10

Faith

+++

Call.

If you put in the work, and stick to the plan…

“…the mobile subscriber…”

Ruining your life can become an effortless art form.

You try calling again.

Probably busy.

Sometimes people just get a little overwhelmed with life.

It happens.

“You guys want separate bills?” This, from a lovely young lady in blue.

Press Call.

“Thanks Mary. One check, sweetheart. I’ll take it,” says Frank, who is preening from ear to ear.

The Magical Milk Maid Mary shrinks, then averts her eyes down and to the left.

Her pulse is racing, but in blue.

“…mobile subscri…”

“That really isn’t necessary, Mr. Rivers.” This from a guy named Dan.

“Dr. Rivers.” Frank says, as he shoots a warning glare towards the man, before looking back at Miss Mary Blue and continues, “One check, Mary. We’re wrapping things up now. Give my best to your dear, dear mother for me, will you?”

Momma Blue… not you too?

Call.

Blue moves at a glacial pace, nodding ever so slightly and pushes out what can best be described as what an otherworldly type being might smile like if they were attempting to mimic the first smile they came into contact with upon their arrival…

“…the mobile subscriber you…”

…which just so happened to be plastered across the face of a rural farmer who was losing his virginity getting a blowjob from his uncle.

Frank continues, “How she doing anyway?”

Call.

Or the solemn look of madness that someone might carry around with them if they were the type of kid who used to cap off all their birthday parties by substituting the piñata with the family pet.

“…the mobile…”

But only after opening their one and only gift. Which was always a new family pet.

Press Call again.

The type—

“Dr. Rivers?” Says Dan.

…of smile that could get a newborn smothered in its crib.

“…the mobile customer…”

The Bottle Queen in royal blue now turns towards you without acknowledging the question.

Call.

Her face softens to a hint of okay as she says, “You got one more on ice still, but it ain’t going anywhere, you know. How about a glass of water? Supposed to be a warm one.”

“…the mobile…”

You really don’t know much of anything, anymore. Except Señora Azul is asking you to come back and see her sometime.

Call.

Nod in defeat to Madame le Bluè and finish what’s left of your breakfast in a bottle. Eleventh helping in total for the day.

“Dr. Rivers?”

Eleven more reasons why you don’t deserve someone like her.

“…the mobile…”

Why you don’t deserve anyone.

Call.

Hand Her Majesty the hollowed out corpse of one of her guards. This, the same fate of the ten who came before him.

Death by exsanguination happens to be your specialty.

“Right with you guy… my apologies,” says Frank, as he thumbs through a parade of perverts on his phone.

The perpetually blue beauty reaches out with an air of grace and accepts another empty promise.

“…the mobile customer you…”

It’s shape, a brown bottle. Made of glass.

You know the type.

Call.

The ones you’d see on Saturday mornings in the clutches of a cartoon villain, with mini white exes painted on either side. Three in total.

“…the mobile…”

Or the kind your grandfather would suck on when he watched those old timey movies on VHS.

Press.

The type filled with sad green men wearing sad green helmets, who take turns dying and shooting at enemies they never get to see.

Call.

Fighting for families they see even less.

The type—

“—um, guys?” Dan says.

Of bottle…

“…the mobile…”

That a father chooses over his family.

Press Call again. And again. And again. Before switching to over and over and over. And then a few times more. In all likelihood, a few times too many.

You’ll have that, they say.

Cut yourself a little slack.

After all, who would ever stop searching for a Heavenly light that turns pain into love?

“…the mobile customer you are trying to…”

…and lately. Your soul into dust.

“Hello?” This from Dan, now with a tepid urgency to his voice.

Call.

“Where were we?” Frank finally says to Dan, who is sitting across the booth opposite himself.

“…the mobile customer you…”

His name is Daniel Parrisher. 37. Father of three.

Soon the be a divorced father of three, every other weekend.

If he’s lucky.

Call.

Daniel is about to find out in real time, that there’s an organized chaos ingrained in self-imposed defeat.

After all. Blueprints are necessary for demolition.

Complete catastrophe requires some forethought.

Quitters…

“…the mobile subscriber you are…”

…plan ahead.

One more for the road…

Press Call.

Dan is about to discover a secret about our innate self destructive nature. Our detachment from self-loathing, only to embrace self destruction. Much like the crisp summer basting, after a saucy series of base tans… getting primed and ready.

“…the mobile…”

An all expenses wasted, no fucks given five star shit-show.

Press the Call button, yet again.

In place of the traditional white picket fences and PTA meetings, there are post modern chemical dependencies and death from malnutrition chić.

“…the…”

Replacing family vacations, ballet recitals and matrimonial vows, you’re left with empty conversations with people who couldn’t care less, parking violations collecting compound interest, and poverty level fashion lines as the main staple in your wardrobe.

Call!

Instead of everything you’ve ever loved…

“…the mobile subscriber…”

You’re left only with the Hell that it’s absence has created.

Right where you belong.

Call…

It turns out.

With little to no will power and laughably misguided self truths acting as your character attributes, it’s easy to convince yourself you’re not just making everything up.

“…the mobile subscr…”

Frank turns back to the prospective client and says, “Look. At the end of the day, if she goes for full custody, you’re probably fucked. But if you settle, you’re fucked and a pussy. Don’t give her that.”

Oh Frank…

You can’t beat a man who has nothing to lose.

Call.

He continues, “Go out swinging, champ. Be a man. Show her who has the balls in this relationship. Remind her who the man of the house is… well you know. Besides the other guy from the pictures. But that’s all the more reason to throw everything you got at that double-dicking jezebel…”

The Hero known as Dan interrupts Frank, “Hey, she’s still my wife! Could you maybe show a little respect, please?”

Bad move, Danny boy.

Bad. Move.

Press Call again.

Frank shifts towards Dan the Man, “Not for long, if we don’t get to work immediately building your case. I cant do that until you give me the go ahead.”

You have to hand it to the man.

“…the mobile subscriber…”

He does have a gift.

Try again.

Frank continues, “Now are you ready to take back control of your marriage? Or are you gonna lay down and die, while your neighbor and half the goddamn sheriffs department dick down your beautiful bride?”

He glares at the walking mass of devastation, who sighs inwardly, his eyes already welling up. His fate, already sealed.

As they say, you must give credit where credit is due.

“…the mobile subscriber you…”

Call a duck a duck. Right…?

Call.

When the monkeys on your back start to gang up you, it starts to feel like you are the endangered specie…

‘…the mobile customer you are trying to reach cannot…”

You wonder if they make shock collars that work on inner demons.

The devastated man named Dan picks up the fountain pen and signs on one of the dotted lines.

All but ensuring the loss of his case and in all likelihood, his family too.

Followed by what’s left of his faith in humanity.

Well Danski, for what it’s worth… The truth really does set you free.

Not where you’re headed though.

In fact. In family court, you check your freedoms at the door and the truth is whatever the judge says it is.

Period.

Call.

Vindication or Damnnation.

We normally decide for ourselves, which case applies.

“…the mobile…”

With our actions.

Exposing the truth doesn’t change your fate if you are an honest man.

Call.

The truth can only hurt you if you let it. One way.

“…the mobile…”

Or the other.

Then with a flick of the wrist.

Call.

We get what we deserve.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Frank offers a reassuring hand to the shoulder of the disaster aftermath, formally known as Dan, “…Dale, you’re doing the right thing. We’re gonna get this homewrecker and fuck her up the ass, big time… Hey ah, you got some syrup on your jacket there, you fuckin’ bum. Here Doug, you got a guy for that now…” Frank then hands him the napkin he cleaned his butter knife with.

Press Call.

“It’s Dan…” he says in a broken tone, as he tries to wipe the syrup off his navy Men’s Wearhouse 3 for $99 business-casual blazer, which is clearly two sizes too large.

…the mobile subscriber…”

He ends up adding some butter to the mix instead.

Call

Disaster Dan, who is now cosplaying as a pancake, hasn’t learned that taking accountability of your own worthless nature is vital for longevity.

“…mobile subscribe…”

“You’re goddamn right it is, Dan… that’s the attitude she wants to see, trust me. Put it here, ya prick! Come on, up top!” All this from Frank, who begins to lift his hand up for a high five, but then spots a hue of blue approaching and proceeds to not go up top. Leaving his new client in a frozen bubble of defeated salute.

Call.

The one he will most likely remain in for the rest of his life.

“…the mobile subscriber…”

All hail the darkest side of market economy.

Call.

“You’re all set.” Blue says to Frank.

“Mary. Thank you, take care hun. You guys call me if you need anything.” Franks says as he stares into her soul. “Anything.”

“…the mobile…”

“You got it.” She says, then briefly makes eye contact with you and turns to leave.

Press Call again.

Some pills are definitely harder to swallow than others. But as it stands, accepting his insignificance is the only liberation that Daniel has left.

Really though.

You’d think it would be easy to keep track of a mess. Bookkeeping for the worthless should be a cakewalk.

You just add some substances.

Subtract some patience.

Fall in love…

“…the mobile subs…”

Divide your things.

Call.

Lose the friends.

Carry the enemies.

Anxiety is multiplied tenfold.

Factor in costs, incorporate the service fees…

“…mobile subscriber you…”

It appears that breathing versus the effort it takes to breath, is barely break even. She’s about to go belly up, gents.

Smoke ‘em, if you got ‘em, boys.

“We’ll get started with the paperwork first thing Monday. Okie Dokie?” Frank then picks up his phone and picks at his teeth with a toothpick.

Dead Man Walking responds, “…um, Dr. Rivers. Isn’t Monday Labor Day? It is… the kids are with their mom. Normally we rent a little cabin by Lake Mead, but with everything… ”

Frank cuts off Dannorino now, “Please, we’re friends here. Call me Frank. And look at you, already saving your money. As your counselor I would say that’s a very wise move, my friend.” He then looks at you and taps his watch, followed by a display of three fingers.

Three minutes and counting.

Three hours billed towards the retainer.

Press Call.

Frank continues to Danny down in the dumps, “And you’re right, it is a holiday weekend. Take the rest off for some you time. Since the harlot has the kiddos and all. Get hammered. Or head out to my place, get your little dick wet. On the house. We’ll get the ball rolling first thing Tuesday. Okay, Chief?”

He grins gleefully and then extends his hand to seal the deal.

The doomed daddy reaches out to shake hands with the devil himself and says, “…thanks Frank. I appreciate…”

Frank cuts him off again, “…Doctor Frank.”

His face goes cold as he grips down on Dan’s limp hand.

He doesn’t blink, or break eye contact… before finally saying, “Don’t mention it, Dan.” He smirks and maintains piercing eye contact.

“…the mobile subscriber you are…”

The timid little Dandelion is then forced to look away himself, as he boo-hoo’s a pursed lip cuck smirk back, before letting go of the hand and finally… staring off blankly into nothing. Desperately struggling to hold back the water works, until a rogue tear escapes down his right cheek.

He does not wipe it off.

Call.

Well Danno, at the end of the day you know what the say.

Never give a sucker an even break.

Leave the table without excusing yourself and head for the rear exit, towards the car park.

Away from the scene of the crime.

You see.

What Dan the nearly broken man failed to realize until it was far too late, was that unconditional, is anything but.

Til death do us part, has some exit clauses hidden amongst the fine print.

“…the mobile subscriber you…”

Love will always be subject to some terms and conditions.

Turns out.

Divorce is the fourth most common cause of bankruptcy, the average cost landing around $50,000, after all is said and done.

And Frank is anything but average.

Press Call again.

The loss of a lover is traumatic enough on it’s own. Getting divorced makes it a public spectacle.

The courtroom transforms into a battleground, where vicious and baseless accusations can act as evidence.

Each side carts in whatever forms of so-called evidence they might have. Risqué family photos, private journals, home movies and love notes. Leather riding crops and foot long dildos.

All of your dirty secrets and indiscretions…

“…the mobile subscriber you…”

…being aired in open court by your closest confidant. Both sides aiming only to win, at any and all costs.

Separation agreements are designed to be disagreeable by nature.

Adversarial.

Polarized.

Call.

Grown adults weaponizing their own offspring to spite a jaded spouse. Children become assets.

Prepubescent pawns.

Your pride and joy, rendered into cannon fodder.

Living leverage with loose teeth.

“…the mobile subscriber you are…”

Family court is just another way we’ve found to monetize misery.

To capitalize on catastrophe.

Profit from pain.

Bonds being broken like the promises before them in a modern day coliseum, overseen and moderated by a corrupt oligopoly, who wrote the legislature themselves.

Call.

It’s a great business model if you think about it.

Overzealous methodology is a selling point when Beverly Hills Barbie has had it with her beloved beau spending too much time at the Country Club and she wants #1.

“…the mobile subscriber…”

In divorce attorney’s eyes, the more acrimonious things get, the better.

They sit shamelessly alongside clients, after having ushering them up for a front row view of a family being destroyed.

The family they built.

Call.

Their bank accounts are pilfered from day one, to pay for things like attorneys fees, clerical costs, and court side seats to the up close and way too personal, interactive user experience displaying their entire lives being obliterated in front of their eyes.

Litigation is purposefully drawn out, with the counsel having no reason to resolve the cases, as they are paid by the hour.

Milking the cash cows.

Fleecing the flocks of their fortunes.

“…the mobile subscriber…”

Why cook the golden goose, when you can fuck it every day?

Call.

Everything you called home.

Hopes.

Dreams.

Along with all the memories you’ve made together.

“…the mobile subscriber…“

Ripped to shreds and then set ablaze, while attorneys on both sides stand by with the intention to keep it stoked, until all that’s left is the smoldering remains of everything that mattered to you.

An entire world reduced to ash, right in front of your eyes, as both sides paper each other in an endless volley of frivolous motions and redundant requests.

One side attacks, the other is forced to respond.

Feverishly conniving and conjugating ways to make you pay them to resolve the conflict they’ve provoked.

Call.

Marketing their services to aid in the remedying of the problems they created.

With full immunity, to boot.

A rather fitting encapsulation of our cultural repugnance, as it were.

Endlessly marching in the direction of anything we deem fuckable and towards everything we don’t need. A nationwide death spiral of insatiable greed.

Our true love is the almighty dollar… to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse…

“…the mobile subscriber…”

…til death do us part, indeed.

Call.

+++

To the man I was taught to hate, who became the only one I’ve ever loved…

This one’s for you, Pops. You’re the best man I know.

And I’m proud of you.

Always.