He hands me the other package. “The portal to Hell has been unlocked.”
“Beg pardon?” Then I take a good look at the package’s return address. “Motherfucker.”
I realize that I write tell-all memoirs, but that doesn’t always mean I share the whole story. [For example, I have seen Fletch naked. More than once, even.] Sometimes things happen in my life that are so stupid and frustrating and unnecessary [Not referring to the naked part.] that it’s not appropriate to share those stories, satisfying though it may be.
Particularly when I’m in the right.
In this case, I’ve moved twice without giving the person who sent the package—now referred to as My Mailer—a forwarding address, so you’d think that would be a heavy clue that we’ve reached an impasse in our relationship.
You’d think, anyway.
I’m a big fan of Dr. Laura [She calls people “whores” on the air. I can’t not get behind that.] and recently she discussed the best description of my situation. She explained how when a one-celled organism senses trouble, even though it doesn’t have a brain, it instinctively swims away. That’s what I finally had to do—I swam away. I’m not an unreasonable person and I have an unmitigating sense of loyalty. But there’s only so much I’m willing to take before I call it quits. My Mailer and I reached that point long ago.
“How’d she get my address?”
He shrugs and then sits down across from me. “You need me here while you open it?”
“No, because I’m not going to open it.”
“I appreciate your liberal use of denial.”
I shove the envelope into a file drawer and make shooing motions. “Thanks. Now please go finish my dresser.”
Turns out I’m not so skilled in denial and I end up opening the package.
The more I cogitate, the angrier I am, because her tracking down my mailing address feels like an invasion of my privacy. I never shared my address not because I was trying to hide; rather, I kept it to myself because I didn’t want to be bothered.
Yet here I sit with a big old envelope of Bothered.
It would be one thing if being Bothered just impacted me, but it actually affects my readers, and that’s unacceptable. The fact is, in order to avoid confrontation, there are entire cities I won’t visit after having previously been ambushed by My Mailer. [I swear it’s not just me. I’ve heard horror stories from other authors about the exact same thing.] I’m angry that My Mailer’s inability to behave has kept me from connecting with those who love my books.
You know what? I’m going to take action because this isn’t right. We’re in the process of booking my tour and I want it to go down without incident.
We used a real estate attorney for our closing and to handle a couple of business matters related to corporate filings for our LLC. At our last meeting, I mentioned the issues with My Mailer and asked if there was a legal way to keep her away from me and my events. He told me all I had to do was file an Order of No Contact. That way, My Mailer couldn’t come to my events, couldn’t call or e-mail, and wouldn’t be allowed to have others act as an agent for her. I simply needed to fill out a form on the Internet and drop it off at the county courthouse. Easy-peasy!
I find the forms, complete them, and tell Fletch we need to swing by the courthouse in the morning. Plus, I want to check out the antiques stores north of here, so this little road trip will dovetail nicely into my quest for a full set of Depression glass.
I’ve never been to Waukegan, but it’s not too far from here and it borders the lake, so I picture it filled with darling antiques shops and cute lunch places overlooking the water.
What I find is a smaller version of Gary, Indiana, minus the charm. The town is basically nothing but criminal law offices, a massive courthouse next to an even larger jail, and the only people here are either visiting relatives in lockup or having their day in court.
I clutch my purse and my husband as we make our way to the main building and I’m pretty sure I hear the woo-hoo-hoo, chh-chh-chh, hah-hah-hah that plays right before Michael Myers pops out in a hockey mask wielding a machete.
As it turns out, the only asshole with a knife is me.
Whenever I’m not traveling, I like to carry my good stabbin’ blade and I often forget I have it on me. As I stand in line with all the criminals—whom I’m totally judging, by the way—I’m the only dirtbag attempting to [Again, inadvertently.] smuggle in a weapon.
Perhaps hardened criminals don’t wear loafers and slouchy socks with their boyfriend jeans cuffed to Capri length, so the lady running the metal detector allows me to keep my knife. She doesn’t confiscate it, but we have to go all the way back to the car to check my weapon.
In my novel If You Were Here the character Mia is obsessed with omens, both good and bad. She believes that our paths are predetermined by the universe and that all we need to do to live our best life is to follow the signs. Mia would say that the knife thing was the universe’s way of telling me to GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT, WE’VE TRACED THE CALL AND IT’S COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE, but I’m not a huge proponent of that kind of hooey so I proceed blithely on.
Fletch and I take my stack of paperwork to the clerk and I tell her I want to file an Order of No Contact.
“You don’t do that here,” the clerk tells me. “You’ve got to go upstairs.”
We head upstairs and file
