Chapter Twenty – Two Because He Can

Chapter Twenty – Two

 

Because He Can

 

“We have to gut the bitch in the belly. 

We all have to understand:  We’re going to obliterate her life. 

But.  It will get you the Vice Presidency.” 

--- Mr. Makerowitz acted by Douglas Urbanski and hissed about the opponent, a live DEhuman, in The Contender, 2000

 

Just one exact week out to nearly the very hour from having divorce papers thrust into my hands at the Othello front door by that frothy, fat man in a brown suit, that next Tuesday on the 11^th morning of October 1988, as I walked out of the trimly bearded Mr. Jazzy Jinx’s fancy and o – so finely staffed, downtown office about 9 am where its mahogany, cherry and leather – upholstered furniture and walls of walnut reeked of lemon oil polish, I had very, very faint feelings beginning to form around what my new profession was to be.  The one which would require next to none of my brains at the veterinary, life and other biological sciences and practically at no other kind of true wisdom either.  Just cookbook formulae, lawyering timetables, tones and tomes of injudicious ‘judicial’ argumentation and perseverance and, for sure, much, much more money than I could have imagined or would ever think of having to pay for the buying of, for the saving of, for the very existence at all in my life of … my very own children –– as well as its requiring a cancerous conscience in the sewer.  It – the career – was very, very soon going to be made absolute and undeniable.  My title in this, my new so fully American calling?  She Who Tries To Hang On To Having In Her Life Her Own Three Boys.  Or.  Woman Up Against The Pillared Man.  Or.  Most fully and accurately apropos:  Legion True, Fucked Mother.

 

American?  Quite.  Also true, of course, of every other male – dominated society, too, –– which is every society, isn’t it?  But in America?  That’s the Catch – 22.  How could the having to … how could the mighty unNatural need even exist … of a mama having to hang onto her life, onto her little ones – for dear life – possibly be true of or happening to women inside and out of the courtrooms in America, too? 

 

Over the course of the previous year, mid 1987 to mid 1988, so swiftly spent up and just a mere blur now it seemed, I had been to al – anon and open alcoholics anonymous meetings out the frickin’ wahzoo.  At least once a week and many, many weeks oftener than that.  Before my utter stoppage of attendance at any more of these (vast amounts of) time – and money – wasting and true addiction – and family accountability – escaping excuses! 

 

At not one of these scores of meetings and gatherings at where I was supposed to learn how, I was told, especially through taking thoroughly to heart chapter eight, “to wives”, in the mother – fucking novel called the big book, to ‘just be supportive’ and, most of all, compliantly silent to my truly righteous and beautiful, non – drinking man had anyone bothered to tell me … The Truth.  No one there, woman or man, had informed me as to how such a dry though pillared drunk figures it out that i) to get more money into his own life without his taking on a second or a third or a fourth job or, as a matter of fact, endeavoring conscientiously to qualify for a promotion and thus actually himself becoming deserving of a serious pay raise while ii) at the very same time, and much, much more importantly to him, exacting the smoothest, the most merciless and the deadliest of revenges upon the mother –– the fucking, lying witch who has sullied and disgraced his pride, his ego, his standing in the public eye by her willfully no longer conniving with him to hide The Truth of his addiction, The Truth that it is really about his being addicted to things and behaviors perverted instead of to things and activities fermented or of the distilled spirits ––  as to how he figures it out that all he has to do to accomplish any of this, to accomplish any one or absolutely all of these machinations, is to go after her … to go after her by going after sole and wholly controlling custody of the essences from out her belly and of her very being.  Her minor children.  But of course:  his property.  His entitlement, of course, because of androcentrism.

 

While, all the while, continuing to flamboyantly gesticulate publicly with the so solemn and regular alcoholics anonymous attendance, ah … um, at those 13^th – stepping excuses that is, and with those other bogus and mendacious measures and, of course, the pillaring stance at his one doctoring job.  Dry?  Of course – that is, no liquid hooch so, jyeah, dry that way.  But, truly?  Drunk as hell.  Drunk on his own denial, drunk on his own will and on his own choices –– wickedly wrong though he concurrently knows them all to be.  And drunk – especially – on his own desired dominion over her and over all things hers and from and by her including, without a doubt, over all of … her little kids.

 

No one up to this point exhorted there in 12 – step “therapy” nor anywhere else either that what was about to come on to me was LOSS with a capital L the likes of which most persons would never, their entire lifetimes, be able to truly fathom, let alone, themselves ever experience, including that which was to be a fully suspended decade at the very least:  ten – plus years, just taken out of and away from what I had conceived and regarded for myself was to have been … My Life.  Instead, I was at the very beginning of a juncture in living My Life where I was about to learn just how purposefully and determinedly educated and allegedly book – smart, even brilliant people go about putting onto themselves absolute blinders so that they will never, never, ever have to deal with shitfuck as it actually is. 

 

Much of this fuck is, of course, themselves –– meaning they will never, never ever have to deal with themselves     as they truly, truly are.  It will never cease amazing me how soooo many people the Planet over will live out their entire lives to their one, last drawn breath and never, ever let themselves be known both to others, let alone, inwardly to themselves, as to who they really, actually are.  Entire lives spent hiding.  Like Mehitable with her religion:      the one of face and image.  This, too, is Dr. Herod Edinsmaier. 

 

Everything this man, Herry, is about to do, I so soon am to learn, is manipulated over as much time and maneuvered through as many spatial matters as he can possibly engineer –– in order to avoid and to escape The Truth and to protect image.  His. 

 

*     *     *     *

 

We … that is, my so – fine and so – foxy employee, Mr. Jazzy Jinx, upon his employer’s behalf – who, I should state over and over again, would be me! of course – filed a response, filed whatever legal piece of paper, I, now labeled and known from here on out for the next gazillion months of this debasement, this annihilation, this mother – fucking, as … ‘the Respondent’ …, was supposed to file – on the very day that it was due, 20 days after initial ‘service’ to me of divorce proceedings initiated … by the Good and Wonderful Doctor / now – Petitioner Edinsmaier and very much … in progress.  Thus began a pile, a piling, a stockpiling, of dung made out of tree pulp the size of which eventually would go on to reach over five feet in height.  The height and size of a small tree – literally – all on its own …  This stack, this horde of papers included sheets that were white with white covers, white with red covers, white with blue covers, white with clear covers, typed, hand – scripted, three – hole punched or not punched, bound, not bound, originals and copies, some with drawings, some with graphics.  And many were the famous and infamous yellow, legal – sized, lined sheets, referenced. 

 

O especially … referenced!  There were so many precedent – setting cases referenced in all of this heapo’motherfuck you’d’ve thought nothing could move forward, no action be taken, no motion be heard, lest first there were a couple (at least) of cited cases directly related to this action or motion to be studied or gone over or talked about.  And so carefully referenced, for chris’sake, for sure.  Lawyers, all shapes of them, and The Law appear to do nothing – except that it, whatever action is on tap in the present ongoing ‘case’, hasn’t first been done or undone by somebody else, that is, first before they – these specific guys – got a hold of this particular one.  This case.  Your case. 

 

And the phrase, ‘your case’ or ‘my case’?  That’s a charmer.  Just a real charmer.  Every single thing you and your belovéd ones are and ever were, everything about you and them … is now reduced, pronto, as soon as you have involvement in the American civil courts over matters of a family dissolution, reduced right down to a term of nothing more than just two words:  ‘the case’. 

 

And.  It changes little.  Over time – over soooo, so much time – it changes little.  Maybe you and your Boys, on any given day, are referred to as ‘the case’ or ‘your case’ or ‘my case’ or ‘our case’; but the effect is the same and … crystal clear:  you – who you really, really are – means exactly squat.  “Only the facts of ‘the case’, Ma’am.”  And … “ … only the facts as they are material to ‘your case’, Ma’am.”  And, most importantly, what’s material and what’s substantive and of significance to you, the ma’am, and from all of your life and of the lives of your little ones during all of the matters of this ongoing mother – fucking?  Why, that doesn’t matter.  O heavens, not at all!  What is and what is not material, substantive, significant?  To ‘the case’, to ‘your case’?  “Why, that will be decided androcentrically, of course, at all times for you, Ma’am.”  From now on.  Even … even when the deciding must be gone through and actually done by the DEhuman officers of the American civil court.  By all of them as well, too.

 

Unless … unless … and this is the biggie!  The kicker!  Unless … you can hide who you really are!  And present, instead, to the courts at all times an image, a certain face.  And … get away with it.  ‘The courts’, of course, being judges.  Only persons, humans – as I’ve so discussed before!  And, then too, these judges, these persons, being almost exclusively of the male gender.  Men, therefore.  And your getting away with it will most definitely turn on just how much you look like the judge, the person, this particular human.  Male.  That is, the Man.  And pillared. 

 

A Pillared Man.

 

What is material, what is substantive, what is significant –– all of this will not be decided by how much money or goods you can bride him … another of the Men.  You won’t have to bride him at all.  No, not at all.  Not one thin dime at all.  You will never have to take that chance, the chance of some random, rogue and really, really righteous judge’s becoming pissed off at you by such a bribery offer and, therefore, punishing you because of your attempted shortcut to getting what you, Herry, … to getting what you want.  No! 

 

You just have to look like the guy, ya’ know the pillaredness … to look like the pillaredness of the judge himself. 

 

That’s all there is to the concealment necessary and to the presentation of the façade as you need it to be portrayed  to ‘the court’ and, for that matter, to all parties to and persons affected by ‘your case’ as well.  Including, most especially of course, to all three of the Truemaier Boys.  From that point on, from once there is the clear establishment of your appearing ‘to be like the judge himself’, why, any amount of stating and arguing of ‘your case’ can take on whatever form of manipulation, deceit and lying that you can imagine and invoke, connive, conjure up and consummate.  Within the submitted documents time and time and time again –– and most certainly before anyone ever thinks about and even suggests stepping inside a courtroom.  Let alone, when you finally do get there – inside.  And.  Onto the witness stand.  Or.  Under whatever oath – taking and swearing and vowing and wowing any judiciary says ya’ need to do in order to be … ‘legal’ … So long as you look like the judge in at least both countenance and demeanor, why, you’ll do jus’ fine. 

 

Well, now.  Just who is it, you ask, that looks like an American county civil courtroom judge anyhow?  I’ve gone  into the explanation of this some in previous pages; it hasn’t changed any.  For a true eradication and the complete extinction of the woman whose brain is bringing down upon you such a pestilence of humiliation and shame by revealing your Truth, a father needs, earlier on in his adult life, to have gyrated himself into such a spun visage that he will not, at any time during ‘the case’, be understood by the judges, by any of the 25 of them in total, as to who he really, really resembles in his life now.  To get what you want then, that is, to get the mother – fucking completed like you want it done, usually this is easy; sometimes, it isn’t, but usually it is.  If first … the father has become pillared – in the same way as the judges like to think of themselves, and each other, as having become:  pillared, that is.

 

This getting pillared doesn’t take much planning on the part of the father either.  Most fathers desirous of wreaking upon her a good mother – fucking, being book – smart and many, but certainly in no way all, from European descendents, at age 18 will not, 20 to 25 more years into their adulthood, end up, although quite worthy enough the work itself is … will not end up driving a City of Hoboken trash truck or branding calves and sleeping in a bunkhouse in some valley outside Durango or whacking whole slabs of carcass into porterhouses inside the packinghouse just outside the rez.   They will not, in their mid 30s and early 40s, be found bussing tables and washing crockery and everyday flatware at the Landmark Truck Stop nor pitching peaches, however o – so preciously of course, into shoulder – slung satchels off sides of stepladders nor brushing away the cobwebs from off the belfry rafters of the assemblies of saints peter and paul mormon and baptist sanctuaries in preparation for their gentry’s next patriarchal eastertide galas.

 

No.  No, not these men.  The fathers in their middle ages able to engineer such a smooth and, for them, cheap mother – fucking will have in their early 20s and by no straining to their minds then of a future need to be doing so  –– they will have gone off with their own fathers’ blessings – as well as bullion – to all modes of higher education to acquire there the credentials of pillaredness that, along with their maleness, will forever emblazon them, alongside the judiciaries they now come before on paper and in person, as also one of the pillars of their American communities.  That is to say, these men now ready to take on the mother – fucking that, instead, goes by the label

of ‘the case’ or ‘his case’ or ‘your case’, even sometimes ‘her case’, will, by the time these fathers are 40 or 42 years of age, be their own regions’ college professors and elementary educators, their christian and islamic priests and   lay ministers, rabbis and buddhist monks, representatives and senators, cops and immigration officials, chief executive and banking officers, industry scientists and computer technologists, middle school coaches, social service agency directors, high school guidance counselors, postmasters, mayors and councilmen.  Easiest of all the pillars, though, these fathers will become their own communities’ physicians, their attorneys and, O JYeah! … their respective counties’ so respectable judges! 

 

This is most certainly true.  Even so did long –, long – dead Martin Luther sing this androcentric, lying mother – fuck from out our late 1950s’ lutheran small catechisms — this most staunchest of Truths, now didn’t he?  But.  This has been the way of things and of men pillared since how many millennia now?  Since at least a dozen or so, not? 

 

Just exactly how pillared, da’ya’ ‘spose the Greek, the Roman and the Egyptian matrons were a couple to three millennia back, that is, any of the southern European and northern African women?  All of the women who walked the World when also did Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Homer, Cicero, Mark Antony, Caesar and Pompey, whom we soooo had to learn about and whose works revere, about what of these women did we have to learn and of their works so revere?  Hhmmm? 

 

Learn about a few of these women we did.  But just a very, very few:  Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, Sappho, Terentia, Medea, Fulvia, Octavia, Lysistrata, Livia.  And my personal favorites:  Hypatia and Matilda Joslyn!  They were all, however, all of them taught to us as in the androcentric twaddle of Anita Hill’s “biographer”, David Brock, who himself after smashing Hill, the lawyer and college professor though she be, after trashing her for over seven years but then with fear of libeling lawsuits against him because of his lies about her, later recanted, –– all of them taught to us as with Brock’s ‘instructional’ statement, “… a little bit nutty and a little bit slutty!” weren’t they, these ancient maids, these mamas, these witches and crones?  Whether they actually lived or were the storied and fictional characters of men’s writings.  All of them, down through these thousands of years, were taught to us only in this manner.  Thought of and treated as the “pillars” of their communities?! Hardly!  They, indeed, decidedly and most purposefully were not! 

 

Nutty and slutty and smutty.  Crazed and whoring … …

 

Here, just the same as when printed on page five!  “And, of sons, of children, how could a mother ever lose custody of them?  Even in the ‘90s?  Society, including judges, civil court judges, quickly and slickly conclude that there’re only three reasons a mother loses her kids:  she’s a whore or she’s crazy – or she’s both.  Ever.  But those same judges, those men, they know more.  That there’s really a fourth reason, almost all of the time, and not the other three, that’s the real reason behind why a mom loses custody:     she’s pissed him off.  And he has the status and the money and the supporting backing to get her for it.

 

After all.  That’s what they’d do.  In his place.  Those same judges, … ! ! !”

 

 

*     *     *     *

 

When a father needs to exact a mother – fucking, his having pillaredness is pretty paramount.  With that, there is one other stratagem to the process that a father who is a party in ‘the case’ should try to have, as a wee bit of additional insurance, at his constant storehouse disposal and in his arsenal of weaponry. 

 

Everyone likes a shortcut to getting what they want, don’t they?  It’ll perhaps not be as short a cut to the chase as     a father would like it to be; but when added on as an insurance policy along with his maleness and his pillaredness, it’s then pretty much a damn sure thing:  Producer and actor Douglas Urbanski in the role of Mr. Makerowitz in the story’s opposing political camp stated this second thing, that is, this ‘insurance policy’, most aptly in the 2000 film, The Contender, “We have to go after her.  We have to make her wade in her own blood.  You ever stabbed a man in the navel?  Stab a man in the navel, and that’s all she wrote.  The bleeding is so swift and severe it wouldn’t matter if Jesus Himself put His healing hand on the wound, the bastard is dead.  We have to gut the bitch in the belly.      We all have to understand:  We’re going to obliterate her life.  … But.  It will get you the Vice Presidency.” 

 

It will, it will.  It will get for you, Daddee Dearest, all of her Boys.  You will, you will.  You will obliterate her life.  Just gut the bitch.  Gut the goddamn bitch in her belly.  Take her sons and take away the rest of her entire life.  Just like Margaret Sagely’s ex did.  Fuck the goddamn mother.

 

And.  The way to get done this gutting?  This obliteration?  This fucking?  Smear her and her very life’s blood all the hell over everywhere.  Leave nothing – leave nothing at all of who she once was – intact.  If you’re the pillar, then for damn sure, leave her, at the end of ‘this case’ when you’re walking away from it with all of her Babes,      be damned sure to leave her so gutted that to all and for all to see, not only in the hearts and minds of her Sons      but also in every capacity of her community and in all things related to her livelihood, she is … erased.  Gone.  Dead and gone.  And erased.  Deleted.  Unremembered.

 

Just how does an eminent father propose to be able to get away with completing this erasure?  This rubbing out      of her?  This nightmarish deletion of her memory from any and all and, most especially, from entirely out of the beautiful brains of her three Boy children?  This bitch – gutting?  It’s the 20^th Century after all.  How does he – nowadays – advance this as plausible, as possible?  As actually doable? 

 

Well, this, too, is truly quite easy it so turns out. 

 

In the finality of the infinitely clear and concluding words of radically conservative commentator and thinker, George F. Will writing about the residents who were the Jews and the non – Jews of the same, rather quite small Polish town of Jedwabne on 10 July 1941, “So, again:  Why in Jedwabne did neighbors murder their neighbors?  The answer may be terribly simple.  Because it was permitted.  Because they could.”

 

He can, he can.  Male and pillared, he can, too.  So … Herry does.  Because he can.