, forming a barrier between the entrance and the public. 3 civil servants stood masked behind the tables, looking tired in I-don’t-care city employee clothes. I queued up in line, standing on a 12-inch round sticker that said 6-foot social distancing. It was early in the pandemic, but we were already used to these stickers and keeping our distance.

I patiently waited, taking out my phone and staring at the screen like the rest of the line. It was a warm late spring day and I wore a baseball cap to shield my pale face. As I waited, I practiced what to say. I tend to stumble when explaining things to strangers. I stumbled while practicing so I gave up and waited.

The fold-up rectangular table separated us. Instead of bellying up to the table, we both stood 3 feet behind the table on opposite sides and slightly leaned forward to talk.  

I took out the FL-120 form in the envelope. “Hi, I need to file this for dissolution,” pointing at the form. The man squinted to see the form. I held it out farther out. “Dissolution?” he replied. I shrugged and low-voiced the word: “Divorce.”  The person behind me looked up from his phone. The civil servant perked up and said, “Oh, you’re in the wrong place. This is the social services building, the courthouse is across the street,” pointing to a similar looking building.

Putting the form back in the envelope, I followed the sidewalk past a hot dog vendor and a T-Mobile tent with two people sitting behind a table. A handful of people were getting hot dogs and talking to the T-Mobile reps, so I slightly veered into the street to avoid the small crowd. It was a pandemic and I was doing my part. An oncoming car slowly passed me, eyeballing me the whole way. The driver’s right hand slowly went up and he gave me a look that said, “What the fuck are you doing? Get out of the road.” I ignored him, mumbling, “Fuck off, dick. It’s a pandemic.” 

A small line formed outside of the courthouse. No tables blocking the entrance. One by one, a handler let us into the building when a person left. I waited patiently and distanced myself from the person in front of me, sans round stickers telling me where to stand.

The line moved quickly. I entered the building through the far-right door, given no instruction of where to go.  In front of me were baggage screening and x-ray machines, blocked by a mishmash of chairs. A makeshift wall sat flush next to the x-ray machine, preventing access to other areas of the room. Past the machines sitting at the end of the baggage conveyor belt, two guards in uniform sat in dining chairs, a social worker type standing behind them. They were talking. I looked through the top of the x-ray machine, trying to catch their eyes. 

One guard looked up and yelled, “Whatcha need?” We were about 20 yards apart, separated by chairs and machines. 

“Yeah, hi, I need to file dissolution papers?” I said dissolution again, hoping to get a different response. My voice at a soft yell.

“What papers?” he replied, his eyebrows raised.

Dejected, my shoulders shrugged and I gently shook my head. “Divorce,” I blurted out, forcing a smile. 

His expression changed to understanding and said, “Oh, put it in that box on the table,” pointing to a cardboard box to the left of me. The box was closed with a small slit on top, red duct tape framing the slip to reinforce the opening. The guard’s change of expression when I said divorce would be one that I would recognize. It said he was in the divorce club.

“What about the money for filing? Can I use a card?” 

“Nope. Check or money order.”

Up until this moment, my strategy was to pay for the divorce on a one credit card. With the option gone, my mood changed to resolve. My cheeks grew flush and the ends of my mouth drooped. It felt like a lead blanket was slowly dragging down my body.

I put the form in the box with no check or money order. Before it began, it was over. I wouldn’t be fighting the divorce or asking for alimony. I had zero dollars in my banking account, and without financial support, I was done. 

Trying to convince myself that doing nothing was a good plan, I turned and lumbered out the door, my body a little bit heavier than when I entered.  I followed the sidewalk to the parking garage, mumbling “Fucking stupid dissolution divorce. Stupid-ass dissolution.”

Doing nothing was the easy way out; fighting for a small piece of the fruits of 19 years of marriage would be hard. I would have to prove I was a good husband, an earner, a good father, a good person and a person with a decent digital footprint. All of this and more would be brought up, dissected and discussed behind a mahogany conference table in a lawyer’s office, I assumed. My lawyer and me on one side; her lawyer and she on the other side. This was too much to bear. Walking away was easier, even if it meant destitution. But I knew all that was bullshit. This was about exposure and vulnerability. Keeping quiet and saying nothing, I thought, would protect me, and sway opinion on me in a positive light. I was delusional.

3 weeks later a white envelope with a return address from the Court of Alameda arrived in the mail. The address was handwritten in terrible penmanship. As a person with bad handwriting, I noticed good and bad handwriting, and judged my handwriting against the bad. Knowing it had something to do with the form I submitted, I slowly opened the envelope and peeked inside. The form I submitted was in the envelope with a Post-It affixed to the front that said, “Filing fee of $435 dollars required. Please pay.” The penmanship was horrible.