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.As I nibbled on large chunks of Brie and sipped the Dom, I looked at theChristmas gifts to my beloved, and wept.At some unknown point between Christmas and New Year's, I pulled myselftogether and made arrangements to return the expensive items to the storesfrom whence they came.Itoyed with the idea of throwing them off a bridge, like Billy Joe, or pullinga similar dramatic stunt.Given my current emotional state, though, I knew I'dbetter stay away from bridges.It was the day after New Year's.I returned to my apartment after a long walkand jog, and realized that I'd been burglarized.The door had been jimmied.The thieves took my old TV and stereo, a jar of quarters on my dresser and, ofcourse, the jewelry I'd purchased for Sara.I called the cops and filled out the reports.I showed them the credit cardreceipts.The ser-geant just shook his head and told me to contact my insurance company.I ate over three thousand dollars in plastic purchases.The time has come tosettle up.I'M SCHEDULED to be evicted tomorrow.The Bankruptcy Code has a marvelousprovision which grants an automatic stay in all legal proceedings against adebtor.That's why you see big rich corporations, including my pal Texaco, runinto bankruptcy court when they need temporary protection.My landlord can'ttouch me tomorrow; can't even call me on the phone and give me a tonguelashing.I step off the elevator and take a deep breath.The hallway is packed withlawyers.There are three full-time bankruptcy judges and their courtrooms areon this floor.They schedule dozens of hearings each day, and each hearinginvolves a group of lawyers; one for the debtor, and several for thecreditors.It's a zoo.I hear dozens of important conferences as I shufflealong, lawyers haggling over unpaid medical bills and how much the pickuptruck is worth.I enter the clerk's office and wait ten minutes while thelawyers in front of me take their time filing their petitions.They know theassistant clerks real well, and there's a lot of flirting and mindless chit-chat.Gee, I'd love to be an important bankruptcy lawyer so the gals herewould call me Fred orSonny.A professor told us last year that bankruptcy was the growth area of thefuture, what with uncertain economic times and all, job cutbacks, corporatedownsizing, he had it all figured out.This was from a man who'd never billed an hour in private practice.But it sure looks lucrative today.Bankruptcy petitions are being filed leftand right.Every-body's going broke.I hand my paperwork to a harried clerk, a cute girl with a mouthful of gum.She glances at the petition, and studies me carefully.I'm wearing a denimshirt and khakis. Are you a lawyer? she asks rather loudly, and I see people looking at me. No. Are you the debtor? she asks, even louder, gum smacking. Yes, I answer quickly.A debtor who's not a lawyer can file his ownpetition, though you'll never see this advertised anywhere.She nods approvingly and stamps the petition. Filing fee i§ eighty dollarsplease. I hand her four twenties.She takes the cash and looks at it suspiciously.Mypetition does not list a checking account because I closed it yesterday,effectively eliminat ing an asset with a value of $11.84.My other listedassets are: one very used Toyota-$500; miscellaneous furni-ture and furnishings-$150; CD collection $200; law books$125; clothing-$150.All of these as-Page 44 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlsets are considered personal and thus exempted from the proceedings I havejust commenced.Iget to keep them all, but I'm required to continue paying for the Toyota. Cash, huh? she says, then starts to give me a receipt.35 I don't have a bank account, I almost yell at her, for the benefit of thosewho've been lis-tening and might want the rest of the story.She glares at me, and I glare at her.She returns to her busywork and within aminute she slides me a copy of the petition along with a receipt.I notice thedate, time and courtroom of my initial hearing.I almost make it to the door before I get stopped.A stout young man with asweaty face and black beard gently touches my arm. Excuse me, sir, he says.I stop and look at him.He's sticking a business card in my hand. RobbieMolk, attorney.Couldn't help but hear you over there.Thought you might needsome help with your BK. BK is cool lawyer jive for bankruptcy.I look at the card, then at his pockmarked face.I've actually heard of Molk.I've seen his ads in the classified section of the newspaper
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