Eavesdropping snippet of the day:
“I don’t why it is, but every time I see you I picture the blade carving into bloody flesh.”
Silence (enough said).
Shit or get off the pot, my mom always said. Well, I’ve taken enough shit. I’m getting off by telling him off. I mean, who the fuck says he loves someone and then fails to show up at an important event as promised and then nonchalantly excuses himself with some lame-ass story. Unbelievable.
–Did he know he was supposed to be at this wedding for a long time or some last minute invite by you?
No, for fuck’s sake! He got the same invitation I did a few months ago! He’s known forever!
He offered to come all the way to my house to pick me up so we wouldn’t have to take two cars. That’s at least a half hour out of his way, since the church is north of his apartment and I am way south. He knew as of last Wednesday when we made these plans.
–What was his excuse?
He claimed his mom called him in a panic about losing her driver’s license and was frantic about it. He had to go help her.
–What? That IS lame.
Right? Especially since his stepdad is there to help.
–Sounds like he just didn’t want to go this wedding.
That’s what I think. And these are good friends of ours, so he knew it was important for me to go. (Smiling) You know how much I love a good party too. There was an open bar and everything.
–So did he find the license for his mom?
I don’t know. I was so mad at him I hardly listened. He might have said they couldn’t find it.
–Wow, that’s kind of shitty. How could he justify letting you down for something so stupid. Does his mother drive to work?
No, she doesn’t work. She retired from an 80k a year admin job after she couldn’t do it any more because of memory loss.
–Oh, how sad. Alzheimer’s?
No, she had a slow carbon monoxide leak in the stove of her apartment she lived in for ten years. Apparently it destroyed her memory. Permanently.
–Oh shit, that’s terrible! I mean, is she like severely brain damaged or just slightly impaired?
No, she is totally fucked up. She appears normal, but she forgets everything she just did or said. It’s short term memory loss. Well not everything, but she forgets a lot. And it makes her anxious and paranoid.
–How old is she?
–Is she healthy otherwise? I mean is she a frail 75 or a strong 75?
She just had a heart attack and a stent put it in her groin to help her circulation. She is much better now. Says she can think a little more clearly. You wouldn’t even know she has a memory issue other than she is slow talking, a little, and seems spacy. But she is fearful as fuck when she can’t remember something she knows she should or loses something…like the driver’s license. She gets herself all worked up.
–Which couldn’t be good for her heart.
No, she’s supposed to be on meds to help her mellow out, get rid of the anxiety but she forgets to take it.
–Well, isn’t her husband any help?
No, he’s like 86 and on his way out. Ironically, she is his caretaker.
–Are you fucking kidding me?!!
Yeah, it’s crazy.
–Does she drive? Is she able to?
Well yeah, but she gets lost.
–That is a goddam tragedy waiting to happen.
Right? And yet she won’t let her own son take them in. I mean Terry’s a great guy for that. He wanted to get help for them, put them in a senior living place, really nice community, or just take them in himself, which would have totally sucked the life out of him, suck for us. But she’s too fucking stubborn and would rather just have him at her beck and call whenever the slightest thing happens.
–Holy fuck, Karen! You can’t be serious?! When did you get to be such an asshole?
Speaker 1 (Sitting at the end of the bar with an open palm propping up her chin, her long wavy auburn hair flanks her shoulder down the arm supporting her head and disappears under the bar. She appears to be in her late thirties with lean, defined arms and angular jawline. I cannot see her face): He says he wants to be a good man but just doesn’t know how. His anger overruns everything. He never got used to being denied, anyone telling him ‘no.’ It still strikes him like a punch to the gut. “No-POW!” As if his brain fires bullets to his fists on the command “No.” A reflex just like Pavlov’s dogs.
Speaker 2 (Facing Speaker 1 and sitting upright in her bar stool, her platinum shoulder length blonde sort of long bobbed hair framing her face in manufactured swooping S curves, maybe from a curling iron. Her make-up is drawn on tastefully, painted in long black lashes, heavy heather brown arc’d brows and smooth sandy color coated foundation. Her shoulders are set back, making her spine arch convex. She’s far too lithe to be a Marilyn Monroe knock-off, but she is a slender bosomy silhouette of her or perhaps early Madonna): Send him my way. I like an angry dude, full of piss and vinegar, strutting himself like God’s gift. I know how to handle those types.
Speaker 1 (Sitting up straight now, eye level with her bar companion, her thick hair drapes down her back stopping short of her waist): No, not like this guy. He isn’t just arrogant or confident, “strutting” like you say; he’s mean and borders on violent. He once grabbed my arm to make me stop walking away from him, and it felt threatening, more than firm, more like in the gripping with force range. We’re not even involved with each other romantically. I mean, what is that all about? I only know I was uneasy about it. Not so much scared as we were in a public place, but it did give me pause.
Speaker 2 (Shrugs, her head veering slightly to the left as her shoulders rise trying to meet the dangle of her earrings, something sparkling when the dim light hits them at an angle): I like it a little rough. Give him my number.