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By Misti Date: 2004 May 22 Comment on this Work [[2004.05.22.10.06.21550]] |
| You almost ruined things. You almost lost your Lion. Your insecurities and doubt and fear culiminated into a bitter cocktail on Thursday night. You began drinking that afternoon. You had just sold a shitload of books to Title Wave for ten bucks and a book of poetry by Diana DiPrima. You were driving down Menaul thinking about buying a limeade from Sonic...kind of like a margarita without the tequila and salt. Then you noticed the sign at Louie's, a pub you had passed by many times before but never tried out. Two dollar Thursday. Draft beer two dollars. You decided to go inside and spend the ten dollars you had just made. Went up to the bar and spread out the Alibi you grabbed at Title Wave. Ordered a Dos Equis Amber draft. Saw no reason to stop there. Thought of your lover and how much better it would be if he were there with you. Ordered a margarita and a basket of wings. Thought to yourself,"I'm cool. I'm an independent single woman. I can go inside a bar by myself and be fine." But you weren't fine. You were self-conscious and envious of the people bantering with the barmaid. You can't banter. Your boyfriend can banter. One of the many reasons you like him so goddamn much. So you left Louie's and went home to your tiny studio apartment. Crashed on the futon. Woke up and decided to get ready and go see your man. You had discussed this earlier. Told him you'd be there around nine. You can't wait until nine. You need to see him now. So you go and are unreasonably pissed off and terrified when you see that his car isn't in the driveway. He's with his friends. He's drinking. He's having fun without you. You can't think logically. You can't think he ran to the store for his grandma or had some other menial errand to run. All you know is that you need for him to be at home NOW and he isn't. So you feel rejected and ugly and stupid and maniacal. You don't wait around for him to show up. You speed back to your place. Grab his phone number and your calling card. Drive to the payphone near the office. Leave a stupid message on his machine."I just got back from your place. You weren't there. I'm going to the Atomic to get drunk." Implying, fuck you. I'm going to get drunk without you. Maybe I'll meet someone. Maybe I'll fuck that someone. Who knows. You speed downtown in your trashed out Corolla feeling self-righteous and pissed. How dare he not be there at 8:45 p.m. So close to nine, when you said you'd be there. He should have been waiting for you. Eagerly. You haven't seen him all afternoon because he was at work and you were taking care of business. At the Atomic you order a couple of Coronas. A guy named Jason with walleyes gives you a Camel and a shot of Jose Cuervo. Shows you his tattoos. Tries to sell you on Norfolk, Virginia. You are wretched. You don't want to listen to or look at this man. You shake his hand and thank him for the cigarette and shot. Tell him you are going next door to Burt's. At Burt's you order the Long Island Ice Tea Arthur has told you about. Arthur is right. It's very good. You swig it down in a couple of minutes and leave. Now you're pissed because you expected your man to haul ass to the Atomic once he got your message. You kept watching the door. You didn't want drama. Not really. Just a kiss and a reassuring hug. That didn't happen so you speed home to the payphone. Call your man. Hear his sleepy voice and feel hateful so you act it. Say,"Oh, you were sleeping. I'm sorry." You say this in a bitchy voice. Tell him that a guy bought you a shot and gave you a cigarette but you didn't go home with him. Tell him you had an epiphany. You are too codependent on him. So you are going to ask your ex-husband to help you get the trunk of your car fixed and sell it so that you can take off for West Hollywood or Seattle or someplace..."anyplace but here." Your man says,"Well, you sure turn on a dime." You say,"yeah." He says,"Goodbye." You say,"bye!" and slam down the phone. Now you are pissed and hurt and horrified. Horrified at your neediness, your stupidity. Horrified at your boyfriend's easy goodbye. He's through with you. He doesn't need your bullshit. A dark, hot, empty apartment awaits you. You do something familiar that makes you feel good for all of five minutes. You destroy things. Tear all the collages and album covers and fake flowers and panties from the walls. Knock the TV to the floor. Knock down the bookcases. Throw the roses in the garbage. Collapse on the futon. Now there is nothing left to do but take pills and wash them down with the cheap vodka your boyfriend left in the freezer. You contemplate suicide for about thirty minutes to an hour. It wouldn't be suicide, though. You aren't smart enough to kill yourself. You would fuck it up somehow. And you are in no mood to write a suicide letter. You would just wind up back at Memorial Hospital. You would be taken kicking and screaming back to Texas. Back to dreaded square one. Somehow you survive in the desecrated apartment until one a.m. Then you drive to T-Mobile. Get on a computer and send an e-mail. Your boss walks by. Wonders what the hell you are doing. You go into a room and talk to her. Tell her you need more money. She says she will email her boss. You are drunk and demanding bigger paychecks. You go home and toss and turn. Go back to work at 4:45 a.m. A few hours early. You are the first person to arrive in the pod. You are counting the hours until your boyfriend will arrive. He's always early but he walks in a few minutes after seven. He has stubble on his face and tired eyes. He has never looked more beautiful. Your heart aches for him. He looks at you and says,"Good morning" in a voice you absolutely love. You look good on purpose. You're wearing the dress you wore on Easter when you went with him to his grandmother's Methodist church. You're wearing makeup and barrettes in your hair and the black reading glasses that turn him on. You have to look good. It's the only weapon in your arsenal because you are stupid and psychotic. You are no tabula rasa. You are screaming with blood red scrawls. He tells you that he sent you an email. Tells you not to read it. You read it. It's the longest email he has ever sent you. He tells you in detail what he was doing last night when you were so frantic. He was looking at the room he is going to rent from your friend, the friend with the cool house who threw the party you went to when you first got together two months ago. He was buying milk at the store for his grandmother. He ran into Arthur at the store. He tells you all of this and then he tells you that he loved women deeply before you and he will love women deeply after you. He has been played like a fiddle before and he won't go through it again for any woman, including you. He signs the email "Your former lover." You are crushed. You do not doubt his seriousness. He invites you to join him for smoke break. Twice. So there is hope. He shows you a faint blue scrawl on his hand. Yesterday he was listening to "Democracy Now" and heard an ad for the poetry reading at the Blue Dragon. He wrote down the phone number for you. God oh god you love this man. You are humbled and blown away and deeply sorry and ashamed. You go to lunch at 10:30. For the first time ever you take separate cars to Wendy's. You are scared. You can't lose this man. You are swallowed by the huge love you feel. He orders a Coke. You order a Coke and French fries. Even when you are heartbroken and scared you have to have your sodium. With tears in his eyes he says, in an Elmer Fudd voice,"If you want to run around with other men and women that's fine but don't make me look like an asshole in the process." You don't know that he's quoting "Shakes the Clown," his favorite comedy. Your heart melts. You tell him that you don't want to run around with anyone but him. You tell him that you are so sorry. You give him a note you wrote at work. You almost cry but you don't. You tell him that you are sick with insecurities and you don't want to fuck things up. You want to grow strong and be sane and healthy. You tell him that you love him. You tell him you won't mess up again. You feel like a man telling a woman he won't hit her again. You feel like a liar. But you want this to be true. You don't want to fuck up. You adore this man. You need and want this man. He is your best friend and your best lover. You want to marry him and mother his children when the time is right. You have never felt more certain. You have your work cut out for you. He is unsure. He is shaky. But he loves you so he gives you another chance. You are so grateful. You are resolved to finally, at 31, get your shit together and fly right. This matters. This is not to be fucked with. |