Trauma, Drama and Messin' With Urr Mamma

A boy, not the old iconoclast friend of Tuesday, was supposed to go out with me yesterday following a show he was doing. By way of explanation I should say that this boy is bad news. Terrible, awful news. The kind of news that makes you cry a little bit when you read it in the paper. He has three tattoos, rides his motorcycle without a helmet, has scars from where he's been stabbed, and has been forced to attend court-mandated anger management courses. The human equivalent of a convent full of infant nuns falling down a well and dying of anthrax. REALLY bad news.

Before the show, Bad News Boy calls and leaves me a message saying that the girlfriend he broke up with to fool around with me was going to be at his show and that he'd have to talk to her afterwards because he promised. Being completely self-absorbed, my first thought was "Why? You broke up with the bitch, didn't you?" I hate lingering break ups. I think they're just manifestations of some latent childish urge to get a spanking. It's like saying "I want you to hurt me more and longer!" Fuck that. That's what marriage is for.

So, I go to the show. I watch it, keenly aware that an upset woman with an unfortunate hair cut is sharing the row with me. After the show, I kept my eyes down and congratulated Bad News Boy in such a manner as to not mark me as The Other Woman. I waited outside as B.N.B. had explained his little talk would only be a few minutes long. Then, I saw him come out with her, bad haircut and all. He started his motorcycle. I lit a cigarette and tried not to watch. I made brief eye contact with him. He looked away and spat. He got on the motorcycle. She got on the motorcycle. I turned away and walked to a bar, not even looking as I heard the cycle's engine rev up and speed directly past me, the whine receeding down the street towards god knows what.

I sat at the bar, shaking without knowing I was or wanting to. I had a drink and refused to feel sorry for myself. Within five minutes of me walking in (and four minutes of me finishing my first drink), B.N.B walks in, solo. I told him I was pretty sure he wasn't going to show up as he seemed to have had his hands full on the way out of the theater. He said "But, I TOLD you I was going to spend time with you tonight" as if he was flabbergasted by my doubt. I wanted to explain to him the fact that he had stab wounds was a pretty clear indicator to me that he had done illogical things that had pissed people off a lot at least ONCE in his life. Stab wounds don't exactly say to a person "I am trustworthy!"

We wound up at an absolutely wretched hole of a bar (75 cent drafts!) near my house later in the evening, laughing and singing along with "The Gambler." At one point, I asked him if he wanted to get back together with his ex and he said "I don't think so." To misquote Kenny Rogers..."The night got deathly quiet and my face lost all expression. I said 'If you're gonna play the game, boy, you better learn to play it right.' " Just when I was starting to actively CARE about another person, a sterling reason to put up walls just waltzed in and smacked me on the bottom.

In the morning after a night my neighbors will surely complain about (hell, if you can't posess the WHOLE man, take what you can of him, right?), he left. I locked the door behind him and crawled back to bed. I held my breath, face pressed into my pillow and waited until I heard it...the whine of his motorcycle, going directly past me to god knows what.