December 10, 2004
So I walk over to Sharper Image Printing, in the mini-mall two blocks away. I used to go there when I worked at the ad agency, over 13 years ago; it is right next door to Caffe Latte, where Andrea and I cemented our friendship around the same time. It is also next to AD-RX, where the doctor has called in a prescription for Xanax. Before going to pick it up, I am bringing my finished stamp collage to be scanned, so I can make smaller versions as framable gifts for all those who wrote me faithfully in prison.
The proprietor—who had done business cards for me years ago—is occupied by an attractive woman in her early 30s with a children’s photo. I say I’ll wait, just as he excuses himself to answer the phone. I remember this guy is always really busy,
I hold my collage in a closed circular loop, but you can see a bit of color peripherally, and the woman asks if she can take a peek. I lay it open and she provides the most hoped-for reaction. "Wow…that’s beautiful…" What follows is right out of a movie where the screenwriter has struggled to figure out a way for two characters to meet (say, Will and Grace as opposed to Tracy and Hepburn. I’m pretty sure she picked up the gay vibe. In fact I imagine that’s part of why she was so forthcoming.)
I tell her my story, the story of the stamps. Each and every one on a letter that had been sent to me during a time where "mail was my only lifeline." A paragraph later I go ahead and tell her I was in prison. It is like we are strangers on a train. Confession begets confession. She tells me her story.
She is in the middle of a horrific custody battle with her trust-fund millionaire lawyer husband. He had tried every trick in the book, including provoking a fight and then having her arrested for spousal abuse. I heard this so many times in prison, usually it was the woman, of course, making the phone call, but angry words often translated to "Making Terrorist Threats." What has evolved in our present legal system is a culture of the accuser. Whoever accuses first has the upper hand. The police are required to arrest them, even when it’s basically one word against the other. Mothers often use the accusation of battering or child molestation on the father; Kim (that’s her name) admits to having considered it (probably when she was in handcuffs at the police station) but this guy is so savvy that he now only sees the kids with third parties present.
I inquire about her options, then realize she had considered them all; she is three steps ahead of me. Unfortunately, her ex-husband seems to be four steps ahead of her, and he can afford unlimited legal fees—she is going broke. The stakes are high. One of her two children—the five-year old, I think, the other is 20 months--suffers from a genetic disorder that requires extensive therapy. I finally ask the inevitable questions. "Is it worth giving in? Is he a good father?" She hesitates, and puts it this way. "It’s not that he’s a bad father. He’s just not a good mother."
I tell her that is brilliant, brilliant. That’s what she needs to tell the judge, or what character witnesses on her behalf must testify to. "I’ve been thinking that’s what I need, character witnesses" she agrees. I tell her that when I went to prison, I didn’t begin to imagine how much response I would get if I just asked for help. The stamps silently testify to this on my behalf.
Even though she is remarkably self-composed (think Mary Steenburgen at 33, but a bit prettier) she admits to being near the end of her rope. She tells me she kept all the envelopes from all the letters she received from notes congratulating her on the birth of her baby, and that she was thinking of using them in some kind of "art (self) therapy."
I give her complete "permission" to "steal" my idea. What is great about it is that a million people could do it, and given the nature of stamps no two could be the same, I further suggest that she make copies of the result as Christmas presents, accompanied by a letter asking her family and friends for their support. Sometimes, you won’t know unless you ask.
Eventually, we remember why we are there. I give her this blog address. If you’re reading this Kim, I hope you enjoyed meeting as much as I did. And I hope you beat the bastard. I can tell you’re a great mother.
It turned out mine was too small a job for the proprietor, he would have had to charge me a ridiculous amount for it to be worth his time. And, despite the call I got from the doctor’s office assuring me they’d called in the Xanax prescription, it was not at AD-RX, and the Dr.’s office was closed for the day.
The odd thing is that I didn’t need it. I got back home and fell into a deep three-hour sleep, which makes zero sense because I slept until 11:00 and I went back on the Lexapro. A clue may be found in my horoscope, which mentioned a "giant release of tension." I don’t know if it was the AA meeting, the meds kicking in, or the feeling that my art can serve as a conduit to all sorts of unexpected encounters.
Maybe it’s just a question of getting out of yourself. Thoreau said "the unexamined life isn’t worth living." Which is true, but the overexamined life has its pitfalls as well. All I know is I haven’t felt so relaxed in ages.
It doesn’t hurt that the sun finally came out and we have back our "normal" California weather. Vive le soleil.
MCO 2004
