
 Copyright 1998, 1999 by Jane Urquhart

 1-800-DIVORCE
 by Jane Urquhart

 Author's Note:  I don't know why I didn't finish this
 one--I just lost interest. I think she was going to go
 to bed with her lawyer or something, but I forget.

                  ----------------

 Just riding along, coming home this morning from the
 airport thinking of nothing much, I was half-listening
 to the car radio when a commercial caught my attention.
 "1-800-DIVORCE,"  the man said,  "because not all
 marriages are made in heaven." Clever. But tacky.
 Still. You call that number, get voice-mail, I thought,
 and they start giving you choices.  "Press One if you
 have a touch-tone phone."   Click.  "If you are a Pro-
 testant, press One;  if you are a Catholic, press Two;
 if you are seriously considering kiling your spouse,
 press Three."

 My name is Gillian Franklin, and I'm forty-three years
 old.  Not that that's much of an achievement. My
 youngst child, Suzanne, left for college this morning.
 Her brother, Charles, a college junior, left last week.
 My husband makes $400,000 a year, more or less.  This
 is handy, because he likes to buy things.  Cars, boats,
 sky-boxes, Armani suits and call girls come to mind.
 I'm used to this, but somehow that commercial just
 caught my attention.

 Click.  "If you want only a civil divorce, press One;
 if you wish to obtain an official annulment as well as
 a civil divorce, press Two;  if you are undecided,
 press Three." Oh, yes--"If you have no money of your
 own, please hang up."  They forgot that one.

 I pictured myself reaching for the cellular telephone
 that ws lying in the passenger seat and dialing.  The
 woman in the picture didn't look like me.  She was
 wearing some kind of  jump suit and she weighed at
 least ten pounds less than I do. Had a nicer haircut,
 too--sort of shaggy and unkempt looking, but nice.
 Mine, of course, is not like that.  It's more like
 something you see in those ads about smart elderly
 women trying to tell their stupid husbands about
 medicare upgrade policies. It's not gray, but otherwise
 it's very like that--I  m well-groomed.  I was wearing
 a wool suit, with a skirt.

 Fortunately, about that time someone cut in front of
 me and I had to slam on the brakes.  That brought me
 back to reality.  I suppose it was fortunate.  I had
 put Suzanne on the airplane, left her at the gate,
 that is, at an ungodly hour of the morning, walked
 half a mile back to the parking lot, gotten in the car
 and started home.  Then I heard that commercial.
 Something had been bothering me ever sinc I left the
 gate, but I hadn't been able to pinpoint what it was.
 Almost as soon as I finished with my clever little
 projection on "1-800-DIVORCE" it came to me.  Reality,
 I decided, was not terribly pleasant.  Another thought
 crowded in.  I realy had to broaden my vocabulary. So,
 out loud, right there in the car with no one there to
 hear me, I said, "Reality Sucks." And I found myself
 smiling.

 Ordinarily if I were riding along in the car, returning
 from some errand, I wuold have been thinking about the
 next ten items on my list of things to do.  I ran
 through the list, but found it not terribly stimulat-
 ing.  In fact, I said (to myself  that time), "Reality
 sucks big-time!"  And smiled again.  "Pick up clothes
 at the cleaner."  Sucks. "Make plans for dinner party
 scheduled for three weeks from today."  Scuks. I didn't
 even bother to go down the rest of the list.  "It all
 sucks," I thought.  "Every single thing on that list
 sucks."  Perhaps I needed a new list.

 I already had a weekly appointment with a psychologist.
 I had discussed my family of origin with her at some
 length.  ("It sucked," I thought as I considered this.
 And smiled.)  I'd been on Prozac for a while, but I'd
 decided that was a bad idea, so I was drug free.  I
 should talk over with her these new thoughts I was
 having.  ("That sucks," I thought. And smiled.)

 People had told me it would be terribly painful when
 my last child went off to college.  I carefully
 searched for the pain.  Apparently it hadn't started
 yet, but I was sure my thoughts over the past three
 miles would get me classified as depressed as soon as
 I told the therapist about them.  ("That sucks," I
 thought, thereby proving my point. Everthing sucks.)

 One of my friends had told me, many years ago, that
 when she got totally fed up she simply remembered that
 she could always go buy a bus pass.  A bus pass,. she
 explained, allowed you to travel anywhere you cared to
 in the continental United States for 30 days.  That
 made her calm down and realize that things weren't
 quite as bad as she'd thought.  I wondered if bus
 passes still  existed.  And, if they did, did I want
 to buy one.

 By then I ws driving into our long, curved driveway,
 past a bank of  rhodendrons that had curled themelves
 up against the cold a long time ago and didn't look
 the least bit interested in uncurling.  As I  braked
 by the back door of the house I started wondering when
 I had curled up against the cold, and when I would
 decide to uncurl. Or could I?  Would I just break into
 little pieces like a dry leaf, or would I actually 
 uncurl?

 I went into the house and said hello to Lavitia, who
 was putting the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher.
 I hng my coat in the back closet, and walked  into the
 game room, where my desk was.  Sitting down at the
 desk, I took a pen and a ruled legal pad and started
 to write down what I wanted at that moment. My therapst
 had told me to do that some months ago and it hadn't
 seemed to lead anywhere, but I felt like trying again.
 The idea was to fill up the page as quickly as possible
 with things I wanted to do.  Then I was to look it over
 and see what had come up mst often, thereby telling
 myself what I *really* wanted to do.  The last time I
 had tried it the result has looked a good deal like my
 "todo" list.  Which, I then thought, sucked.  I smiled,
 but I had no idea what to write. I just sat there, my
 pen poised, nothing happening.

 I then laid the pen down and reached for the telephone
 book.  A few minutes later he answered my call.  How-
 are-you-it's-neem-a-long-time and such things consumed
 perhaps two or three minutes, then I began the real
 conversation.

 "Jack," I said, "I want to ask you something.  I was
 driving along this morning and I heard a commercial
 that said, "Dial; 1-800-DIVORCE."  I decided to call
 you instead."

         ------And that's where it stopped--------

E-mail:  janey98@hotmail.com

