From the Inside Looking Out

From the outside looking in- it doesn't look so bad. But she's not out here. She's in there. Seeing where it all started. Empty kitchen. The crack of the seal on the vodka bottle. Five straight shots. Heart pounding and nothing to inhale but her own angry dragon fire. Now she needs smokes. Keys in hand, mind out the window. Riding smack dab on the double line. The gas attendant sees the fury but it's desperation upon closer inspection. A match ignites the thin cigar because all her lighters are M.I.A. Street lights are blurred. Vision is blurred. But clear enough to see it. The black chariot. The wicked black chariot that haunts nightmares and daydreams with even relentlessness. Nothing left to do but unravel. Scream. Lunge. Slap. Kick. At anything at all. Anything that moves. When all is said and done, the windshield looks like Charlotte's web..without the words Terrific or Humble woven throughout it. Convulsions come. Tears. Gallons of them. Enough to outsalt the Dead Sea. Whispers of mockery dancing in ears. Knowing glances exchanged over her head. All in the name of doing what feels right. Long gone are peaceful times but quiet moments linger. Empty kitchens. Broken liquor seals. A fractured stillness. From the inside looking out- it looks like what it is.. and feels even worse. From the outside looking in- it doesn't look so bad at all. But I'm not out there. I'm in here.

blessed, alive, thankful...in that order

"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?"-The Shadow

To say that my Thanksgiving morning started out like any other would be far from the truth.  In fact, it would be an outright lie.  I awoke to a day that was mixed with turmoil, stirred by animosity and bubbling with potential violence.  Needless to say, I tried my best to carry on with the day as though none of these factors bore any weight.  So foolish of me to ignore the omens.

I was up before the sun and made my way to the basement laundry room of my building. My thought was- it's a holiday and not yet 6 a.m. so no one should be down there.  I'll be in and out in no time.  I opted for the closeness of my building rather than lug three heavy bags across the courtyard to my car and a nearby laundromat.  When I got there- it was dead silent. An eerie, early morning quiet that makes you feel you're the only one in the world who's up and about.  No machines going. No dryers tumbling.  Deserted.

Then I saw him. Scruffy and unshaven.  A nest of matted dirty blond hair topped his head.  His hands looked meaty and swollen.  He said, "Hey. How's it going?"  I reply, "Good Morning."  I began loading the machines when it struck me that he was down there but  not using the laundry facilities.  I engage him.  "Are you waiting for the machines?"  He looked skittish.  "No, I'm waiting for him to pick me up for work. It's cold out there, you know?" Immediately I analyze his words.  Why would he say 'him' like I'm supposed to know who he's talking about?  And if he lived in the building, there would be no need for him to wait outside in the cold.  I nod. I didn't want to be rude.  Just because someone looks unkempt doesn't necessarily mean they're up to no good.  He asks me for a light. I don't usually carry matches but I had them.  I don't usually carry a screwdriver either, but I had one that morning. I hand him the book of matches. He lights up under the No Smoking sign.  As bold as I am, it's something I've never done in that basement.  It rubs me the wrong way. I leave. 

Forty minutes after the wash cycle, I make my way back downstairs.  Thankfully, the sun is up.  At first glance, it feels like I'm alone.  As I step in a little further, I see a figure crouching behind the huge dryer closest to the wall. He peeks out at me then walks out into the open.  Asks me for another light.  Says he can't believe he lost the one I gave him.  At this point, all friendliness is out the window. I tell him no.  Sternly.  All the while I'm wondering what the hell he was doing hiding behind the dryer, but I say nothing.  He leaves through a back door that locks automatically once closed.  As I'm pulling clothes from the washing machine I hear a knock at the same door two minutes later.  I ignore it because anyone who's allowed to come through there- more than likely has a key.  Deep down, I know it's him again.  I pretend not to hear the knocking but he walks to the window across from where I'm standing and points to the door. 

I hold up one finger as if to say 'Gimme a second'.  He saunters back over to the door.  I take the screwdriver from my bag and slide it into the back pocket of my jeans.  Against my better judgment I walk over and crack the door slightly with my left hand; my right hand firmly gripping the handle of the Philips behind me.  Oddly enough, I'm cool as a water fountain but ready to jab seven inches of metal repeatedly through his neck at the first sign of foul play.  He starts out by saying that he's staying with his mother right now.  (In my mind I'm saying God bless him if a man this beat up still has a living mother somewhere) Then he proceeds to hold a wallet out towards me.  He claims that I'm welcome to hold on to it to ensure he returns- if I can help him out with seven dollars.  Again, I internally dissect his words.  He didn't ask for $1.  He didn't ask for $5. Such a peculiar and specific dollar amount.  Drugs perhaps? Now, it's been said that I got most of my education by watching movies.  And I've always playfully disputed that.  But, if not for Catch Me If You Can with Leonardo DiCaprio, I might have fallen for this wallet trick that is supposed to instantly gain your trust.  I mean, who's going to leave their wallet with you and not come back, right?  Wrong.  That can be anyone's wallet.  A dead man's wallet for all I know. "I have no cash." I say it brusquely while closing the door on his face.

Through the window, I watch him walk by to the front of the building.  I can only see from his torso to just below his knees.  He does something strange.  He splays his fingers wide apart and then clenches them into a fist. Repeating the move until he's out of my sight.  I find the entire episode unnerving but I'm not shaken for some reason.  When I'm sure that he's gone, I return to loading my wet clothes into the two dryers. I load up the second one, the one I saw him stooping behind and shut the huge circular door.  With it comes the loudest clamour. It's heart-stopping and for the first time that morning, I'm startled.

I look to the right of the dryer where the noise came from and see the biggest pipe wrench I've ever seen in my life.  Over 18 inches long.  I pick it up and it seems to weigh at least twenty pounds.  I drop it.  Replay the scene in my head as I realize his hands were on that wrench just ten minutes ago.  My hands start to shake at the thoughts of how it could have gone.  My skull split by one blow with his weapon of choice.  Blood. Everywhere. Bludgeoned to death the same way my aunt was in our native Trinidad a few years back.  No one knew I was down there.  No one could have known.  Even though I was ready to fight for my life or even take his if need be, I still shuddered at what could have been.

Right then and there, on that day...I truly gave thanks.  No, not an ordinary Thanksgiving at all.  Not in the least.

Weapons of Self Distraction

At the bottom of an empty shot glass lies splashes of gold Tequila, remnants of bitten lime and mounting disaster where quiet was once poured.

Liquor makes you quicker. By then, it matters little that you are slow to anger...which I am not. Fists are balled into avalanches that will not stop. Shafts of white heat stab in and out of cognizant thought. My chest is warm now. My head, God help it, is expanding and contracting like malcontent rubber bands hellbent on violent release and revelry. Eager to snap. This is personal. This is physical. This is liquor making it quicker. Bringing all the unsightly things to the surface like lesions. Not even the bouncers want to get involved.

If the enemy of the enemy is my friend- why is it so hard to be good to my friend? Could it be that I am my own worst enemy? I am spoiling for a fight in which no one can be crowned victor. We are unworthy opponents waging war in ignoble battles.

It's burgundy now where glittery, sand colored shadow was brushed on earlier. The lid, wanting ice but puffing up defiantly, tells on me. There is no make-up to conceal my shame. My wanton ways, temper now tame.

A reminder that a shot glass, let alone four, need not be drained into an empty stomach and heavy head.

Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

Dear Inky,

This may not be much but it's all I can do now. This apology is for you and only you. Approximately 15 minutes ago you were smack dab in the middle of the street... doing God knows what. Maybe cleaning your paws with short kitten licks. Perhaps taking a break from playing underneath the nearby shrubbery? I'll never know. But I saw you two seconds too late. We locked eyes and then I felt it. An odd, foreign movement in my undercarriage. And then nothing. I tried to see you in my rearview mirror but you were gone. Gone like magic. Like tragic Black Magic. I don't know your real name- but you looked like an Inky to me. Maybe it was Tuxedo or Voodoo or Midnight or Licorice or maybe even Ninja. I'll never ever know. Before tonight I cared very little for felines. They always seemed sneaky to me. Untrustworthy. But you changed all of that in a split second. I care for you deeply though I never knew you. Having trouble forgiving myself for what I could not do. I couldn't brake. I couldn't stop. I couldn't swerve. And now I've forever been changed by these events. You were the cutest, blackest, tiniest ball of fluff I had ever seen. Your beautiful emerald eyes froze as mine widened to the size of milk saucers. Oh dear, you'll never drink milk again. Never scamper around with a ball of yarn. Never purr contentedly when your owner scratches behind your ears. I know those are all clichés you only see in cartoons but you deserved to do these things before your young life was snuffed out by my vehicle. Inky, you have touched me and although I'd never want to own a kitten, you'll be a part of me forever. My anguish knows no limit at the moment.

Guilt-ridden,
This Bug

Don't Look Now...

For those of you who missed it- This Bug leads a pretty interesting life. I'm not sure why- but for some reason I'm always around to bear witness to the stranger things that tend to occur. This account is not so strange- but I still found it interesting. Trust me, Folks. I couldn't make this up.

So last week I'm staying at a hotel many states away from home. After soaking up monsoon-like rain in a place that is known for their sunshine (and evil Mickey Mouse Empire) I return to my room with my friend. He notices a peculiar note on the floor that was not there when we left hours ago. It reads:

I think you kind of cute. 954-XXX-XXXX (Insert Bold Person's Name Here)

The closet narcissist that is This Bug immediately panics. Ohmygod!!! Someone must be watching me! It's happened before, you know. Weird anonymous love note on my windshield once. Riiiight... No such thing this time. Upon further inspection- it's obvious the note was surreptitiously slipped under my room door for him. Silly me. I must be losing my touch. For pure entertainment, I urge him to call the number written in ladylike penmanship. You know, just for shits and giggles. He calls. A young woman with the slowest, country-est, cornbread & collard green eatin' Southern drawl answers. The following conversation ensues via speakerphone:

Bold Person: Hellaw?

Kind of Cute: Hey, I'm looking at this note I just found. I'm not really sure what it's about.

BP: Welllll, I'm not sho' I lef' it under da right door. (Giggles) But if dis is who ah think it is... ah thought you was kinda cute.

K.O.C. : Well, what did the person look like?

BP: You was brrrown skinnded...and Ummm...had drrraids. Is dat you?

(At this point, he and I are stifling wide-mouthed laughs. No sound coming out.)

K.O.C. : Um, yeah. That kinda sounds like me. I don't remember seeing you, though.

BP: When you seen me I was lookin' kinda busted. I had my hurr tied up in a scarf an' all...

K.O.C.: Oh. Okay. I might have seen somebody- but you went by in a flash. I might as well have seen a bunny rabbit run by.

BP: (Giggles into the phone) Welllll...I seent you. Mmm hmmm..

The conversation moves to who she is staying with, how long she'll be at the hotel, plans for a club later that night and how she could come down to his room if he wasn't busy. (Cue sound of needle scratching across the record here.) Wait. WTF?! Is she crazy? Now granted- Kind of Cute looks awful breezy. Harmless, even. Which he is. But this girl didn't know him from a can of Benjamin Moore. Judging from the convo, she could have easily made her way to a rendezvous with nothing but a man, some GHB spiked drinks, pliers and some duct tape.

K.O.C. : Actually...I'm not even there right now. I just ran in and out when I found your note. I thought it might have been a receipt I dropped earlier. Maybe later on tonight I can catch up with you.

BP: Yeahhhh....Aight den...gimme a call layter. Furreal. (More giggles)

I quietly prompt Kind of Cute to have her send a pic of herself to his phone. You know, just so he can remember the bunny that skittered by. She agrees. Oh! How I wish I could post that photo. You have NO idea. But I'll be fair. Plus, he probably deleted it by now. She wasn't a hot sizzlin' mess...but an odd, broad shouldered mess all the same. Minutes later he gets a text asking if he received her pic. We erupt into laughter. He replies that his is on the way. He never sends one. Anyway, to my knowledge there was no further exchange between Bold Person and Kind of Cute. And This Bug actually learned a few things. One: You never know who's in stealth mode watching you come and go from your hotel room. Two: No notes for me that weekend- I have officially lost my touch. Three: There is no such thing as too forward in those parts. That shy Country Girl shit is an act.

M-I-C See you in your room...
K-E-Y Why? Becuz you kinda cute...
M-O-U-S- Too Easy!

A Long Night in Brooklyn

This all started out simple enough. She just didn't know how to keep her mouth shut. In my bar tending days, she took it upon herself to drop in and relay despicable untruths to my husband and his circle of friends. My first meeting with this trollop was just an omen of more unpleasant things to follow. She was the girlfriend of my husband's high school pal, and I hated her. I never hated anyone- but I hated her. This was no one-way street, either. She despised me equally.

When our paths crossed I was mindful to let her know- in unspoken terms that she should watch her step with me. I did not trust her as far as I could spit; and the lady that I am, that wasn't very far. It wasn't so much a rivalry as it was a deep-seated dislike for one another. I warned her that her antics were not advisable if she valued her health. She scoffed…

I was a grenade with the pin pulled.

Close to a year later, on a beautiful spring night, I was through with warnings. Following a concert in Manhattan, my husband suggested going to a party held by some fellow bikers. I protested, mainly due to blisters suffered from the sexiest pair of stilettos I ever purchased but neglected to break in. Needless to say I was in no mood for a Biker Party. I was even overdressed for the occasion in a gorgeous turquoise, black & white number with an asymmetrical hemline. But I relented and we went.

Nothing about how the day began could have prepared me for how it ended. I was bored and ready to go home when I stepped out on the brownstone's deserted roof for a cigarette. Before I could take a long, satisfying drag- I spotted her. She approached me with calculated steps and an evil grin. There was an exchange of words, I can't recall what sparked the argument- but it was laden with expletives. I called her everything but a child of God. And then it happened.

I was tired of talking. I was tired of my aching feet. I was tired of her mouth. There was only one solution. In one swift movement, the high heel was off & planted squarely in her forehead. And then something scary happened. I found that I could not stop. Call it fury, call it madness. Whatever it was, it triggered an unprecedented bloodlust deep within me. A choleric frog leapt in the space my heart, just moments before had occupied. Clutching the shoe, I brought my arm back as far as the ligaments would allow and fired away, over and over. Crimson fluid matted her honey blonde hair. She was screaming, for her life it seemed but I …could…not…stop. I straddled her as I held her head in both hands. Repeatedly, I pulled her forward and came down on the unsympathetic concrete. Oblivious to the sickening thud it made each time. Exhausted, my arms and hands soiled with a foolish girl's blood, I stood to put my shoe back on. Coughing, snorting, and wheezing…All of her defeated noises faded to nothingness as I made my way back downstairs.

The party stood stock-still when they laid eyes on me. Infectious bass and treble lowered to total silence. The crowd watched slack-jawed as I lit a cigarette with blood-stained fingers. Slowly I trudged down to the car, my husband calling my name behind me. I just wanted to go home. He had to know that! Then the sirens came. Blue lights, red lights. Uniformed officers asking in their universal 'Cop Speak' what happened. Apparently I was the 'perp'. I was bloody but not wounded. They didn't care to hear my story any more than I cared to give it. It didn't take long.

As I sat in the backseat of the squad car, hands behind my back I watched my beloved inquire on where they were taking me. Could he follow? Did he need bail money? I began to tremble. Sweet Release. The transistor radio crackled, something about a domestic disturbance across town. 'Violence must be in the air tonight', I surmised. I watched as paramedics lifted her gurney roughly into the ambulance. Not an ounce of regret, not one pang of guilt.

The cuffs were thin strips of plastic, more useful at binding computer wire than restraining an unladylike lady, who minutes before had a raging bile duct. But I felt strangely at peace, even as I quaked with the aftershock of the merciless beating I had unleashed.

I was in for the longest night of my life. And Oh! How I needed a cigarette...