Last night, a convenience store clerk told me I look like a responsible, upright citizen. This was right before she asked me to "sign some papers" for her, swearing to God and the State of Washington that I had served her daughter with legal papers of some sort. Apparently, the girl was supposed to make a court appearance, and needed to be duly served. The mother (the store clerk) had the papers, but couldn't serve them to her daughter herself. Then, as luck would have it, I walked in.
I notarize documents all the time. It's not that big of a deal. But I wasn't expecting to have to act in an official capacity when I stopped at the Circle K for a coke. She offered to pay for my purchase in return for my services. I agreed to sign the papers.
I tried not to read what I was signing. I didn't care was it was, really. I was only interested in the part about me, being who I am officially, that I did in fact serve these papers to Messed Up Teenage Girl on August 1, 2001. Signed, Whatawoman. In triplicate, no less. There you go. Have a nice day.
But no. There was more. The store clerk said I had to hand the papers over to the girl (who was standing next to me, leaning on the counter), and say, actually speak out loud, the words, "Messed Up Teenage Girl, you have been officially served." And I would have to do this for each set of documents.
I'd had just about enough at this point, and it seemed like the only way I was gonna get out of there was to play-act the role of process server. Which I did, and felt like a complete idiot. The other customers in and out of the store probably wondered what kind of moron would allow themselves to get involved in a situation like that in the first place. I was beginning to wonder that very same thing. Especially since my 15 second quick-stop was turning into a 15 minute headache. Maybe I was on Candid Camera.
Anyway, my duty done, I go to get my cokes. As I am getting out my wallet (I refused to let her pay for them) the woman started talking about what the papers were all about, how hard it is to be a good mother when your kids hate you, but some day her daughter will thank her for this tough love, just like in that t.v. commercial. Then, the girl starts talking to her mother, RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, about how it's not fair to expect her to have her life together and make her court appearances and all that because it's only been a few months SINCE SHE WAS RAPED, and things have been hard. I looked at the girl, who was 15 years old, according to the official documents I had just signed. She looked like your average kid. Apparently, she'd been raped, in and out of the juvenile justice system for some reason, a ward of the state perhaps (?) and had recently missed a court appearance. And her mother just told her that after this court appearance, she'd have a new home, and she'd better stay on the right track. Things would get better from here on out. I'm thinking, how could things have gotten this bad in the first place?
I just wanted to get home. I just wanted to get home and be a good mommy to B. I wanted to feed her, and give her a bath, and read a story to her, and hug her, and give her daddy hugs and kisses right in front of her where she could see how much we love each other, and tuck her into her bed safe and sound, with the door slightly ajar so I can hear her if she wakes up. So she can grow up happy and healthy and never ever have to experience any of what Messed Up Teenage Girl has been through. It is my solemn vow to B.
I feel sorry for the woman and her daughter that I met at the convenience store last night. Something has gone terribly wrong in their lives. Terribly, terribly wrong. I will do anything to make sure that doesn't happen in my family. I mean anything.
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