Friday Firesmith – Seventeen Dog Years

“Are you Mike Firesmith?” the woman asks at the event, and I wonder if she’s looking for the guy in dog rescue, the writer, the political activist, snake ID, or the guy who loans out the cat trap.

“Yes, and you would be?”

“Tammi. I was friends with your wife. We met once at the art gallery.”

Wow. Now this story ended, I thought, back in 2002, when the divorce was final and my brand new ex left the state.

“That was a long time ago, Tammi. I do not remember you, sorry,” I reply, hoping this ends well and soon.

“No, I didn’t think you would. You’re wearing the same style hat you wore back then.” Tammi hesitates. “That’s not the same hat is it”

“No, different. Three or four hats ago, at least.”

“She owed me some money and never paid me back. I didn’t care about the money but she just left and never told anybody where she was going. What happened to her? Do you know?” Tammi seems concerned rather than vengeful. She’s a bit older than I, with soulful eyes and I bet she’s got a cat that just showed up one day.

“No idea.”

“Okay. Thanks.” And Tammi wanders off.

I’ve lived long enough now that things pop up from the past that are old enough to legally drink alcohol. This doesn’t mean they should, but they do anyway, like some sort of sexually transmitted disease that randomly reappears. Personal History Herpes. I can go months without remembering I was married for 989 days, or as I refer to it, “Seventeen Dog Years.”

Yes, I did know she left owing money and she took artwork from artists who had no idea she was skipping town. Or at least that was what I was told by the artists. I suspect she stiffed her divorce attorney.

Tammi wanders over again, curious, like those people who slow down to take a photo of a car wreck. I worked in traffic and learned to hate those people. I still do.

“Mind if I ask you a question, Mike?” she asks.

“Shoot.”

“Did you think she had enough to survive when she moved out? I mean, I know there were a lot of issues, but honestly, what was she left with?” Tammi is serious. She isn’t taking a shot at me, I don’t think, and she seems to be trying to understand what caused the wreck, not just stare at it.

“I signed the agreement she and her lawyer drew up, Tammie, what else was I supposed to do?”  I can feel the anger rising from the grave again.

“I’m sorry, it’s just, I don’t know. This is none of my business,” and Tammi flees.

I sit and eat a third doughnut, wash it down with more coffee than I truly need, and I remember Rachel Louise Snyder’s memoir, where she says, “I want to be more gracious in my writing here. I want to say my parents did the best they could under the circumstances and with the resources they had. But I don’t think this is true. I don’t think they did their best.”

We both went where the lawyers led us. But the money and property were in my name, and her lawyer fumbled the ball. She wound up with nothing.

I’d like to be more generous with my writing here, and say I did the best I could ending my marriage, but now, looking back, I don’t think I did. I don’t think I did my best.

Take Care,

Mike