When I was 19, I was stationed at Naval Training Center, North Chicago. I was a naive virgin, dragged to Navy hotel/motel parties by chicks and dudes who had seen a whole lifetime of booze and butts that I had yet to sink into. I always hoped I’d meet some sweet sailor who would dig me enough to wait patiently for me to spread ‘dem knees. But I usually ended up meeting some douche who, encountering my imagiMari (you like that?) chastity belt, sought a pair of puss lips that would part; then, I’d eventually drink enough to pass out on a chair or the floor because the beds were, eh hem, taken.
Oh those Navy-Hotel-Party nights!
I tried to evacuate before the waking hours. Before all the beer goggles had fallen off, before the fog lifted from the fields, and the drunks, as everyone woke up wrapped in used condoms and regret.
Some of those times I’d find myself stuck in the heart of Chicago and have to catch a two hour train back to base, and sometimes I’d have to walk just-far-enough so that I could afford cab fair back to the barracks. I promised myself, when I left Chicago, I would never get stuck somewhere again, and if I was miserable, I’d just leave.
I found myself in such a SHITuation last week.
I drove to Los Angeles to celebrate Kristy’s birthday. We watched a taping of Conan O’Brien, and then we went to dinner. After dinner, my man friend called and said he wanted spend time with me. It was about 8pm, so I drove to his house.
We went for a walk in the hills overlooking the city of LA, and then we went back to his place. At 11pm, I decided I needed to drive back to Ventura. On an average day, I could probably manage the drive, but on this little shit of an evening I was sick and felt like I was dragging the weight of a dead body around.
When I stood to leave, I suddenly felt as though the sandman had punched me in the face. I told him, “I think I’m too tired to drive home.”
He said, “You can make it.”
I was a little surprised. We had been seeing each other for about 3 months, we became exclusive in the past month, and I had stayed the night before–lots of times– so I didn’t get it.
“Actually,” I replied, “I can’t.”
“Have you ever fallen asleep on the road before?” he asked. “I haven’t. I’ve done that drive tons of times.”
“Uh, I’m kinda sick and not feeling my normal energizer-bunny self. I seriously don’t think I should drive.”
“You just want me to ask you to stay, and I won’t. Besides, I’ve got a lot of work to do and I’d keep you up.”
We went back and forth and I realized there was no point in arguing, and I wasn’t going to drive and die, so I walked past him and said, “I’m staying. I know I can’t drive home like this.”
Why was this an argument? I thought. You argue about dumb shit, like who the best Weekend Update anchor was (Best: Dennis Miller Worst: Norm MacDonald) –but you never debate letting your loved one drive home if they’ve admitted exhaustion.
Inside his home, I stripped and crawled into bed. Suddenly, music pumped from his computer speakers (his office is also his bedroom); and I hoped, after a minute, he might consider me sleeping and turn the music down a notch. After a few minutes I realized: this guy didn’t want me here.
I crawled out of bed and put my clothes on.
“I fucking get it,” I told him, grabbing my things. I said: “I’m going home.”
He must not have heard me because at the junction of the 405 South and the 101 North, he texted: “Did you leave?”
I told him I was going to a friend’s house in Calabasas, and I also told him he should never call or text me ever again.
I wasn’t going to a friend’s house, though; I just wanted to get home.
In Agoura Hills, the anger faded and the exhaustion set in. In Westlake, the bumps along the highway were good enough to wake me up when my eyes started to close.
This made me even more angry. I thought about how I was putting myself and those around me in danger, and how stupid this was, and how I wanted him to feel the sting of my words. I heard Dave Chappelle’s voice in my head, “Stings, don’t it! OOooh, that shit burns!” I remembered those Navy nights, stuck without options, and here I was–options–but, still, optionless–
FUCK!
At Camarillo, I started to think about what it would be like to have Abraham Lincoln’s picture in my wallet–oh shit, Abraham Lincoln? I was on the edge of sleep.
I ramped the volume through the crusted stereo speakers and rolled down the windows to feel the blast of 101 air whipping up my hair and all all the trash in my car. I was all-too-happy to see California Street, and that beautiful-neon “Ventura.”
After four days, we spoke.
He listened. I told him everything that you, reader/friend, understand was wrong about that night. He replied that he could not appreciate that I “couldn’t handle my shit” and wasn’t a big girl who knew when to leave. That I should have asked earlier in the evening if it was okay to stay the night which, he said, it was–though an inconvenience.
I realized that we both made points that, to ourselves, sounded reasonable. And I realized: we were both right… but maybe just not right for each other. Maybe he needed a girl who was a little more organized, and who lived within spitting distance.
Whereas I live in Ventura, and I’m a little scatterbrained, possibly the brainiest girl you’ll ever meet with the least mental organization you’ve ever encountered. And maybe I need Superman, which means I will be single forever.
For fuck’s sake–that’s okay with me, as long as I don’t nearly die leaving Superman’s Crystal Palace late at night.
Rod Steele, wanting to knock me out of my funk, found me a date on Craigslist. The date showed up in drag–red wig, velvet skirt, and heels.
Would you believe he was straight and one of the sweetest first dates I had ever had? After our date, he emailed and invited me to join him on a naked date because he’s a member of the Southern California Naturist Association.
I probably won’t attend, but if I do, I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.
Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/
