Sunday, October 21, 2012

Man At My Door: Part II

(Part I is the previous post)
Although I had the heat turned way down, I felt myself get hot and my voice climbed as I continued to answer the operator’s questions.

“Does he appear to have any weapons?”

“I don’t think so. It sounds like he’s going to the back door,” I said as I ran to the back of the apartment to double-check the lock. “I really need help. He’s trying to turn the door knob” My daughter watched me with big eyes and I attempted a false smile to ease her worry. She knows me well though, and reciprocated a weak, mirthless smile. It’s times like this that I wish I had a husband or at least a boyfriend. Specifically, I’d love to have Cole. He’s have that creep in a stranglehold in two seconds or some other maneuver he learned as an Army Ranger.

The operator repeatedly assured me that someone was on the way and to stay on the line with him.

“Police have made contact with him,” the operator told me. “He’s in a car out front.”

“Who is he? Isn’t this illegal?” I asked. “Trying to turn someone’s door knob? Sticking his hand through my mail slot?”

“They’ll explain that to you when they come to the door.”

Two officers approach and I opened the door before they had a chance to knock.

A process server, that’s who it was.

“Are you going through a divorce?” one of the cops asked. He was attractive and mild-mannered and I couldn’t help but look at his ring finger and noticed his wedding band. I felt a tiny bit jealous of his wife.

“I’m having custody issues,” I said, still shaking a little bit. It never occurred to me that a process server could get that aggressive. And Jared had not given me any sort of heads up that I would be served. Jared was never really one to let you know what he was up to.

“Process servers can be really pushy,” the officer said with a wince, “And this one definitely seems to be that.”

The officer said he didn’t blame me for not wanting to open the door and said the server is obviously not able to enter the house, but again, they can be really pushy because they only get paid if they actually serve me.

“He could do it during the day,” I offered.

The police left, telling me that they suggest that the server contact me during office hours. I sensed that didn’t have much control over him. How was it okay for him to practically bang my door down.

A few minutes later, the server was back at the front door. “You’ve been served by posting,” he said, as he shouted through the door. Why didn’t he just do that in the first place? “Have a good evening,” he said as I heard him stomp down the stairs.

After about fifteen minutes, I opened the door pulled the papers from the door, which were taped on with hot pink and black animal-print tape, something Snooki would use.

It was a request to submit a DNA sample. Me and my daughter. I was somewhat relieved, because I realized that paternity would have to be established first, buying me a little time. At least it wasn’t a summons to appear in court. I still don’t have a lawyer and, more importantly, I don’t have $3,000 for the retainer.

After I read my daughter a story and put her to bed, I sent a text to Jack, my 50-something potential Sugar daddy, “Want to meet for dinner?”
His answer was nearly immediate, “Of course Sweetheart, what’s up?”