Jack’s rap sheet was a resume of stupidity: a few petty thefts, several residential burglaries, and the occasional trespass. Highlighting his stupidity was a conviction for punching a cop while being arrested for jerking off in public. Why little Jill married a bona fide shitbird was a mystery to most, but the reason was blatantly obvious to me–she wanted to be the one dame to tame a wild bad boy.

Three years and two babies seemed to mellow Jack. But family life didn’t tame his inner punk. Jack grew resentful of the two needy children and the damage they did to Jill’s figure. He unleashed his frustrations by slapping Jill around. A black eye, several contusions and a laceration later, Jill divorced Jack.

Soon enough, Jack went back to committing petty crimes. Participated in the weekly bar brawl. Lived the life of your typical, run-of-the-mill punk.

A year passed. Jack started making veiled threats, sent cryptic messages. Told Jill in a roundabout way that he was going to kidnap the kids and take them to a non-extradition country. One night, Jack circled Jill’s place in his car, drunk dialing from various pay phones.

Jill told me her tale at the bar. Not your typical Saturday night conversation, but not unexpected for a nightclub promoter. I was a shrink at times, listening to and advising my dysfunctional club kids. I sipped my scotch, listened to the broad, recalled what she looked like before she married Jack, back when she was one of my regulars. She asked me for advice. “You oughta get a retraining order,” I told her. “He sounds like a real creep.”

“You don’t know him,” Jill replied, defensively. “He’s a good father to the boys. He’s just going through some hard times right now.”

Jill didn’t want advice. She only wanted her delusion validated. As she walked out of the club, I knew that she’d be another item on Jack’s resume of stupidity. Only time would tell whether the line would read, “Domestic Battery,” “Kidnap” or “Murder.”

Tags: divorce · domestic violence · marriage · nightclub · relationships

Jim’s divorce was the best thing that could have happened to him. The only problem was that he still had feelings for The Ex.

Two years after they parted ways, Jim bumped into The Ex at his favorite watering hole. She struck up a conversation. He was receptive. They left the bar together, rekindled an old flame.

About month later, The Ex had news: “I’m pregnant.” Jim was elated.

Seven months passed. The Ex dropped the load. A healthy baby boy with a strong resemblance to The Ex. Everyone was happy. Jim didn’t seem to notice that the timing was a little off. A passing thought: Why doesn’t the baby look anything like me? But babies change fast. Jim dismissed the thought.

Two years later. The Ex never went back to work. Jim got stuck supporting her and the baby. The boy got bigger. Changed every day. Yet no resemblance to Jim. Doubt crept into his head. Only one way to be sure.

The blood test revealed that Jim was not the baby’s father.

Who was baby daddy? Good question. Jim snooped around. Discovered that The Ex had been fooling around with an unemployed ex-con before he hooked up with her again. Abortion was out of the question. She knew that Jim was still into her. And he was gainfully employed. The Ex planned the chance encounter at the bar. Created the illusion that the baby was Jim’s.

Jim confronted The Ex with facts. Told her that he was going to sue her for all the money she’d sucked out of him for the past two years. The Ex filed for bankruptcy. Jim never saw a dime.

Even worse than being bamboozled for his money was the fact that the baby’s first word was “daddy.”

Tags: divorce · love · marriage · parenting · relationships

He sat in front of his television, watching reruns, holding his grandfather’s old .45 revolver across his lap, thinking of the vicious ex-wife. She had an army of shyster vultures trying to pick away at everything he owned.

I’ll be damed if that lousy bitch gets a fucking dime, he thought, as canned laughter from a ghost television audience mocked him. He pulled on a bottle of cognac, winced as the liquor shot flames down his throat, and continued to glare at the screen in front of him.

After setting down the bottle, he grabbed a remote control and changed the channel several times, settling on a young Jose Feliciano singing “Feliz Navidad.” It failed to give him any holiday cheer. He took another drink of cognac, then put the muzzle of the .45 to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Tags: death · divorce · marriage · suicide

As I made my rounds through the nightclub, I spotted an off-duty cop by the name of Pete sitting at a booth near the main bar. Sitting opposite Pete was a guy I’d never seen before. Pete saw me and waved me over. I took a seat next to Pete, who introduced me to his buddy Joe.

Joe was a lawyer turned cop turned back to lawyer. Before he wore a badge, Joe drove a fancy car and lived in an overpriced downtown condo with his trophy wife. After four years of lawyering, he decided to trade in his designer suits for a blue uniform.

Along with the gun and badge came a pay cut. This was not something that the trophy wife signed up for when she decided to marry Joe. A cop’s salary would not do. The relationship went sour. About a month after he graduated from the academy, Joe’s trophy wife caught him in an extramarital affair and promptly divorced him.

The trophy wife got herself a high-powered divorce attorney to represent her. By the time they were done raking him over the coals, Joe’s paychecks were so heavily garnished that his net salary was $3.93 per paycheck. How the rookie cop was supposed to live off of $7.86 a month was of no consequence to the man-hating judge.

Joe barely made probation. He was plenty book smart, but the streets got the better of him. Although he loved being a cop, Joe knew that he made a better lawyer. Six months after making probation, he turned in his gun and badge and went back to lawyering.

A year after Joe left the force, his trophy ex-wife found herself another gravy train. Joe’s paychecks were no longer subject to garnishment. With much more than seven bucks and some change at the end of each month, he was able to go out and enjoy the single life. It was his quest for good times that led him to my spot.

Joe’s odyssey left me speechless. The man had been to hell and back. I ordered us a round of cognac to celebrate his return. We chased the cognac with scotch. I gritted my teeth on a new cigarette and lit up. “How does it feel to be dating again?”

“I’ve been having a lot of fun,” Joe replied. “But man, I think I’m ready to settle down. Get serious with one woman.”

Pete looked at Joe, puzzled. The guy just returned from hell and wanted to go back? I was equally discombobulated. Pete asked, “Why the rush to settle down?”

Joe paused, considering the question thoughtfully. “All this going out and partying is getting expensive. I can’t afford to party all the time.”

It didn’t take an accountant to figure out that Joe’s last steady relationship cost him an arm and a leg, plus and eye and a thigh. “Can you afford to settle down again?” I asked. “You looking to get cleaned out again?”

Pete laughed. Joe looked at his drink, his eyes full of melancholy. “I was only being facetious,” I said.

“No, you’re absolutely right. Love always has a price tag. It never comes cheap.” Joe smiled wistfully and guzzled his drink. I changed the topic and ordered us another round.

Tags: divorce · lawyers · love · marriage · nightclub · police