4.9.97

Anchors Aweigh

Martina asks me, "Do you ever just look around and be disgusted with everything you see?"

I spurt a laugh. I think.

No, I say, I don't.

I do, of course. I know that feeling well.

"Sometimes, I just look at my whole environment, and I'm so sick of all of it, I'm disgusted," she says.

Yes, I relate.

"I mean, when I bartended at the strip club, everyone was disgusting."

That, I say, is why I was so happy when you quit.

"But, now, even here," she says, "I know everyone, I hate what they're doing to themselves, I know how fucked up all their relationships are, I'm watching them all, I'm seeing myself, and I'm disgusted. I can't help it. I don't want to feel that way, but I am disgusted. You know, like I just want to leave? Get away?"

It's no different anywhere else, I say. Trust me, I know.

We have been discussing our personal relationships for a while now. We both just got off work. She, from here at Anchors, me, from the Shudder To Think concert at DV8. Martina is not handling Jack very well, the new guy she's dating. I'm not doing much better with Kerrie. We both are wrong.

Martina and I have a habit of hating the people the other's dating. For what reason Freud couldn't probably say. We understand each other in ways other people cannot, or will not devote the needed time to.
We are suspicious of those that join the pairing. But now, I like Jack. She doesn't like Kerrie. There is jealously in the sense of, "You have miles to go before you're here. Dare ya to travel them."

So, Kerrie and I were lying in bed last week, talking about relationships, where we've been, what we've learned. Touching each other with words, verbally probing parts under the skin maybe better left untouched. We ended up talking about Brian, her semi-ex. I think the guy's dumb as a brick.
I think he's a symptom of much of the disease she's suffered since her divorce. He has the looks, but he hangs out with less handsome guys who have far more intelligence than he, and thinks it makes him seem more desirable.

Kerrie tells me, "Every guy I've known thinks that the stupidest sucker wins."

Hmm.

That, I say, explains Brian. But that does not explain you.

I finally visited Kerrie in Logan the other day. Our whole relationship has existed on her coming down to visit me. It was my turn to go visit her. I've been reluctant. Hell, I've refused, honestly. In fact, I woke up Monday afternoon, after having promised her I'd come drive up that day, and there was nothing I wanted to do less than take that hour and a half trip. I didn't want to see her in that town. I didn't want to see her in any environment I could not control. I did not want to face her life.

I remember driving up there, hours after the face to face concert, anger, bitterness, sheer violent frustration pounding in my head. I was on the edge. I was in a bad way. The whole way I wanted to slam my head against the steering wheel, but I was too shaky and paranoid about the thick traffic to do it. I had just put Rollins in the kennel. I had recently woken up with a violent hangover. I was wanting to do something else. I had had a week.

Now, whenever Kerrie comes in town she finds a way to keep David, her son, somewhere else. She properly does not want her two year old to be exposed to a rash of men he does not need to know. She does not want to confuse him. I respect that. With that in mind, I assumed that David would be with his grandmother or with his aunts or someone while I was visiting. I was wrong. We spent all the evening together, the three of us.

4:30 in the morning, Kerrie's dead asleep, I'm naked under the sheets and David has a nightmare and wanders into the bedroom crying hysterically. I'm on Kerrie's usual side of the bed so he crawls up and snuggles his head under my chin. I'm nervous about saying anything out loud that may scare him more. I poke Kerrie, trying to wake her up. At the same time, I'm smelling David's hair, his sweat, his fear. I want to comfort him but I don't dare because he may get even more upset when he snaps awake and realizes I'm not Mom. He eventually stands up, points at Kerrie and says "Mommy" climbs over my face and sleeps next to her.

The next afternoon, when we pick him up from daycare, David happily jumps in the back seat of my car, sticks his tiny finger in my face and says, "Warren! Warren! Brian all gone!"

Kerrie starts to chuckle then breaks out openly laughing.

This must be a good thing. This should be a good thing.

When I drove back down from Logan, I saw all the landmarks I saw on the way up 36 hours before. Seeing those sights brought back conscious moments, and I remembered how fucked up my mind was and has been for the last past couple of weeks. To my surprise, those thoughts seemed alien. I was no longer that person.

What I do not yet know is that this is the last time I will spend with her. She will never call me again.

I'm thinking of a conversation I had recently with a friend named Nate. We talked about life and our basic philosophies, if you can call them that.

Never forget where you've been, I said. Never regret having been there, and always look as far into the future as your imagination will let you see.

Nate, a big fuckin' old school punk, agreed with me and furthered that thought by saying, "I'm not where I want to be, not where I should be, but I'm definitely not where I was."

wwood