The pounding in my dream slowly resolved itself into the sound of an insistent fist at my door. It paused for a moment and I contemplated ignoring it for the entire three seconds that it lapsed. When it resumed, the picture on the wall across from me began bouncing and I heard my neighbor start cursing. I cursed in turn and rolled off the couch and slouched to the door. Even as my hand touched the knob I knew it was a mistake, but nothing reinforces that impression like the face of a pissed off girlfriend on hung over eyes.
I didn’t even think, or wait for her to think. I turned around and walked back into my apartment, leaving the door, and any decisions to her.
The part
I forgot was that she wasn’t one to make decisions, she simply acted, and usually that meant acting up, or out, or however it’s polite to term acting like a cunt on hormone overdose. I hadn’t gotten more than halfway to my kitchen before she was stomping behind me.
“MIKE! MIKE!” she was yelling, never mind the fact that I’d told her a good dozen times that yelling at me was the equivalent of shitting your pants near me.
“MICHAEL, GOD DAMN IT LOOK AT ME!”
I knew she was really pissed, she never called me ‘Michael’ unless she was truly over the edge, which meant I heard it at least once a month. The flip side of this is that I hate that name, because it’s not even my name. Check the birth certificate, it says ‘Mike Salem Barnes’ which if you read between the lines means my father is an asshole, and my mother is dead. Thanks to dad the dickhead, I spent my childhood having arguments with teachers, principals and even the police about what my name was.
You see adults who deal with children have this annoying habit of calling children by names other than what they commonly go by. So for instance, Chuck over there, to a condescending English teacher, is Charles. Johnny becomes Johnathon, and of course, Mike, is Michael, which isn’t my name. I’d tell them this, and they’d patiently explain to the stupid kid who didn’t know his own full name, that Mike is short for Michael. I’d respond by telling them that, no, it’s not. They’d always get that slightly irritated look that people who simply know get when the ignorant speak and start to explain to me how diminutive forms of names work. I’d then put on the same expression and explain to them, ever so slowly, that yes, I did understand the concept, but that it did not apply in my case and my actual name was ‘Mike’. A check of records would prove me right, and make for unpleasant consequences, as no one likes being shown up by a smart ass kid.
It was at this point in my reverie that I realized I still had a fuming girlfriend in my apartment, and worse yet, she’d gotten between me and kitchen, and was staring at me from about six inches away, arms crossed, a classic image of fury.
“I’m sorry, were you talking to me? “ I asked and side stepped around her to the fridge.
“You are such a child sometimes.”
“That’s funny,” I said as I plucked a beer from the shelf, “since you insist on engaging in adult behavior like name calling.” Score one for me, she’d verbally backpedal.
“I’m just trying to get your attention, it’s like I don’t even exist to you most of the time.”
“Any attention is good attention? Pissing me off is fine as long as it gets you noticed? You need a new man, I can recommend you try the anger management classes, you can find a man who will pay close ‘attention’ to you every night. I’ll buy you some extra make-up.”
“Fuck you, this isn’t about me”
I nearly choked on the swallow of beer in my throat, “How can it not be about you, you’re the one that is pounding on my door wanting something. The only thing I want from you is to not see you for a few days.”
Her face crinkled up in that pre-crying thing women do that makes them uglier than hell. I cringed internally, sipping off my beer to hide any reaction. I hate this.
“How can you be so cruel and cold at a time like this?”
“You’re insane. There can be no other explanation for your behavior, you threw a drink in my face two days ago. Remember that? You actually threw a drink in my face. It’s like living in a crappy daytime soap opera. Who the hell actually throws a drink in someone’s face? I’m not sure how that translates into me being an asshole.”
“I was upset, I knew you’d been hanging around with that bitch and I just know that she’s trying to get back in to your pants,” she sniveled. I don’t think women consciously attempt to manipulate emotions with tears but that doesn’t change the fact that they do. Somehow, some where, that response in me got broken. I don’t feel the urge to comfort a crying woman, at best I simply want to get away, at worst I want to hit her.
“Get the fuck out.”
“Wha... no, look, we need to talk about this.”
I swallowed the rest of the beer and with it my rage, “No we don’t. Not right now anyway. Maybe later, if I decide there is anything to talk about but right fucking now, you need to get the fuck out.” I saw her mouth start to open.
“Get the fuck out, this is not open for discussion!” I roared. I smashed my beer bottle on the floor. Glass shards sprayed around the kitchen. Her eyes were wide with fear and she grabbed her purse and ran. When I heard the front door slam I sighed.
“Fuck.” I said to the mess on my floor. I grabbed the broom from next to the fridge and started sweeping. After a moment I started to hum and then leaned the broom against the counter and walked into the other room. I slapped the mouse to wake the computer and turned on the stereo, turning the volume up.
Back in the kitchen I sang as I cleaned up the broken glass and even laughed when I punctured my finger. I heard my phone ringing in the other room and made rude finger gestures at it. I wasn’t available.
When the mess was gone I grabbed another beer, cranked the music louder and headed for the shower. I washed away the last of the hang over and sang at the top of my lungs. I know that my upstairs neighbor can hear me sing even over the shower and the music when I do this, and I also know that this has probably ruined any chance of my ever sleeping with her. It’s a shame really, she’s attractive and doesn’t come across as an idiot, but much like family, it’s hard to choose ones neighbors.
Dancing through my living room in a towel I snatched the phone up and checked the call log. She’d called twice while I was in the shower. I don’t think there is any surer way of making me not call you back than to call me repeatedly. On a brighter note, Ron had called, he’d been the one calling while I was sweeping. I spun the volume down with one hand and punched the talk button with the other.
“Mike.”
“You rang?”
“You’re damn right I rang, your girlfriend just called me in hysterics, I couldn’t even understand what she was trying to say, something about spilled drinks and broken bottles and I don’t fucking know, she wouldn’t shut up until I promised to call you.”
“You don’t have to jump to her commands.”
“Fuck her, I’ve never liked her, I just want to know what the fuck is going on.”
“Well, you remember Jen, right?” I asked while I attempted to put on clothing with a phone on my shoulder.
“Yeah, she was a dirty little vixen, wasn’t she?”
“Beside the point. Anyway, she moved off to Florida shortly after we broke up and she happened to be back in town and called me the other night.”
“And you were stupid enough to agree to see her.”
“Stupid? I hadn’t seen her since shortly after we broke up and that was two years ago. I hold no grudges, and I wanted to see her.”
“You wanted to fuck her.”
“There are women I don’t want to fuck? Again, beside the point. Rachel asked me at dinner last night what I’d done the night before, so I told her I’d been out with Jen. She made a scene, asked me if I’d slept with her, and then when I told her no, she demanded that I be honest.”
“Were you?”
“Well yes, I told her she was getting fat.”
“I have no idea why you aren’t permanently single.”
“Nor I. Insanity does run in the family though.”
“So did you?”
“No, I did not fuck Jen, and if you ask me if I’m lying, I’m hanging up on you.”
“Actually, I want to know if you actually told Rachel that she was getting fat.”
“I did, and she promptly tossed her drink in my face and stormed out of the restaurant.”
“And she came back this morning? I would have thought she would have needed longer to get over that.”
“Are you fucking kidding? She was calling three hours later, I just wasn’t answering the phone and I didn’t bother to get home until about three this morning. Thankfully she’s never been a night-owl, or she’d have probably been waiting on my doorstep.”
“Dare I ask where you’ve been all that time?”
“You can ask, but if you want to know the answer, you’d better get the torture devices.”
“I hear ya, Tom’s at eight then?”
“Make it five, I might be too drunk to talk by eight.”
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