TANGLED UP IN BLUE
TOM. Things were good, which basically meant that Ashley wasn’t getting any ideas. Most girls think that just because a guy is living with them they need to marry the man. I usually spot those right away. They’re the snugglers. They’re the girls that want to do crossword puzzles in the morning. They’re the breakfast-in-bed girls. Ashley was not one of them.
I slept on the couch most of the time and even when we boinked, I ended up sleeping in the living room. I spent most of my days watching her television, eating her food and drinking her booze. It was fantastic. I didn’t even masturbate anymore, I just waited for her to get home. It was surprising to me that she didn’t have more leeches sucking money off her. Because, hey, I know exactly what I am. A freeloader, a scrounger. A fucking… sponge. And I’m not ashamed of being one. America is all about using your capabilities to triumph in life. Well, I’m a smart guy. I happen to be a people person. I’m not handsome, but women seem to like me. If that means they give me money, let me use their things, it’s not like it’s my fault, right?
In fact, I have to say that it’s bit unnerving.
I kept waiting for her to wise-up, to kick me out. A month passed. Two months passed, and it was like I’d been there forever, and she didn’t even mind. I started to wonder why that was. She had some issues, that much was obvious. No girl got to be this good without suffering some serious psychological damage. I could tell she was one of those women that like to be… used. But not in an explicit way, right? She was one of those women that liked to do “favours” so that people could tell her she how nice she is, how kind. Probably making up for some shit, or maybe she felt like she had to be noticed. I don’t really know. I never figured her out, and I’m usually pretty good at figuring people out.
What I will admit, though, is that I had started growing a bit fond of her. We never really talked much, but I started to enjoy spending time with her. She would finish up at the titty bar almost at twelve, and collapse next to me on the couch as soon as she got home. I really looked forward to that, for some reason. It was worrying because I’ve never actively looked for a serious relationship. The only possible reason I could ever come up with for having a girlfriend is steady sex, and that never was a major problem for me. With Ashley, though... You could say we were an item, but I never really saw it like that. It was more like a buddy crashing at a friend’s place. For what it’s worth, I sometimes think that I should’ve taken things more seriously. Thing is, I don’t really have the time for that nonsense.
I first considered leaving when the ex boyfriend called.
It was New Year’s Eve and he left a message in our (her) crappy machine while I was in the shower, so I didn’t even know what Ashley was talking about when she woke me up later that night, started screaming at me. She was all like –When did this guy call?, and I didn’t even know what guy. It turns out it was an old… acquaintance of hers, I guess. Wanted to meet up or something.
Ash was a wreck.
Next morning, she was walking up and down the room. Should I call him? Should I not call him? Finally she does and they talk for about half an hour, catching up. She doesn’t mention the strip club. She doesn’t mention she’s living with me. It’s not that she’s lying, but she’s not telling the guy everything either. They make plans to have lunch. She’s all –I’m so glad you called, Cal, and I could practically hear the asshole saying something cheesy like –I’m glad I did, too.
I could’ve been jealous. Thankfully, I wasn’t.
ASH. So we get to his house and, man, he starts up right away. The guy doesn’t even offer me a drink or nothing, he just gets behind me and starts groping me all over. Like, really hard. I’m thinking this is a bad idea.
I tell him, I say: take it easy.
And he just grunts and keeps going. The apartment was fancy. He had leather couches, a fairly big television. He had a blue label whisky sitting in his bar, this nice wood piece in the corner of the room. And the… There was a huge mirror in one of the walls. He’d dragged me over to the coffee table, that just so happened to be in front of it. I could tell he was one of those freaks, you know? The ones that like to stare at themselves while they do it, and at first I didn’t even mind. He kept biting my neck, and just ripping my clothes off, and I looked at us going at it. He was whispering stuff in my ear. You know, dirty stuff. And… in the mirror I could see a little girl, completely lost. This girl who wasn’t even moving at all, man, who was letting some stranger do things to her, and it was, like, it wasn’t even me. It was somebody else. It was somebody who was… scared, maybe? Terrified. It was a girl full of that… naivety that I knew I’d lost millions of years ago.
And she stared back at me, vacant.
I could hear him say: Do you like that? Do you like being able to see?
And I started thinking about what people would think if they saw what I was seeing. What… my parents would say, or if they’d even care. But most of all I thought about Cal. About what he’d think. I thought that maybe he’d be glad I ended up like this, being fucked in front of mirrors, but knowing him, he would’ve probably kicked the shit out of the son of a bitch and saved my ass. Or… most likely, he would’ve asked me if this was what I really wanted to do and be happy for me if it was.
He loved me so much. Jesus Christ.
And I’m thinking this as the guy takes his dick out, and pulls my skirt up, and sticks it in me, and it feels horrible, it feels awful, so I ask him to stop, I tell him I can’t, that I don’t want to, that it was a mistake, anything, and he doesn’t stop, he keeps going like he can't hear what I’m saying, he keeps going like I’m his blow-up doll, and I start to cry, and I start to scream, to push him, scratch, bite, punch him, and his hands hold me against the table, and he’s staring at the mirror, I can’t move, and all I can think about is Cal, and if he’d come save me.
When it’s over, he doesn’t say anything. He stands up, pours himself a glass of blue label. Offers me some. I take the bottle. Then he goes inside his room, and I stay in the living room, whimpering. The girl in the mirror was gone. All that was left was a pathetic woman. This horrid, stupid slut who gets to sleep on the couch.
I left very early in the morning.
New Year’s Eve, 2008. His mother meets them in the airport, and they hug. Your father is dead, she tells him. He already knows this. Joanne stays out of the way. When his mother notices her and asks who she is, Cal explains:
“She’s my girlfriend.”
Joanne smirks. That’s always nice to hear.
The house is full of people. Most of them, in between sandwich bites, tell him how sorry they are for his loss, offer him their deepest sympathies. Cal nods, and shakes their hands, even if he doesn’t remember who they are, or what their names are. He thanks them, and smiles. It’s the first time he’s been in his house since the day he left for Los Angeles with Ashley, and everything is exactly the way he left it. Hanging from the kitchen wall is a drawing he made when he was five, framed. Over the mumbling of the guests he can still hear the old metal fan turning, a sound he used to find maddening and now finds rather relaxing. Joanne is standing next to Cal, thanking the people with him. It’s sweet. He didn’t even ask her to come. Cal smiles. She volunteered.
At the other side of the room, his mother is speaking to an old couple. Cal tries to remember who they are, why they seem so familiar. Joanne points at them.
“If I ever have to wear glasses that thick, I’ll gouge my eyes out.”
“I think I know that lady.”
“Well, you’re supposed to know everybody in here,” Joanne says. “She’s probably one of your aunts, too. What I want to know is what that guy over there is doing here. He doesn’t seem to know anybody. I think he’s here for the food.”
Sitting on the floor, children play with some toy soldiers. Discreetly, one of his cousins excuses herself to the bathroom, eyes red and watery. Her mother stops talking to the old couple and moves to the next guest. How are you doing? What’s new? How’s your kid? She’ll cry later, when she’s alone. Cal keeps shaking hands and saying thank you. Joanne does the same.
Hours pass.
Everybody is gone now. Cal and Joanne sit next to his mother, drinking some vodka. Joanne pours a drink for herself, but Cal doesn’t. He still can’t drink in front of his mother.
“I thought it went pretty well,” she says.
“Yeah, it was fine.”
Cal didn’t leave the house out of spite, or rebellion. He did it because Ashley wanted to leave, and he spoke to his parents about it first. They didn’t want him to go, but knew they wouldn’t change his mind. He’d kept calling them every Christmas and for their birthdays, never really having that estranged relationship most runaways flaunt around, the kind that Ashley bragged about. Now his father is dead. He doesn’t know what to think of that. He hadn’t cried, not yet at least, and even though people say that it hits you much later, Cal suspected he wouldn’t be sad at all. That made him feel guilty, but it was like this: his father had led a happy life. He was seventy-three when the cancer struck, and when it was done with him, he was thin, a carcass, a ghoul. Death was almost like a gift. Some dignity, at long last. Come to think of it, Cal is glad he hadn’t seen him sick. That would’ve made him feel sad. But death? It was a relief. He suspected his mother felt the same way.
She takes the vodka bottle and pours herself another drink. It tastes horribly. Old. She turns to her son:
“You know, I had the most wonderful conversation with Ashley Bateman’s parents, just then.”
Joanne smiles. “Ashley who?”
“Oh, she was this horrid girl Cal used to see. Quite the troublemaker.” Joanne elbows her boyfriend, playfully. He doesn’t say anything. He is listening closely.
“She seems to be doing quite well for herself, now. Has an apartment near here. Works as a waiteress, I think. And they said— Listen to this, they said that you really should call her.”
His mother laughs, mockingly. Joanne chuckles. Cal simply nods.
“I haven’t talked to her in ages,” he mumbles.
“Yes, I know. I shouldn’t have expected less from you,” his mother says, huskily. Then, to Joanne: “They were quite hot and heavy ages ago. She left him very… abruptly. Had some sort of breakdown.”
“She didn’t have a fucking breakdown. She just, you know… got cold feet.”
“Cold feet? Cold feet from what?” Joanne asks.
“It’s nothing.”
Ignoring him, Cal’s mother leans towards the girl, and whispers: “They were going to Los Angeles together. Getting married, or some nonsense.”
Joanne eyes him, somewhat amused. “Really, Cal? How old were you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Eighteen years old. He was just a baby.”
Cal stays quiet. Joanne’s smile quickly fades away. His mother forces herself to swallow the vodka, and pours another drink when she’s done. “Maybe I’ll call her, you know?” he says, quietly. “Just to see what she’s up to. To catch up.”
Joanne doesn’t say anything.
CAL. My father is dead. But you never did like him much, did you? He knew you were trouble, Ash. Both my parents did. They’d talk shit about you every chance they got. I remember that… I used to get so angry. I mean, if there was one thing my dad taught me is that I should always look for the good things in people, you know? It sounds silly but he thought that we should judge people based on the nice things they do. He always said that we all do bad stuff anyways, and life is all about how you make up for it. You had a lot of great stuff in you, Ash, but what bothers me the most is that they were kinda right about you, weren’t they?
When mom called, I got ready to leave right away. It didn’t feel weird at all to be going back home after all these years, which was surprising. You’d think it’d be awkward, you know? I’ve been living in Los Angeles getting drunk every weekend, working a shitty-ass job, living with shitty-ass people. It’s a miracle that mom wants to even see me. By the tone in her voice I know dad is already dead, she just doesn’t want to tell me over the phone. And Joanne…
She asks me if I’m alright, but she doesn’t do it like most people do, you know? She does it in a way that… I can tell she cares. She’s not just asking out of routine, like I know dozens of people will do back at the house, she’s asking because she loves me. And she does, Ash. She really does, and it makes me feel like an asshole. I know I can never really give her what she wants. I can pretend and act like I am. Hell, I can even enjoy being with her, which I do, but I can never give her what I gave you, no way.
She asks if she can come with me to the funeral, and ends up paying for her own ticket. Heh. You would’ve never done that.
You know what I hate? What makes me furious about this whole thing? I wasn’t even thinking about you, Ashley. I was all caught up in the funeral, and the people, and the grieving, and the sadness, and Joanne being here, and my mother, and my family, and I wasn’t even thinking about us. I’ve already mentioned that to me, you’re like a ghost. You’re an idea, it’s like you ceased to exist the night you left me. I expected you to be living in some other country, maybe Europe, being happy. Then my mother tells me you’re working as a waitress. That you’re twenty minutes away from where I am right now. It was like… Getting hit in the head.
Everything disappeared. Joanne wasn’t even next to me anymore, I could barely hear my mother speak. And… all of these possibilities started popping up in my head. Like… I could now tell you all of the things that I’ve wanted to tell you since you left. I could now punch in the mouth. I could now kiss you and hug you and have sex with you. I could talk to you. I could now tell you that I still love you… finally. I could now tell you how much I hate you. And it was, like, all of a sudden you were no longer a distant memory, or a… ghost. You’re very much a real person. You’re a phone number. You’re an address.
Fuck.
She saw me call you. You weren’t in your house, so I left a message. I was sleeping with her in my old room. We could barely fit in the bed. I waited for Joanne to doze off, and then I grabbed my phone and dialed. I spoke for maybe five minutes, and then hung up, came back to the bed. She had her eyes open. She was looking at me. She asked me who I was talking to, but I think she already knew the answer, so I told her. And she asked me if I was going to meet with you, and I told her that it was possible. She said OK and closed her eyes.
ASH. I saw the bastard again once. It happened quite recently, actually. I was already working in the strip club by then, and he came in with a crowd. At first I didn’t recognize him, though I did notice he was looking at me a certain way. Most guys who come into the club are somewhat embarrassed, but this was different. He knew who I was, probably thought he’d never see me again. When I finally remembered his face I nearly lost it. I started thinking about all the things I could say to him. Considered slapping his face, calling him a rapist in front of all his friends, nearly did.
One of the other girls said she was going to take their order, but I told her, I said: I got this one, don’t worry about it.
And I went there with my little notebook and asked them what they wanted. I remember that one of his friends ordered a virgin piña colada which I thought was pretty funny. The bastard ordered a beer. I didn’t have a plan or nothing, I just… thought I would say something, anything. For some reason, though I… became very aware of the fact that I was topless, wearing nothing but a black miniskirt and high heels. I started feeling cold, started to shiver. Don’t ask me why, man, I don’t know why. I just felt embarrassed and ashamed, took their order with my eyes fixed downwards.
They left after a couple of hours. Haven’t seen him since. Hope I never do.
NEXT
Part Three.
You don't beat around the bush. You just come right out and say how messed up their lives are.
] chapter!
Gender:
Points: 890
Reviews: 115