Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

in line behind a bunch of haggard ladies. The line moves interminably slow and we find out that’s because only one woman’s doing the intakes. After an hour, I say to Fletch, “Do you want to go? Maybe I’m overreacting and this is probably just silly, so we should go.”

“Up to you,” he replies. “You’ve waited this long and you want a resolution, so maybe we should stay. Besides, I don’t have anything else on the docket [Sign. SIGN. BIG FAT LANGUAGE USE SIGN.] for the afternoon.”

“Reason enough,” I agree.

Not long after this, another woman comes out, takes one look at the line, and immediately jumps in to help. “Hi, please come in. I’m Lana, and I’m a volunteer victim’s advocate.”

At no point yet does it occur to me that the court might consider me a “victim” and not just Bothered.

I brief Lana on the situation while Fletch wanders over to help himself to coffee. When I show her my paperwork, she says, “You don’t want an Order of No Contact—you need an Order of Protection.”

“I disagree. I’m in no danger; I need to be very clear on that. I’m just annoyed and I need to protect myself against having my events disrupted,” I explain.

From the other desk, the woman who’s employed by the courthouse barks, “Order of Protection!”

Fletch meanders back over, blowing on his hot Styrofoam cup. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Order of Protection!” she calls again.

The whole staff seems to agree that this could affect my business, so I begin detailing various annoyances for my Protection Order and I have to fill in all kinds of paperwork. I don’t understand why they can’t use the forms I already filled in, but whatever.

SIGN.

I’m trying to pay attention to what Lana’s saying, but there’s a woman next to me who keeps talking about safe houses and being thrown down the stairs and, frankly, it’s hard to concentrate. All my instincts say to grab this woman and bring her home to live in my guest room.

After we finish, Lana tells me, “We’ll get you your court date now, so follow me.”

Um… what?

Fletch and I flash each other confused looks while we pass down a long hallway. We enter a room that looks a lot like a courtroom.

That’s because it IS a courtroom.

I’m placed in a row with a number of women, many of whom seem to be bruised or missing teeth. Fletch is ferried off to the seats in the back and I notice that he’s the only man in the room who isn’t the judge, the bailiff, or the defendant.

Woo-hoo-hoo, chh-chh-chh, hah-hah-hah.

I don’t understand what’s happening with the pregnant lady with the black eye currently standing in front of the judge because everything she’s saying is going through an interpreter. However, I get the gist of it when her esposo comes shuffling out in an orange jumpsuit, shackled at the hands and feet.

Oh, dear.

I’m now fully convinced that my victim’s advocate had absolutely no idea what she was doing and that I should not be here. Yet I have no idea how to extricate myself.

The judge confers with the translator and then bangs his gavel, saying that a two-year order of protection has been granted. The translator tells the woman this, but instead of being happy, she starts to cry slow, fat tears down her face and all I want to do is hug her. I feel sick about this poor woman being stuck in a country where she can’t speak the language, watching her only form of support being hauled back off in chains because he’s a fisty douche bag.

Kind of puts that whole Bothered thing into perspective. The minute I get out of here, I’m finding a battered women’s shelter and writing them a check.

While this is happening, the woman who’d been in the other room with me sits down next to me. In her lap she holds five sheets of paper, each line filled with details on how her husband beat her and threatened her life.

Suddenly Fletch’s expensive woodworking habit seems charming and endearing, not annoying.

Okay, universe, message received.

I’ve gotten plenty of perspective. Now please get me out of here.

The next case is called and a woman approaches the judge and says she’s mad at her husband because, “He be drinking all the time.”

“Has he physically harmed you in any way? Does he threaten you? Has he threatened to harm your children?” the judge prompts.

She considers this for a moment. “No. But he be drinking all the time and I don’t like.”

Her husband interjects, “I don’t be drinking all the time. I go to work all day, six days a week. When I get off work, I like to drink because I be working all the time.”

The expression on the judge’s face hovers somewhere between aggravation and resignation. If the past five minutes is any indication of what he has to listen to on a daily basis, then I’m totally voting for judges to get a pay raise during the next election. “So what you’re telling me is you’re not in any physical danger and there have been no threats. Ma’am, I have to ask—what is it you’d like for me to do?”

The wife replies, “Make him stop drinking all the time.”

And that’s when Fletch lets out a bark of laughter that’s so loud that every single person in the courtroom turns around to look at him. He tries to cover it up with a coughing fit, but no one’s fooled. [Hey, Bravo? Bet you wished you’d approached me for a reality show right about now, eh?]

The judge decrees a two-week Order of Protection, yet when they’re done, the couple walks out holding hands.

I weep for their children.

Then, it’s my turn. Lana accompanies me to the bench and gives me a couple of reassuring pats on the arm, sensing that I’d like to die right now, but probably not for the reasons she thinks.

The first words out of my mouth are, “I’m in the wrong place.” I explain