A Bad Man in a Bad Place

My birthday has significantly picked up since Viviane linked to me and some other things happened that made me smile. I also realized that a link that doesn't go to any good content is a wasted link. Here's a piece I wrote many years ago, before I was the Bad Man. In fact, this story was instrumental in taking me from mild mannered nice boy to the Bad Man I eventually grew into. If you prefer to read about the man I'd become, 2004 was a pretty busy year.

The distinction between the two is fascinating, to me at least. I hope you like it, at the time I called it "Nothing's Perfect."

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It was yet another show at Brownies, which smelled to me of stale beer and puke, just like every other music venue I’d been to while following the band.

When I walked in, Rock Star Designer sideswiped me with a Wild Turkey on the rocks. He said that I looked like I needed it.

He was right, because the person standing next to him was my ex-girlfriend – “The Evil One.” She was at the show unexpectedly.

I knew she liked the band, but I thought we had a sort of unspoken agreement: I’d gotten custody of the shows and she got our mutual friends.

I was 24 years old, still in law school, and still totally in love with her. She’d dumped me over the summer because I didn’t have a job, and she "couldn't support me any more." I didn't bother reminding her then that I was just a student.

I had lined up an entire crowd of people to go with me, thinking it would be better to have a lot of my friends at the show than a lot of random strangers. I'd had a crush on one of my friends for about six months, which included the two months at the ass end of things with The Evil One. I planned on making my "big move" that night. I called her "The Bosnian" because she'd survived the war there, and somehow managed to land a modeling contract while the whole country was in turmoil. As fate would have it, she showed up while I was still talking to The Evil One, who took one look at her and said, "Dude, she's totally cute, go hit on her. Now!" Remembering the old days, when she'd cruelly dare me to do things like that just to prove to herself that I couldn't muster the balls to hit on other girls, I screwed up my courage and approached her.

In the middle of my conversation with The Bosnian, the next band came on stage. I was, however, mesmerized – ohmygodIamtalkingtoaformermodel… For all I know, they were a Hardcore Partridge Family cover band. Rock Star Designer, his hand like a side of beef, slammed me on my shoulder and growled - "you have to come downstairs, we need to take pictures with you."

For background - at the time, I ran a different website – which easily identified me. This was in 1999, long before anyone knew what a "blog" was. It was new, it was exotic, and all of my friends read it. The photo shoot was supposed to be me and the band that I would then post on the site. They got free publicity, I got to feed my ego.

I excused myself and left The Bosnian to quickly slip downstairs.

When I got back from my "photo shoot," I was startled to see that The Evil One had disappeared and The Bosnian was looking bored. I turned to a friend and asked him what had happened to The Evil One, and he told me she had actually said, "I didn't think he'd really hit on her!" and disappeared.

I turned back to The Bosnian for one second, and just as I opened my mouth to talk, there was The Evil One, standing behind her, looking destroyed. My heart broke seeing her looking so sad, and I walked over and asked her what the problem was. My crush waited in the crowd, looking vaguely bored, while I padded back to my lost love like a faithful puppy.

"I didn't actually mean you should go hit on a Model while I was standing right there. I was kidding. Christ." I chose that exact moment not to remind her about our most recent college reunion. That was the one where where she'd been picked up by a random guy while she and I sat at a table together. He sat down and tried on my cowboy hat (don't ask), right before asking her out to dinner. I also didn't mention that she'd borrowed twenty bucks from me to pay for a cab so she could get home after she was done at his place.

Instead, I just said, almost pleading "I'm sorry, I thought you were serious, I thought you were over me, finally." She had dumped me, after all. And clearly, I'd left my balls in my other pants.

She asked if we could just please leave? The badn was about to go on, but afterwards, they were going across the street to Kurova. I told her that I'd meet her there.

Kurova seemed an ideal choice for cocktails with The Evil One. It's Clockwork Orange meets alcoholic, with white chairs, strange lighting, and a constant feeling of dread. It also had five dollar shot and a beer specials, a particular favorite of those of us who were still poor.

I told my friends that I was going there, hoping to tell the Bosnian last and walk out with her on my arm, or at least to have her meet us there. I was torn, though. The model, or my lost love?

As fate would have it, I couldn't find The Bosnian. I scoured the club twice, checking for any sign of her or her friends. I asked a friend, Good Looking Guy, if he saw her, could he tell the Bosnian where I was going.

I left, and outside, The Evil One was waiting for me. She asked if everybody was coming, and I said yes, but that I couldn't find my crush. I told her that I'd asked Good Looking Guy to look for her for me, and she told me that "Good Looking Guy is trying to get her into bed. He's not going to help you with her, man. Hell, he even tried to get me into bed."

I waited in the cold January air for a few minutes hopeful for The Bosnian, now that I knew I might get stabbed in the back. I sent our group of 20 or so across the street ahead of me. When I got there, The Evil One had stripped down to a t-shirt and was standing at the window, coyly curling one finger in the "come on in, it's warm and you're cold" gesture and smiling seductively.

I followed her into the bar like a rat to the pied piper. I was handed another Wild Turkey, and sat down at the bar. She sat next to me, and we made small talk. About the fact that she couldn't seem to get promoted, that I should TOTALLY come to her party the next night, and eventually, my still abiding love for her.

And then she dropped a bomb in my lap. She told me that we were never meant to be lovers, we were always supposed to be "just friends." *pause*

The needle came off the record with a screech in my mind.

Bull. Shit.

I didn't buy that for a second. And minutes later she said "You know, I wouldn't trade my time with you for anything in the world. I still love you so much, but I'm not in love with you anymore." Whatever that meant, I didn't know, but my heart was sinking into my stomach faster and faster.

I couldn't speak honestly with her anymore. I mistook my naive desire to protect her for love. I couldn't say "yes, the reason that our passion died is because you decided it would be fun to go fuck around that asshole stoner and then lie to me about it. I couldn't tell her that I assumed she felt guilty for a year, and had clearly fucked everything up between us

Instead, I held my tongue in my mouth and my balls shriveled further. She pointed out women at the bar that she'd kissed during college. The tall lithe brunette with curly hair and a Prada fetish, the beautiful blonde with a cocaine addiction. Others.

I listened sympathetically and enviously. I wanted her to talk about me with the passion she had for these other girls.

She pointed out a guy that I vaguely knew, one of the campus studs, and told me of the night she fucked him, and how he was possibly the worst lay of her life. And then she said, "and fuck you. I've been totally unsatisfied since I left you. I don't know what you fucking did to me, but nobody else has been able to [and that part I'll leave out, because it sounds way too much like hubris] since you. Fuck you."

I just looked at her with big sad eyes.

She shook her head and said, "yeah yeah, I know, You still love me."

I didn't want to admit that, particularly after that selfish display. Instead, I told her "No. I was just thinking that nobody in my life has ever hurt me quite as badly as you have. You tore my fucking heart out and stomped all over it, you bitch." I tried to pass it off as a joke with my tonality, and I failed.

"Hey, two of us got our hearts broken that day" she accused. I wasn't sure how dumping me hurt her, it seemed more premeditated than that.

Until that moment, though, I never believed that she really loved me. She's got such a tough girl exterior. It was hard to realize when she'd been hurt.

The music got so loud that it started to hurt my ears. It was clearly time to leave, and I was on the verge of tears anyway.

We walked back across the street, and she asked – "are you up for a walk back to the PATH with me?"

"No" I moped "but I will anyway. You know that I'll still do anything for you." It was true. I would. I felt so broken.

"In that case, I guess I should leave you here." I gave her a hug, kissed her cheek, and as she walked away, I yelled "Hey, it's ok, I'll see you tomorrow night at your party."

She walked back to me - "Oh God, Please don't come to my party" she pleaded. "I know I invited you, but I'm gonna be dressed like a hootchie momma, and I really need to get laid. You don't want to see that."

"No, I don't." I told her I loved her. She just looked at me and said "that's fucking it. Go home, I can't take this." I turned to her jokingly and said "Want to fuck in a church?"

That had worked last time.

She laughed and told me to fuck off.

I turned down First Avenue, and got fifteen paces before something inside me gave out. I refused to let that be the last thing ever said between the two of us.

I turned around and she was gone. I caught a glimmer of her in the distance – she was almost to Second avenue while I was just past First. I knew she was aiming for the PATH, so, after some drunken math, I realized that I'd make it, if I walked quickly. Sixth and Ninth was a long way off.

I was afraid I'd lose her, maybe forever this time. I was too far to make out any detail; I just knew that she was the one with the backpack. I kept walking, single-mindedly aiming for the PATH station, hoping to catch her beforehand. I would walk all the way to her apartment in Jersey City if necessary. I didn't want the last thing ever said to me by the woman I'd loved to be "Fuck off." I hadn't let go that much yet.

I turned the corner at Second Avenue, and my pocket vibrated. Someone was calling me at three in the morning. That didn't make any sense to me, so I ignored it. I was a man on a mission. I lost her around a corner, and charged forward, pocket still vibrating, afraid I had lost her. Until I saw her, and she was at a payphone booth. "I was just calling you" she said, sounding choked up.

"I'll save you the twenty five cents." I felt cheesy a second after I said that, but I didn't care. "I just couldn't leave you like that." We hugged and held each other in the freezing January air. My heart, as always when I saw her, was on the verge of bursting and breaking. She was in my arms again, even if only for a minute. I held her as tight as I could.

Minutes passed. Eventually, she told me that she had to leave, and pushed me away the same way I did to her months before. She turned, said a quiet "I love you," and left.

I walked home without looking back, and without crying this time, although I knew the next night she'd be getting fucked by some new guy. I made it back to my apartment and called her in Jersey. She obviously wasn't home yet, so I left a message. "You know, I know you said it a lot, but I don't think I told you tonight. I love you, too."

I hung up and went to sleep.