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| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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A Return Of The Christmas Eve Demons
It is Christmas Eve, and we have just dropped Max off after spending the evening at Judi and Paul's place, eating and drinking and walking around looking at the houses in the rich neighborhood, where people have money enough to do things like put up giant front-yard displays of stuffed bears that dance to Christmas music. We drop Max off at home, then Mitch and I go off on a drive to look at more Christmas lights. We stop at a gas station to buy something to drink and to put gas in my car, and I ask Mitch for a kiss. As he kisses me, I contemplate going home with him. He's not anything worth anything in bed, but I want to have someone inside of me. I want to feel the weight of someone pressing down on me. I think that maybe this time he'll be okay, that there won't be the argument about having to use a condom, that he'll have somehow magically figured out how to make love to me instead of just fucking me. I know that this isn't really in the realm of possibility, but I want it to be, so I pretend that it is. We drive around a bit and I tell him that I want to take him on one of my favorite drives. He agrees. On the road, we talk about many things. I say, Ask me a question, Ask me anything. He says, You sound like you're asking me to hit you. I say, No, I'm not, I just want you to ask me an interesting question. He asks what I want to do with my life and I tell him that I want to go to graduate school. Then I start talking about my frustration at being stuck, feeling unable to move forward and what contributes to this feeling for me. I explain that part of it has to do with my being a quote-unquote minority in the sciences and how this is a frustrating label to carry around. I grow increasingly more frustrated as I talk about it. Mitch is white, but doesn't want to be, and so he tries to find ways to seem as though he isn't. He brings up reverse racism, the reverse racism that he encountered in a job that he had counseling minority teenagers. He says that in his job-- I interrupt, tell him that, yeah, when it's just a job, you can walk away. But when it's your life? How can you walk away from your life? I ask him how he thinks he can relate to someone who faces racism everyday of their lives, how he thinks they might feel when they can't just walk away like he could because it was just, for him, a job. Suddenly he's yelling at me. You Bitch and bitch and bitch and don't ever try to solve the problem, he yells. He pounds his fist on the dashboard. You Bitch! he yells. You Bitch and bitch and you don't ever try to find a solution. Me? he yells, I try to find a solution. Instead of just bitching like you do. You Bitch! He slams his fist over and over on the dashboard. You Bitch! You Bitch! My heart is pounding and I'm afraid of him. I'm afraid that the fist is going to move from the dashboard to the side of my head. I'm driving, driving seventy miles an hour down the road, thinking, if he hits me, I'll run the car off the road. If I pull over, he'll attack me. I think, don't respond. Don't argue. Don't look at him. Don't provoke him. His fist hits the dashboard over and over. You Bitch! I think, keep driving. If I keep the car moving, he won't attack me because then it puts his life in danger. His fist hits the dashboard. You Bitch! You Bitch! You Bitch! I take the exit into the next town. There are always people on the road in that town, there's always a small town cop on the side of the highway, waiting for speeders to hurl off the highway into the sleepy little town. If I can find a cop there, I can be safe. He's suddenly calm. I pull off the side of the road, dig in my bag, ostensibly for a cigarette, but really looking for my cell phone in case I have to call for help. It doesn't occur to me to ask him to get out of the car. My heart is still pounding. I am still fighting the fear response that his violence has provoked. He reaches for me and I light a cigarette, knowing that my smoking disgusts him. I don't look at him, instead I say to myself, don't take the sleepy little road you brought him out here to take. That road is too often devoid of cars, of people, of help. I'm going to take the highway back to town, I say to myself. What? he asks. I'm talking to myself, I say. I make a U-turn and head back to the highway. On the drive back, he tries to talk to me. I say, I'm having trouble concentrating so can we just be quiet for a while? He is quiet. On the way back I think, just take him home. I talk quietly about the few things we have in common and he responds as quietly. He says, I guess we really triggered each other. He says, I'm sorry. He says, Are you okay? Are you sure you're okay? I nod, say, Um-hmmm. He says, Are you sure you're okay? I take the exit that will get us to his apartment as quickly as possible, then I miss the turn off into the alley where his apartment is. I have to drive around the block. Are you okay? He asks. Are you sure you're okay? He says, You'll get what you want out of life. I know it. You'll get what you want when it's time. You know that don't you? Are you okay? Are you sure you're okay? Um-hmmm. I'm okay. I finally pull up to his apartment. I leave the car running and sit, not looking at him. He says, Do you want to come in for some tea? I say, I have to go home and take out my contact lenses. My eyes are itching already. He says, I have milk, too. I say, No, really, I want to get my lenses out. He sits and says, Are you sure you're okay? What are you doing tomorrow? I'll be here all day. Are you sure you're okay? Um-hmmm. I'm sure. Okay, he says. Well, I'll be here all day tomorrow. Can I give you a hug? He hugs me, says Merry Christmas. He gets out of the car and I drive away.
More lies:
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