“Jerry! Jerry!”

November 27, 2013 at 9:04 am (Drunk and disorderly, Sweet sticky things)

Wanna fight?

Wanna fight?

“She left the cap off the pen?”

“Yes, and I didn’t snap or anything. I just asked her to keep the cap on it when she wasn’t using it. She denied uncapping it, SWEARS she didn’t uncap it. Which pissed me off, because it’s just me and her there at 5 AM, and the pen has a habit of uncapping itself in the middle of the night…”

Mizelle and I were talking about stupid domestic squabbles, and the stupid things that cause them. She and the Frenchman have reconciled after a time apart, and she called to say hi the other day. We soon knew we’d need more than a phone call to get all the juicy details, so we made a lunch date. In the meantime, I might as well document the occasion…

Rain and I still see each other, but she has moved out. Mostly. She has a garbage bag full of sweaters in the corner, her night-slippers are still under the edge of the bed. There was a full duffel bag by the door, and various other crap (affectionately dubbed) scattered on my desk, nightstand, etc… It’s my bedroom in my house, but her presence is felt. I*love* how my room smells after she stays with me, and I love having her around.

Most of the time.

Rain parties once in a while, parties with things I don’t do, or do anymore. Mostly she does opiates, which are quiet, mellow high-inducing substances. But every now and again she gets a taste for the crack cocaine, and will sit up and do her thing. It’s no big deal most of the time; she takes a couple hits, gets animated, then we go back to whatever we were doing. But when she gets into it, really into it, it’s annoying as fuck.

It starts when nothing I can do is right. She will say something wrong and I will correct it, which leads to heated words. I will agree to keep the peace, then she will argue the counter-point just to be obstinate. I eventually tire of this and want to go to sleep, as I remind her for the umpteenth time, “I have to work in the morning!” When she does fall asleep?

Sideways in the middle of the single bed.

After a half-hour’s fitful tossing, only my arm is asleep, and she wakes up, mad that she nodded off. “Goddammit! I’ve got to go!”

“Does this mean you’re going now? Or you are getting ready for six hours, then gonna go? Cuz I really need some sleep…”

I toss and turn some more. She’s going through the carpet with a flashlight, presumably looking for that lost piece of crack-rock every crackhead thinks they’ve lost. She gives up, begins nodding out in the chair. I count three crashes to the floor before she gets up and gets dressed.

Sleepless, but not terribly cranky and feeling okay, considering, I let her know she’s leaving with me today.

“No problem!” Then she went off on a tirade of insults and hurtful comments that would have left me in tears a year ago. But I’ve heard it before, and will probably hear it again. She knows how to hurt me, but now that I know she knows how to hurt me, I pay attention.

I am picking and choosing my “close the door” options.

I’d made the bed. She’d been dressed to go for about four hours. I took a shower, and when I returned she was asleep on the newly made bed. She tore up the blankets. “I was cold!”

“Wake up, you’re not staying here today.”

“I don’t WANT to stay here today.”

“Then get up and go.”

She drifted back to sleep. I shook her. “Wake up. We gotta go.”

“FINE!” She slammed out of bed, began cussing me out anew, took her purse and backpack and marched outside. I followed and locked the door. I can miss a train if it’ll keep peace in the family.

But no, she wants ALL her stuff. “Let me in, you faggot!”

“Go away, Rain. We’ll talk later.”

“I want my fuckin’ stuff!”

I picked up the giant duffel bag that weighed about fifty pounds and maneuvered it out the door. Set it on the walkway in front of the house.

“How the fuck am I supposed to carry that? I want my other stuff!”

“What other stuff?”

“My boots under the bed!”

She had a pair of new thigh-high fuck-me boots stashed for a night out. I’m guessing they would be returned for a shot of dope later in the day. I retrieved them and passed them out the door. “Anything else?” I asked.

“Imma look…” She started to push past, and I stopped her.

“NO, babe. We’ve scrapped enough today, and I have to get to work.”

“I’M GOING TO MAKE SURE YOU DON’T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE OF MINE!” She made a second push.

And that’s when, as the kids like to say, it was on.

She swung for my head, but I caught her wrist and blocked her oncoming left. She grabbed a fistful of shirt and I heard it tear. As I pushed back I saw her sweater start to come up. Great. We’re both gonna be shirtless and fistfighting when COPS shows up. Maybe we’ll get the $500 appearance fee and she can buy me a new shirt and some more crack…

She tried to get me down. Even if she loves me and this is just a manifestation of pure inward rage, I don’t want to be underneath her taking punches. She’s a small woman, but she’s strong as hell and muscular. She was giving me a pretty good tussle, but I refused to hit, or yell. I maintained as even a composure as possible, but my heart was racing and I was getting mad. I pushed her back and shut the door.

“Come out here and fight, you cocksucker! Faggot! Child molester!”

Despite the rage and adrenaline, I had to laugh inwardly.

I got my work stuff together, then remembered to change my torn shirt. I set it aside, so she can sew it for me. (That will be an interesting moment, because I *am* going to ask her to fix it.) I was ready for departure. Where was my darling cupcake? About a block away. This oughta be fun…

“You old bastard.” She has a way of saying that that tickles my heart and chills it simultaneously.

“Yeah, whatever. Enjoy your bus ride.” She had a backpack, an oversized black-woman purse, a garbage bag and a full duffel bag that probably weighed fifty pounds. She’d move a few feet, stop, cuss at me some more. I wanted to tell her that there was no bus service on weekends, but she’d remember that eventually. (I hurried on, not sure my tender ears are ready enough for that amount of cussing. It’s only six or seven more blocks to the train…)

As I walked away, I heard her say, “I ain’t done with you, motherfucker. Expect some trouble at work tonight. Oh, and I’m calling the cops. YOU LAID YOUR HANDS ON ME!”

Uh oh.

For the first time I was worried. In domestic situations someone always has to go to jail, and Rain can be a convincing liar. Fortunately I had not raised a hand to her, or torn her shirt, but I wouldn’t put it past her to faceplant herself on the sidewalk and say I did it, just to make her point. How many of the neighbors saw our Springer-esque debacle?

I was extra nervous when the patrol car cruised by a couple minutes later. The officer looked at me. I smiled. She drove on. She drove past Rain without a motion from Rain, so I hurried on. They can find me at work.

My heart was pumping, I felt like I’d been on a bender from lack of sleep and decent food. I took deep breaths and planned carefully what to say if an officer questioned me about our fight. Phrasing and demeanor are everything.

As the night went on, I wondered what would become of our spat. I wasn’t really even mad at her. She didn’t break anything. She said some harsh things, but I learned the time before last when we broke up forever that she can say believable hurtful things and forget them within the hour. I decided to wait and see before dumping her again for the third time this year.

About 11 PM my phone rang. “Hello?” I now answer random numbers; usually it’s Rain borrowing someone’s phone to check in with me.

“Hi babe. I’m so sorry about earlier. I swear I didn’t use your pen, I don’t know how it got uncap-”

“Forget about the pen. It was never about the pen. What’s up?”

“Well, I’m sorry about earlier. If you’re not TOO mad at me, will you bring my hair stuff to town tomorrow? It’s in my stash box at the end of the bed.”

“Of course. I’m not going to mess with your stuff.”

“And I’m sorry about all that awful shit I said to you. I didn’t call the cops, and I didn’t try to fuck with the store. I was trying to hurt your feelings.”

“It worked.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay. Forgotten. I’ll drop your hair stuff off at the store tomorrow, and you can pick it up whenever.”

I didn’t tell her I love her. I still do, but she’s not going to be hearing that for a while. As I took her bag of hair-things to town, I saw her on the sidewalk as the train rolled into Old Town. She saw me, lit up like a Christmas tree and ran for the train. “Hey, fucker!” (It’s a term of endearment, shared with her previous boyfriend. As high a compliment as she gives, most of the time.)

We rode the train together to the Square; when we arrived I left without much fanfare, no kiss goodbye. No anger, but no soft frillies, either.

I’m being hard-to-get for a few days, but not too hard-to-get. I didn’t put up much of a fight when she cornered me in an elevator for about three minutes. (Check that one off the bucket list. Yay Aerosmith!) And she gets paid Friday. If she wants to feed me dinner or other things? I could be up for date-night.

As long as I can get some sleep after…

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