The Accident

Freedom. It was the only word that described the feeling. I stood outside the double doors of the courthouse and smiled up at the sky. It was a dreary gray, but for me, it felt like bright blue. I breathed deeply, symbolically sucking in the court-ordered end of my private nightmare. My life was mine again. It would no longer involve lawyers, judges and hatred.

For four years, battle after battle, my ex dragged me through a divorce war. We had originally parted ways with the idea of splitting everything down the middle, because her salary was comparable to mine. It was her lawyer who found the arrangement unacceptable. My lawyer convinced me to go thermonuclear over it. In the end, I ended up with a quarter, she with another quarter. It was the lawyers who ended up with half. Financially, it would have been better to give in at the beginning.

There was a time when "hate" was not a word I used. Now, I hated Linda Barrow. I would have shouted it from the rooftops if it would have ended the legal roller coaster. In my mind, I renamed her Bitch Barrow. I could only imagine what she called me. The four years took a large toll from my soul.

I was thankful there were no children. We had come close once; a miscarriage I thought a curse at the time – now, a blessing. To drag a child through it all would have created monstrous therapist bills, and pain that would never go away. Nine years of marriage, four of it fighting a divorce, gone to waste. It was difficult to remember how we once felt, when we thought we would conquer the world together. 'I' had been replaced with 'we' and now back to 'I.'

Women were off my list, at least for the foreseeable future. I dated once during the separation, and it turned out badly. I had thought she knew I was in the middle of divorce. She had thought me unmarried in more than mind. 'Hate' was the word she used. It struck deep and scared me off the dating scene. It was an easy thing to forgo. I sucked at dating.

As I neared my car, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Carl, a good friend; one of my true compatriots who suffered with me these last four years. He hated Bitch Barrow almost as much as I. Intellectually, I knew it was more of dislike on his part, but he spoke hate for my benefit and I loved him for it.

"Are you Barrowless?" Carl asked when I said hello.

"Completely and legally," I answered with a swagger in my voice. I had not felt this happy in years. It was almost worth the four years of hell.

"Strip club, meat market, sports bar – you pick, and I'll drink the memories away with you," Carl offered. He sounded as happy as I. There was nothing I wanted more that moment.

"Sports. I need a friend and alcohol. It will be a few months before I can look at a woman without frowning." Of course, I was exaggerating, but I truly needed a testosterone fix. There was a hockey game tonight. A few craft beers, and some zealous cross checking fit my mood. I wanted to forget the last four years. Forget Bitch Barrow.

"Sounds good, we'll catch the Blues game," Carl agreed, "I'll leave work early and meet you at McGinty's at five. We'll eat crap, try a new brew and screw the past." I loved how he put things when he was in the mood to let go. I had a few fair-weather friends, but Carl was my anchor when the shit hit the fan. There was no problem that a night out with him wouldn't ease.

"Five it is." The line went dead as I knew it would. Goodbyes were just not his thing. I drove home and grabbed some jeans and a gray pullover sweater to replace my suit.

++++++++++

"My man, Damon!" Carl yelled from across the bar. He was in jeans with a Blues hockey jersey. The numbers were fading, it being a long-time, often-worn favorite of his. I could tell he left work really early because he had a half empty glass in front of him, and another completely empty one next to it. I smiled at his demeanor and waved my fist in the air. Carl was exactly what I needed tonight.