January 20th is typically a shitty day for me.

Because if something shitty isn’t happening, I’m remembering something shitty that has already happened.

Sobby backstory, I got my heart broke twice on that date over the years – once my own doing, once very not. I wasn’t cynical before then, so maybe it’s better this way.

Behold the power of the anniversary.

January 20th was a Thursday, towards the end of the month. I was expecting an update from my attorney about when we’d be movin’ on up to the way way Upper East side, to the Criminal Court in the Bronx. The earlier possible court date, the 28th, was just over a week away; I was getting antsy to have this over with already before it really started to cripple my daily life.

My phone beeped a tuneless tune. Caller ID introduced Elaine Gillies and I was eager to find out what she knew.

“Dan, we have a bit of a problem.”

Hip-hip. Hooray.

“Okay.”

“I’ve been calling the Court Clerk every day for the last three weeks to get in touch with him, but haven’t been able to. But I finally got through today, and I received some bad news.“

Bad news? No biggy. It was January 20th. It was always January 20th. The nightmare of the day was self-created and therefore entirely justified and rationalized to the point of palatability. Bring it on.

“For whatever reason, the court dates I was originally told won’t be acceptable…”

—here her words entered a legal haze through which only truly pertinent ones would shine—

“…there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

I flashed back to October 27th:

“…giving you a summons…date at the top…go to court…show up or there will be a warrant out…”

and January 4th — “I should have been in court today…”

until my daydreaming was curtailed by my attorney’s final suggestion:

“We should go to the Bronx as soon as possible, early tomorrow morning, to get this taken care of.”

Elaine, you read my mind.