Gulp II

So maybe the Big Gal (that would be God to many), is saving me from myself. Spent the evening bonding with 31-year-old (and older) court documents last night. Much of it reaffirmed things I already knew, which, at times, comes as a relief when some of my childhood memories seem like stray strips of celluloid — those random scenes that, once upon a time, fronted a movie reel before the feature film started.

I’m not sure what unnerved me more: discovering that I was case No. 189,929 to San Diego County, or that a report generated for that case number was received into evidence by a Los Angeles Superior Court judge and then ordered sealed. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to view its contents. Maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. Nowhere in my stack of documents is more than a passing mention of my mother’s one-time boyfriend — and not by name. It’s difficult to look up a chap without his last name. So I may never have the opportunity to look him in the eyes and ask: “What in the fuck were you thinking?”


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