That Time I Was So Proud

So Superboy called me a couple weeks ago looking for some help with a paper he was doing on the Walking Dead and the roles that women play in it's hypothetical apocalypse. We went back and forth a bit and this is what he came up with....

Women in AMC’s The Walking Dead

It was a dreary morning toward the end of November, and I was looking for a good show to watch on Netflix. As I scrolled through the list of “Suggestions for You,” I came across a particular program that my good friend Stephanie had mentioned in the past. Opening up the show, I began to watch and was almost instantaneously hooked. The Walking Dead takes place in Georgia in a post-apocalyptic world that has been overrun by flesh-devouring zombies, colloquially known as “walkers,” who have been infected with a horrible virus and prey on the still living humans who have been able to survive the devastation of the disease. The group of survivors that the show follows originally starts off with about 18-20 members, and over the course of the show, the members are one-by-one killed off until there is a group of about 10 members remaining in the third, current season. The group is led by Rick, a strong-willed, natural leader and former sheriff, and consists of about a fifty-fifty mix of men and women. However, while I watched the show, I began to realize that I did not perceive the women of the group in the same manner that I saw the men. Even in this post-apocalyptic world where every remaining survivor, black, white, or other, must join together simply to continue living and maintain some resemblance of a normal life, the women, for some reason, seem to be reduced to a subservient role that is a common prejudice present even in the modern world we live in today.

Take the likeable character Carol, for example. Carol appears in the show in the first season with her innocent daughter, Jane, and her brutish husband, Ed. Right from the start as a new viewer of the program, I was bewildered by the portrayal of Carol. Unlike many of the other survivors who are rough and rugged and willing to kill some “walkers” at any moment, Carol is a simple housewife: washing the clothes, preparing the meals, doing the dishes, etc. Carol is also extremely subservient to her abusive husband, Ed. The odd aspect about Carol is that even in the current season after she lost Jane and Ed, she is still portrayed as this “fragile butterfly,” well put in the words of Daryl. In the current season, the group has found refuge in an abandoned prison and is engaged in a quasi-turf war with another group led by a mysterious, seductive leader, simply known as the Governor. When almost everyone man is out on what they call “runs” for supplies or scouting the Governor’s troops, Carol is quite simply “in the kitchen” preparing a fresh meal for when the men return from their journey, or she is seen taking care of Rick’s newborn daughter since Rick’s wife died in childbirth. In the new season, she almost dies not because of a bite from a walker, which happens to one of the men in the group forcing Rick to severe his leg at the knee (a very bloody, masculine scene), but rather from simple heat exhaustion and dehydration. The ruffian outdoorsman, Daryl, saves her and literally carries her like a baby to safety. It seems that after the lost of her dominant patriarch, Carol has become even more dependent on the men and has almost taken over Rick’s wife role as a mother. Carol is little more than the simple housewife of the group and seems to be quite happy with her role.

For the other primary women of the show, their roles are a tad more complicated than Carol’s. Maggie is first seen as an innocent, know-nothing farm girl; however, in the new season, she has developed into more of a strong-minded young woman. Do not think for one second, however, that she is among the dominant male leaders of the group. In fact, the one time that she does go out on a “run” with a young man named Glenn, she ends up being forcibly kidnapped by the Governor’s troops and taken back to their camp along with Glenn. Brutally beaten and even threatened with a captured“walker,” Glenn is interrogated about the whereabouts of the prison. On the other hand, the Governor never even questions Maggie about the rest of her group; instead, he chooses to sexually abuse her by making her remove her shirt and bra before forcing himself on her. Maggie is never viewed as a real threat and is basically just a pawn that the Governor uses to draw in the rest of the group. After this traumatic incident, she almost becomes a helpless, little farm girl again afraid to venture out on any more “runs.”

What makes the women’s portrayal so obvious is the contrasting roles of the men in the show. The leader of the group, Rick, is a man who relies on other men, Glenn, Daryl, and T-Dog, to help him fight the men under the Governor’s regime. Even Herschel, the oldest member of the group who had his leg severed due to a bite, takes on the role basically as the “grandfather” of the group, providing much needed advice and insight in certain situations for the group. Indeed, all the men are forces to be reckoned with and have considerable control over the affairs of the group. Even in the latest episodes when Rick has really gone off the deep end because of the devastating loss of his wife, his authority is still respected more than that of any of the women. According to the Walking Dead, even in what seems to be the end of times, the old prejudice that women nurture and care for the children and handle menial household chores while men hunt, fight, and make the decisions still holds true.

 

He got an A+ on the paper and I don't think I've been this proud for any reason in quite some time. I really needed it. I picked him up last Saturday and we spent the day laughing and attempting to kill ourselves with a Krispy Kreme burger. That's right. Angus beef, BBQ sauce, carmelized onions, bacon, cheddar cheese and 2 grilled Krispy Kreme doughnuts brilliantly used as buns. It was incredible! Anyways, for those of you who have followed my blog over the years, you know I'm always waiting for Superboy to tire of my antics. So far he just turned 17 and I think we get along better than ever. Next up- we're going to see Big Boi in June before he leaves for a six week stint at Valdosta University. I think I can safely say that I've got him until he leaves for college in the Fall of 2014 but hopefully, he'll never outgrow me.

 

 

That Time It Finally Happened and I Questioned The Universe

I saw a dog get killed yesterday. It’s almost occurred a few times in my life…the breath stopping..eyes covering and then, ahhh… everything’s fine. Not this time. I wanted to look away but he was so fucking close, one more second and he would’ve made it. There is NO escape from the back wheel of an obnoxious white Chevy Avalanche hauling all kinds of ass in rush hour traffic. Not even a brake light, just one moment a very cute Corgi mix was gettin’ it across the road, like he was killing the 12^th level of Frogger, Jesus if he would’ve just stayed in the median, it was a miracle he made it that far, but he went for broke and fell off the log. It sucked. I went back to make sure, even though I watched it roll right under the tire, just had to make sure it wasn’t still alive, suffering. It wasn’t.

Today, I kept picturing it in my head over and over, like some horrible Youtube mind trend. Along with that is this feeling of gratefulness. Appreciating how lucky I’ve been/am to rarely be subjected to crazy shit like that in my life. 

Well there was this other thing.About 8 months ago on my way to work,I noticed a rabbit that had been run over in the road. Its bottom half was smashed flat on the pavement, while in a cruel twist of fate, his top half was still very much alive and struggling furiously to get away from the bottom half. I screamed then struggled with the decision to go back and run over the top half or perhaps, use the machete I keep under the driver’s seat to chop his head off then realized I was far too pussy to enact either plan and just cried for the next few minutes to work. I called animal control, they said they’d had 6 previous calls and someone was on the way. I thought about asking if could have their names so we could form a support group because I was pretty fucked up. I hit “end call” instead. I was late to work frequently over the next four months as I refused to drive down that road.I think about that damn rabbit at least once a week, hoping my husband’s right, it was in shock at that point, couldn’t actually feel the smashin’s. Please let that be true.  

This afternoon, I read about how scientists have discovered that the universe is 800 million years older than previously believed. I know the theory, we all came from one atom that exploded. In a nanosecond, nothingness became the universe. That’s how things work in this world, everything is alive and dead instantly, it all relates back to that first moment. I’m also incredibly high right now so excuse the rambling. Really though, where did that atom come from? I asked one of the Dr.s at my job that question today. He’s Jewish, believes in God but is also a man of science. He believes the atom came from God. Where did God come from? Why aren’t the dinosaurs in the Bible/Torah?? Was Adam a Cro-Mag since he was the first man? Those things definitely existed, we have proof. Much like my Papaw Stewart, a Southern Baptist preacher I tormented daily, Dr. Silver didn’t have those answers either.  Why do we deserve the way we live, roof over our head, clean water, food while so many others starve and freeze to death? Why did every other dog I've ever seen in similar situations make it but this one didn’t? What the fuck is out there and will I live long enough to see it? Will I find out when I die?

Will it be like that old SNL sketch with John Laroquette and Dana Carvey?

Laroquette/deceased: Well. Let's see.. what's the grossest thing I ever ate?

Carvey/Angel: You don't want to know.

Deceased: Oh. Okay. What about the 200th grossest thing?

Angel: Okay.. that would be some butterscotch pudding that had a dead earwig in it.

Deceased: [ grimaces ] Oh, gross! You mean I never tasted it!

Angel: Well, you made this very funny face.. but you were watching a football game on TV at the time.

I saw that one back in high school and it’s always stuck with me as a positive to death, the possibility of knowing all the secrets of life. I mean if you do it right, you’ll have like 80 years worth of shit to ask about. Past all of the existentialism I’ve been paddling through, the simple things ARE the most intriguing. 

By the way, I’ve listened to this song about 20 times today. No.. it’s fine, not obsessing at all. 

The Ghost of Big Girl Past

I’m certainly no stranger to digging out my “fat pants” on Monday mornings but after this last weekend’s debauchery, even those were tight today. It happens sometimes, the ghost of the big girl that I used to be will visit and take control of my indulgences once more and I’m completely powerless against her. I had a feeling this social call was going to be pretty bad on the way home from work Friday night when she had me go through the Taco Bell drive thru and purchase a Cool Ranch Dorito taco supreme. She only ordered one because she wanted to eat it in the drive thru of another fast food restaurant (Sonic) while she waited for her Spicy Popcorn chicken, sweet potato tots and Pineapple shake. Incidentally they fucked her on the tots, got fries instead, that’s what gluttons deserve, shitty service.

When I awoke Saturday, she was gone again, my hands were back on the wheel steering me towards a productive healthy day.  I took Heidi to the groomers, then to the park since it was such a lovely day. We took a brisk 4 mile walk around before stopping to enjoy the scenery. This shot stuck with me, I think mostly because I feel like that sun trapped in the grip of the giant tree. Trying/wanting to shine but letting something far more insignificant stifle my efforts.

 

 

 And it went like that right up until my dog and I were on the way home from the park that evening when Fatty returned and pulled into the Wendy’s drive thru. I had already eaten dinner but she of course was famished. So much so that she ordered two cheesy cheddar burgers and a large fry. OH and since Starbucks was right next door, she decided to roll on over and snag a Mocha Frappuccino to swash down her bounty. On this night she hung out until the kitchen trash was full of wrappers from various snacks I had purchased during my morning grocery run. They weren’t unhealthy unless you eat too many and that’s what she did.

Yesterday I was certain my fat banshee had finally returned to the Hell I assume she comes from as once again, I had full control…all day…until about an hour before “The Walking Dead” came onw when she decided that only a platter of Chinese food delivered to her door and eaten in pajamas would be fitting for such a television occasion. At the time, I was glad she made the call because it was another BORING ass episode and Sesame chicken did make it a tad more interesting. 

She’s still not completely gone today. I felt her floating over my shoulder during our catered lunch, she wanted the mashed potatoes and basmati rice but I was able to reign her in and get tiny scoops just so she would be appeased. Tonight I’m going back to the gym and eating stir fry vegetables. Hopefully tomorrow my other pair of fat pants will be a bit looser and the big girl will stay in Fat Hell  for several consecutive weekends. She has to, I don’t have any bigger pants.

That Time I Was A Crack Dealer

I'd been extremely skeptical but I had to admit, from what I’d seen in the movies anyways, it looked like crack.

Jose’ took the bar of Ivory soap, chunked it up just so, hit it with some yellow food coloring and voila’-Pookie himself would’ve offered to suck your dick for a sample. Times were lean. We’d spent all my money, pay day was a week away, Jose’ hadn’t been able to re-up his stash, shit was tight. We didn’t even have bammer for us to smoke. When he said he had a plan to score some quick cash, I had no idea it involved dealing faux crack rock. No arguments though, I’d gotten used to craziness every time I came to see him, anything different would’ve been safe and boring.

“You sure Ol’girl gon’ be any good to us?” Danny asked while giving me the stink eye. “The bitch almost got you popped the last time you tried to get her to do some shit.”

He was referring to the incident that happened a couple weeks before when I’d taken Jose’ to the store for some toilet paper. I’d parked in front of the crappy little Korean owned shop on busy ass Michigan Avenue without the slightest inkling that moments later, he’d jump back in the car, arms full of stolen shit.  I didn’t pull out fast enough like he demanded, the angry Asian store clerk made it to the car, furiously banging on his window, forcing him to relinquish his ghetto pirate’s booty. The Funyuns, the toilet paper, the Pepsi AND the bathtub stopper. Who steals a fucking .59 bathtub stopper? He was ridiculous.

“O.k., first off- I told you to stop calling me a bitch.” I was pissed. “Second-maybe he should’ve told me what he was going to do so I could’ve been prepared. The shit caught me off guard, traffic was crazy. I’m not just gonna shoot out and cut some body off, I’m a courteous driver you Dick!”

A loud laugh from Jose’ ensured that I’d won so Danny shut the fuck up, that’s how things worked.

I talked a big game but really, it freaked me out beyond belief. I’d hoped that I’d failed so miserably that he’d never put me in the situation again. This was different though, not really stealing so much as scamming people who were scummier than us. I’d drive, Jose’ would run his spiel on the crack heads and just in case any drama jumped off, Danny would be in the backseat armed to the teeth with a fully –loaded-super soaker. They both agreed anything more would be overkill. Blasts of Ice cold water to the face would prove more than effective to a January crack head in Detroit.  There was also the shared belief that it would be hilarious.

“Ding! I think we got another winner.” Jose’ removed the cinnamon toothpick from his mouth, using it to gesture like a maestro conducting a bleak symphony. She was a shivering ghost of a woman, rail thin, sloshing around in icy grey soup on the corner.

So far we’d had moderate success with two takers. The moment the swap went down, I punched it (that was key) and everything went smooth as silk. We we’re up 40 bucks, at least enough to get us high, buy some gas and McDonald’s  but it still wasn’t enough to satiate Jose’s greedy nature. There were three bags left which meant three more chances to make money, three more chances for some crazy shit to pop off. 

Ultimately, the latter was always more important to him.

“You holdin’?” she whispered through crusty, candy corn teeth.

“I got you girl” Jose’ assured, hand opening just enough to flash the product. “Twenty bones.”

Our potential customer let out a defeated exhale before stepping back from his window.  As she began searching frantically in the pockets of her useless faux rabbit jacket, I finally acquired the nerve to get a good look at her. Probably in her thirties, looked to be in her fifties, dirty yellow hair, spindly spider legs almost completely blue from exposure, I assumed the pleather mini skirt was just for sex appeal.  Her finger nails the most vibrant thing about her, bright red, not a chip, the only visible part of the person she used to be that remained on life support.

“Nah man, nah…I ain’t got no money..But …but…” she scrambled finally finding what she’d been digging for, unfurling a sorry bag of weed... “I got this bud, it’s worth it, we can trade.”

Jose’ snatched the cloudy, worn sandwich bag from her trembling hand, eye ballin’ the fuck out of it.

“Are you fuckin’ serious bitch? This ain’t even bam-bam, this shit look like fuckin’ grass clippin’s! I ain’t givin’ you shit for this!” Jose’ yelled before chucking her offering back at her wretched face.

Danny and I exchanged confused glances. I could tell he felt the same. What the hell was Jose’ doing?  Getting all indignant on this chick for trying to undercut us on fake crack was nutty, made no sense.  This was the moment when I finally realized how low “making sense” fell on his list of priorities. Pride was paramount to Jose’ and how dare some stupid crack head think she was gonna “get over” on HIM.  

“No please! Please!” she begged, faded blue eyes welling with tears “I haven’t had nuthin’ since Tuesday, man…I’m hurtin’.”

It’s easy to think of crack heads as simple, interchangeable hood characters until you get up close and witness how real their pain is. I connected with her desperation, her driving desire to implode, we were just taking different paths, hers being more concentrated and immediate, mine abstract but still very much in motion.  

“C’mon man…just give it to her Dawg…let’s move on. Shit.” Danny kicked his two cents in from the back, fed up.

Jose’ sat there silently contemplating the possibility of losing nothing, the bogus mental struggle twisting his mouth into a grimace.

“O.k., gimme that bullshit.” He conceded.

Like I said, our M.O. up until that point had been successful- simultaneous exchange- peel out-smoothness.

 Jose’s discord gave way to complacency this go around though, giving our patron some lag time to get a good luck at her purchase before I could stomp on the gas.  Turned out she was craftier than he’d given her credit for and knew almost immediately that we’d fucked her.

“Nigga this ain’t crack!!!”  

Her scream stabbed my eardrums as I tenderly punched the gas, crappy 4 cylinder Ford straining under the pressure of mediocre necessity. The Tempo did 0-60 mph in 3 minutes flat, the perfect choice for a getaway car if you’re not all that concerned about getting away.  

This time she was the one throwing baggies of bullshit at Jose’s face before forcing her bony arm inside the door jam, latching on like a hungry, nursing baby being swindled of a tit.

“I want my craaaack!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” she squalled, running alongside, keeping up with us.

“Fuckin’ GOOO!!!” Jose demanded while he tried to pry her hands free and push her to the ground.  

I was doing about 10mph, to go any faster may have caused her injury, something I knew I couldn’t live with. My conscience had cracks, it wasn’t gone.

“Suck on this bitch!!!”

 Danny’s zeal was nothing short of “Die Hard-ian” as he snaked the barrel between the seats, finally getting to unload round after round of freezing tap water from the pump action Super Soaker into the mug of a disgruntled customer.  He’d waited patiently all day just for a chance at this but to his dismay, it was having an adverse effect. Each blast to the head only seemed to enrage her even more, add to her strength, like she was some sort of Crack Hulk. To all of our surprise, instead of letting go, she chose Jose’s throat as a better anchor, choking the fuck out of him while still keeping pace with a moving vehicle.  If there were a crack Olympics, our girl would’ve taken the gold.

Through choked out gasps, Jose’ continued to plead with me to speed up. All of Danny’s ammo was spent, he’d taken to slapping her while Jose’ (not having enough room to do much else) punched at her chest. I didn’t know what to do since either way; our mark was going to get hurt. As Jose’ fished his hand between my console, searching for the mag-lite flashlight, I could only assume that smacking her upside the skull with heavy metal would inflict more damage than what would happen if shook her loose.  The choice was clear.

Making sincere eye contact with Crack Hulk for the first time, we had a moment where it was just us, two girls, sticking together in the quest to ruin ourselves. We wouldn’t be denied and I would help her avoid the most painful outcome because I cared.

Silently I mouthed to her “I’m sorry”.  I convinced myself that she nodded. She didn’t.

Then- I floored it.

She kept up till almost 30 mph (incredibly impressive) before tripping into a crocodile death roll down the middle of the street. Jose’ and Danny exploded into laughter as we sat at the stop sign, watching her get to her feet, dusting off the snow, recovering from a terrible dismount.

Both of Crack Hulk’s middle fingers jutted in the air HARD, probably hoping if she executed those double birds with enough ferocity, we’d feel her red nails piercing our assholes. I felt them all over.

“Ha-ha! Look at her dawg! Ohhh...she mad!” Danny exclaimed.

“She mad?” Jose’ mockingly questioned. “Look at this fuckin’ sack of crap! Bitch is lucky I don’t take the wheel from Steph, go back and run her ass over!”

They both died.

Failing to see the comedy Jose’ and Danny had found in the state of affairs, I refrained from the giggle fest. The comprehension that every time I thought I’d sunk as low as I could, I hadn’t, was fucking up my swirling brain. There were so many layers of “Shit Bag” still yet to achieve if I just kept coming back. It wasn’t the goal, it was just happening and it was getting easier every time I hit a new level in the game.

That Time I Was Retarded

The fact that I’d volunteered to take Carol to her dental appointment ALONE should’ve been a huge clue to my manager that scheming was afoot.  It was completely against protocol, Carol required two staff present at all times but we’d had another mass round of folks quitting again, forces were depleted, Carol being a primary reason for this. Her behaviors were intense, she could fuck you up and the craziness of dealing with the constant threat of being attacked by a vicious, retarded girl was far too much for most people to consider at $5.25 an hour. She also happened to be just one of the 6 aggressive, mentally challenged individuals that resided at Beechwood. I had low standards in every aspect of my life at the time so I didn’t mind the meat grinder as much. Sometimes I even liked the craziness, the fear was a rush and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take pride in the fact that it was too grueling for most. They were pussies.

Only one Dentist within 100 miles had the testicle fortitude to clean Carol’s teeth. If she had an appointment, it was imperative to keep it since the Doctor made sure he had no clients immediately before or after she came just in case she blew a gasket and tried to kick our asses, which even with her standing at only 4”9, was a real possibility. My argument was that she’d been on a good run the last couple of days, we all knew the other bitch, her other personality, came in cycles like a mental period and she wasn’t due to make us bleed for another couple days. Begrudgingly, my manager complied, allowing my stupid plan to bloom.

“No she’s doing fine” I lied into the payphone to my boss. “Seriously, I think I’m going to hit a drive through for lunch and take her to the park for awhile.”

The reality being that Carol was trippin’ pretty hard. 

During the exam, she flipped and gouged the shit out of my forearms with her nails as I tried to hold her still while Dr. Big Balls finished blasting the tartar off her molars.  She’d settled down enough to get her out the door and all the way to the back of the 15 passenger slate blue GMC van, the safest and only place for her.  Once the seat belt was buckled, Carol would usually stay put. Only on the rarest of occasions would she remove the strap and charge while we were in motion, a key reason she was all the way in the back, it allowed time to formulate a defense.  If you’ve never had your hair pulled or been choked while doing 65 mph down the freeway, I assure you that it’s just as much fun as it sounds.

Yet, I would not be deterred. We weren’t that far from Jose’s, an unusual situation that I was determined to capitalize on.  His neighborhood looked even worse in the daylight and it was startling to see so many prostitutes working the lunch hour shift on a Tuesday. They must’ve been doing well or have seriously slave driving pimps to warrant the plethora milling about like schools of decaying fish. Carol’s mood seemed to darken with every turn as if the scenery itself were controlling her, forcing the other “her” to the surface.

“I hit people bitch!!  I hit people!!”  Carol’s index finger pointed straight at her face as she threatened anyone within arm’s reach. The other one would hurt Carol as well as any unlucky soul she could sink her claws, teeth or fists into. It was worth a fresh scratch or bite mark to feed my new found addiction. We we’re so close now, 2 blocks away.

“O.k. Carol, o.k…. you want a cheeseburger?  Wouldn’t that be good?”  Desperation was the only thing that would even get me to try to reason with the evil one, it was always too late when she started that “I hit people” shit, that meant defcon 4, oblivion was emanate.

I just assumed her screaming was what stirred the concerned looks from Jose’ and his crew as we pulled to a stop in front of his crib. They were hanging out on the porch like people without jobs do in the hood on a weekday. Still cold, but actually sunny for the first time in weeks, even a piece of shit like Southwest Detroit looks more promising when it’s illuminated, draws the roaches out.

Jose’ ambled down the crooked steps of the small porch bursting with lower case G’s, an air of caution  about him that signified much more than a fear of slipping on the icy sidewalk.  His eyes squinted under his signature fitted, black ball cap.

“That’s right bitch!!! I KILL PEOPLE!!!” Carol squalled like a maniac from the back and for some reason this elicited a slow, easy smile from my human drug. Instantly Jose’ appeared at ease, turned to his audience and assured them all was well.

“Shit girl, don’t be doin’ that. You had these muh fuckers scared as hell rolling up in this fuckin thing. We thought we was straight up busted. I heard one of your people’s though, remembered that crazy shit you told me and I connected the dots.”

Unbeknownst to me, the group home van looked EXACTLY like a Detroit “Gang Squad” unit. They were identical, right down to the tinted back glass. We both used it for covert purposes, ours to conceal madness from the general public, they to mask the identity of police officers attempting to squash madness IN the hood republic.

Jose’ jumped into the passenger seat and almost immediately, Carol went dead silent.

“We were just..in the area..so, I dunno, thought I’d pop by..say “hi”.” I sounded so pitiful, like the typical dumbass bitch that gets rapped about so frequently.

“Nah..that’s cool…real cool” he almost whispered as his body strayed across the wide open space between the captain chairs, hand squeezing my right breast as hot, Dentyne breath burned my neck. I’d almost forgotten about Carol until her NICE friends came to visit.

“Ahh…ahh…ahhh…HEY…It’s a bumblebee…Heyyyyyyyyyy…it’s a BUM-BLE-bee” she sing talked while looking down the cuffs of her Parka, tiny face exploding into full bliss. This meant we were good, bumblebee’s in her coat sleeves meant drama had been abated, they chased the evil one away, she’d be fine for hours.

Jose’ stopped molesting my chest long enough to introduce himself.

“Hey Carol. What’s up girl? You got some bee’s in yo jacket? That’s fuckin’ cool as hell.”

So he was sweet in bed AND to retarded people. That was enough for me. He could be a crazy son of a bitch the rest of the time, it only added to his hotness.

Carol was over the moon. Being asked about her coat bee’s elicited a little girl’s laughter, making it simple to forget what a brutal monster lurked inside of her at all times. Something about Jose’ had charmed her. Maybe the evil “her” sensed he was more dangerous than she could ever compel Carol to become. Whatever it was, her nutty ass was completely pliable.

“Well, we we’re going to grab some lunch from Burger King. You wanna come with us?” I asked coyly, like we hadn’t fucked five times a couple of nights ago. 5 times, all ending in amazing climaxes and now I was his dick zombie, it completely controlled me.

With no shame, he made sure I was “buying” before agreeing to my proposal.

“Hey, after we eat, I got a funny fuckin’ idea we need to do if you’re down.”

I was “down” for what-ever-he-said.

After we ate in the parking lot, Jose’ instructed me to stop at a dumpy liquor store.

“Gimme 10 bucks.” He demanded before ejecting and sauntering into the dingy joint, sportin’ his best pimp stroll.

“Put this on.”

He’d purchased a plain, black ball cap very similar to his own and asked if I could pull my hair back. I started to figure out where this was going.

“Put this in.”

First song on his mixtape was Ice Cube’s “My Summer Vacation”, a tune I was very familiar with, satirically loving gangsta rap from its inception. It was something that seemed to impress him which in turn, made my crotch sweat.

“Turn here and hit this.”

I made the left while taking a toke off the blunt he’d just twisted up on the group home van’s mileage log binder. It reminded me that I’d have to come up with something good to fake the miles we were racking up.

“O.k., slow down…just creep. You seem them fools up there on the corner?”

I did.

“When I say so, fuckin’ peel, punch it, got it?” His grin was as sinister as any I’d ever seen.

“NOW!”

The small shred of responsible adult that I tried to stamp out emerged briefly as I slammed on the gas, requiring a glance in the rearview to assess Carol’s state. She and her bee’s appeared to be having the time of their lives.  Maybe we just didn’t get into enough crazy shit to satisfy her blood lust, that’s why the wickedness seeped out with no choice but to beat the crap out of us. I was totally rationalizing endangering a mentally challenged person under my care to lasso the affection of a sociopath, no qualms about it.

All nine of the dudes holding down the corner of Central and Mcgraw were clad in red and black, Latin Count colors. They didn’t notice us until we were almost right on top of them, scattering in every direction, various things from their waist bands and pockets, guns, drugs, etc… being thrown into bushes, sewer grates as they scrambled for freedom.

“Cut it up on the curb!!!”  he cried out like a general giving the final command before a crushing victory.

As any good soldier would do, I heeded my superior’s orders, in the process cutting off the escape of the fattest deserter. I figured he must’ve been the guy with the Malcom X jacket, the one that started the “Yo momma” joke about a helicopter landing on your back because he was fucking enormous and the “X” was stretched to capacity. There was another joke to be made in regards to him being a Mexican in a Malcom X coat but that would have to wait for another time. Not a drop of fighting spirit as he laced his stumpy fingers together behind his head, defeat and jail time washing over his saddened, ham eatin’ jowls.  

The windows in the front of the van were a lighter tint, just enough to shadow two people wearing hats. Jose’ slowly rolled his side down, a cloud of dank pot smoke sneaking out at an equal pace.

“What up Atomic?”  he asked our perp with the polite casualness of a waiter inquiring if he’d like to start off the meal with some jalapeno poppers.

“Jose’? You stupid muh-fucker! Damn dawg, damn! How you gonna play a nigga like that? I threw my fuckin’ dope in a goddamn snow bank Punk!!”

Jose’ was holding his sides, bent in half, howling. It went viral, I started laughing just as hard, never once contemplating what could have happened if one of those guys had been a little harder and drew on us.

“Shit” he squeezed out in between cackles “It ain’t my fault you’sa pussy ass bitch.” 

Atomic dug through the snow, still mad as he wanted to be, searching frantically for his product. 

The laughing started again, this time it was Carol. I was pretty sure she didn't understand what had just happened, it was just the chaos she found humorous. Jose’ loved her.

“That’s right Carol, Atomic’s dumb as hell. Shit’s funny ain’t it girl? Yeah it is. Stupid, fat muh-fucker.”

I could only imagine how low Atomic’s self esteem would plummet upon the discovery he was being made fun of by a retarded chick.

“Well damn, you can at least give a nigga ride after pullin’ some ho shit like that. You shut the whole fuckin’ corner down with this bullshit. Hope you happy, makin’ nigga’s lose money, shit is wack.”

To Jose’s credit, he actually asked if it was cool before telling Atomic to climb in, as if there were a chance I’d say no to any request he made. I was gone.

Our new passenger was completely comfortable with Carol, asking her questions like where she was from, did she have any brothers or sisters, stuff I never knew or cared enough to find out. She answered every question with a “yes” or “no”, elaborations beyond that were impossible for her. Then he pulled out his Glock.

“What’s this Carol?” Atomic held the gun up in the air, displaying it, causing me to tense up hard.

I glanced over at Jose’ biting my lip, fighting back my objections but to my relief he was on my side.

“Ay man, ay…” Jose said diplomatically “chill with that shit. You gon’ scare her. Put your piece away man.”  

Shockingly, before he could, Carol gave an extremely stoic answer.

“Gun.”

Atomic was thrilled. “That’s right, that’s right, and what do you do with a gun Carol?”

With a sneaky smile and without a second’s delay, she responded.

“Shoot people.”

“Oh snap!” Jose’ exclaimed. “Carol’s a fuckin’ G…ha-ha-ha….damn!”

I’d taken Carol to a dangerous neighborhood in the company van, pretended to be cops conducting a bust, and exposed her to criminals who put her in close proximity to a loaded firearm as a joke. What happened to be the worst thing I’d done in my life ironically seemed to make Carol happier than I’d ever seen her. Maybe Jose’ was right. Maybe Carol was a “G” and the evil “her” that crept out was just the part of her personality that raged with resentment for being restrained in Suburbia when she should’ve been strapped with a gat, slangin’ rocks and pimpin’ ho’s.

Maybe that was it or maybe, and probably most likely, we were both retarded.

That Time We Ruined the Movies

 

“What the hell is this shit?” Jose’ whispered snappily.

 

Apparently watching two dudes make out hardcore wasn’t something he was used to. This kind of took me by surprise considering he’d spent two years in the Federal Pen. Wasn’t that like day one shit? Dude’s making out? I fought back against my chuckles, stifling them as best I could. Just moments before during the stripper scene, I’d felt his hand inching up the inside of my thigh. The theater was light, not many people coming out to see “Exotica”. We certainly hadn’t intended to endure it either but everything else was sold out. I didn’t protest as his fingers crept closer to where they wanted to be, the whole situation a cliché’ turn on.  Then the tides shifted and the male characters started getting extremely familiar, there might as well have been a bear trap between my legs after that.

“I didn’t pay for this gay shit.” He was getting louder now, restraint a fading priority.

“Shhh…” I pleaded. “Calm down. And I paid for this shit so…chill. O.k.?”

Jose’ pulled his black baseball cap lower over his intimidating glare. Those eyes, they were green or brown...something...some color. What I remember most is that they were formidable, always calculating, sizing up how he was going “get over”, how he’d win.  His homophobic anger was clearly getting the best of him as he balled his fists, bopping them against the arm rests.

“Let’s go.” I started to grab my purse and stand but he pulled that “Mom move”, where they slam on the brakes, arm extending, blocking me back down.

“Nah…fuck that. Wait. I’m going to the bathroom.”

In a nanosecond, he’d sprung from his seat with dedicated purpose, gone up the aisle, leaving only the faint smell of Polo and midgrade leather from his 8-Ball jacket, standard issue for ghetto dickheads in the mid-nineties.

Jesus Christ. Was he going to choke out the projectionist?  This was a legitimate concern going by our last date. It was low key in the Cobo Hall bar, sports on all the t.v.’s, being enjoyed by a mix of the Detroit populous. Middle class, business types, peppered with a few thugs like my escort. Guys from every walk of life seemed to dig watching amateur fighters beat the shit out of each other at the annual “Tough man Competition.” Jose’ was dragging his long tongue across my wrist, licking the salt before he downed the next tequila shot, so confident. Maybe the bartender did look at him wrong; I don’t know for sure, my eyes never left my arm molester’s, I was drowning. If he did, I’m certain he wasn’t expecting to have the “peeling of caps” and what not being threatened his way. I’d also venture a guess it was the first time in his fifty or so years alive that the clean cut barkeep had been called a “Trick ass bitch” which seemed to be quite a difficult experience for him.

He backed down. I liked it way more than a rational person should.

 “What’d I miss?” Jose’ was practically whimsical as he plopped down beside me. “Did another fag show up and jam’em both in the ass with a fuckin’ golf club?”

The bill on his hat still sat low, only now it attempted to conceal a smile that was so large, it was splitting his face.

Then the coughing began.

It was sporadic at first, just here and there in the back but then it spread, washing over, enveloping, marching towards us. Every new victim incited a disturbing, muffled laugh from my companion which ultimately morphed into a howl when the young black girl in the next row got upset.

 “What the fuck is happenin’?!! Are we in mutha-fuckin’  “Outbreak” or sumthin’?!!”

Indeed.

That’s when it hit me, what he’d done, my eyes were stinging, it was in my lungs now too as the involuntary hacking took over. The only other time I’d felt this way was a week prior at Jose’s when he decided to test the pepper spray he’d acquired on trade for a twenty sack. Merely a drop cleared the ten of us out his flat for over an hour.  Going by the size of this place and how fucked up everyone was, he’d released quite a bit more this go around.  The expression on his face as he coughed and laughed is not anything I can accurately describe. It was of that moment, existing only then and never again.  

Through the burning hacks I was able to squeak out “You asshole…”

Then the lights came on.  

“Ladies..(cough)...Gentleman... (cough), someone has released some sort of chemical in the air (cough), we think its pepper spray.” The young usher was majorly pissed. “Please stop by the ticket counter on your way out and we will refund your (cough) money. And to whoever did this- YOU are a terrible person.”

The frustrated high school kid was correct. Whoever did this was a terrible, crafty, devious human being and I’d decided that if he tried to have sex with me that night, I would totally comply.

 “Y’all need to get your shit together” he chastised as we left the ticket booth, encouraging an uprising. “First I get some crazy ass macin’ me, then I gotta stand here forever waitin’ to get my money back. Fuck-ing- non-sense.”

He was completely delusional, fucked in the head and exactly the counterpart I’d been searching for over the last several months. Jose’ would surely apply the pressure to smash my self-destruct button all the way down and get this thing done once and for all. Those cats on the other side of Michigan Avenue still retained some sort of sanity, they were just training. This guy appeared to be a true connoisseur of self –annihilation and I knew that once we slept together, there would be no turning back.

 

 

 

 

That Time I Tried To Jack Those Weak Suckers For Their Hooded Starters

There’s this weird intangible that makes a person believe that what they’re doing, whatever that may be, isn’t horrible and that they’re not a turd. I found myself tapping into that most excellent of delusional powers  as I sat freezing my ass off in a 1985 Ford Tempo, staring down a bleak Detroit street with filthy snow plowed up on either side like reverse Tsunami waves.  I mean, I wasn’t the one doing the robbing here, just the getaway driver. That’s not the same. Not the same at all. In fact, it wasn’t until Danny told me to pull over and pop the hood so he could retrieve his pistol from underneath my Sears Diehard, that I even realized they were really about to do something with it.

“Hey Girl, lemme just put my heater under your battery on the way to Mickey D’s…You know, it’s late, you driving a bunch of Latino, thug looking mother fuckers around. Just in case we get pulled over.”

Seemed legit in my fictional reality but the truth is…”legit”… when you’re dealing with these sorts of assholes…there’s no such thing.

 Like I said, you make yourself believe lots of things are cool when you’re an idiot who has become a slave to wants and desires, selfishness owns every decision.  In this case it was the hottest fuck of my 21 years. What he said, I did. He says “Take my boys to McDonald’s”; I take his boys to McDonald’s. He says “Don’t worry bout that gun under your hood”…..done.  Why I pulled over at Danny’s command? The only reason was that I just assumed that’s what Jose’ would have wanted.  I had to guess since he had chosen to remain behind and peddle his weed instead.

What I was even doing here was a mystery.  A year ago I had a flannel wrapped around my waist at a Pearl Jam concert. Now Tupac’s Thug Life was repeatedly ejected and turned over in my tape deck and unlike my obsession with N.W.A. in high school, it wasn’t ironic. I was really living this shit out in the whitest way possible, gripping the steering wheel in a terror induced death lock while I awaited my hood shaman to reappear with their confiscated spoils.  

“There we go...these three…right here….” Danny’s voice was so very creepy when he slowed it down like that. It always seemed as though something terrible would jump out of his sentences and bite after he slipped into “gangster” mode and I never wanted to be bitten. 

The three young black guys couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17 and I have no idea if they were good or bad, just that they had made the unwise decision to walk around Southwest Detroit in their brand new winter Starter jackets. It was still early in January, they were most likely Christmas presents or maybe they ganked them from some other kids. Either way, they were being shopped and about to be receiving new owners.

“Alright, so what you’re telling me is that I should pull on to the other street, let you guys out and you’re gonna double back and steal those dude’s coats? That’s what you’re telling me?”  I had to say it out loud just to make sure it sounded as retarded as I thought. It did.

“Was I fuckin’ stutterin’ girl? Yeah, do exactly that shit and then Pop-O and Lil’C will buy you a Big Mac. Ha-ha…” Danny was kinda funny sometimes, not so much at that moment, but sometimes.

“Mannnn… I ain’t buyin’ this bitch shit” Pop-O protested from the back seat. “She lucky we let her drive us around.”

It was after that remark that my ire was stoked and I had to tell Pop-O that if he wanted a ride back, then he’d need to quit being a faggot to me. It’s not that I thought I was some badass or anything, I just knew he was one of the nicest in the group. A chubby little Columbian who they picked on for being fat, he talked to me about his family when the dicks weren’t around so I wasn’t surprised when he apologized.

“Goddamit” I exhaled as came to a stop in one of the carved out parking spots of the urban tundra. “This is so stupid you guys.”

“This is so stupid you guys, like o.k.? Like..for sure?” Danny mocked in a valley girl voice. “You’re stupid for bringin’ your suburb ass down here and tryin’ to play rough. Either you’re in or not, cuz if we come running back to this car and you gone, I ain’t gonna “play” rough. I’ll straight up murder yo ass girl, I know where you live.” 

Not joking, not funny, he was scary. Even still more frightening at the time was the prospect of never being welcome in Jose’s bed again. My crotch shuddered at the very thought as Danny smoothed out his perfectly groomed jet black goatee, studying my face for true compliance.

“Yeah, well I’m not gonna bail o.k.? So you don’t have to get all Nino Brown and shit on me. Just go. Fuckin’ gaffle your jackets or what-ever- the- hell -you’re going to do. It’s late and I’m hungry.”  

I think I thought that if I just said it like that, like it was no big deal, then it wouldn’t be “accessory to a felony”. More like a misdemeanor type thing, nothing to get so worked up about.

Lil’ C never said a word, not then, not ever. That must be why Danny gave the gun to him when they started down the street. The strong silent type usually keep their mouths shut or at least Steve McQueen probably would’ve and I guess that kid was kinda like their greasy little anti-hero. 

They disappeared into the shadows between two of the old, typical Detroit row houses and my heart began its ascent to critical palpitations. I imagined myself in Wayne County lockup, having to take a shit in front of a room full of strangers, my worst nightmare. Then it morphed into a couple years later when I’d fought off all the smaller women because I was stout, only to become the biggest, heartiest lesbian’s catch. Her name was something like Selma and she would make me eat her butt while she wrote letters to her lawyer about her appeal.  Holy Lord, there was no dick worth that.

I turned the key in the ignition.

“How Long Will They Mourn Me?” TuPac queried from the tape deck as I started to gain a little perspective. Pac was a real gangster, the morons that I was aiding and abetting were little guppies who thought they were whales. They didn’t even sell crack for God sake’s.

 My foot had been on the brake as I began to put the car in drive, but I let it slide off and go idle in the floor. I’d made a commitment to be the getaway driver and dammit if I would be a puss and take off.  If it landed me face first in Selma’s booty, so be it. He gave me an out, I could’ve refused and even though there supposedly was no honor among thieves, I wasn’t a thief. I took pride in every job I’d ever done. Well, except for those 3 months at Wendy’s when I was 17 because screw that place, it sucked.  People would actually snatch the hat off my head when I handed them their food from the drive thru window. I used pray they would all get trapped in a box and die.

All of a sudden, I saw Pop-O’s round little body emerge from a snow drift with Danny and Lil C running close behind him.  They weren’t carrying anything, no coveted hooded starter jackets, no gun, just hauling ass, balls out, slipping and sliding on the salted, grey mush.

“Go girl!! GO!!!!” Danny screamed as he swung into the passenger seat.

Holy shit, they’d killed somebody. They’d killed people; I was going to jail for driving murdering gangsters and Selma was going to rape me with her toothbrush every night until I died in there. She would watch me poop and then rape…every night. Forever.

“What did you guys do!???”  Asking just seemed to be a formality at this point as I was positive of the answer. Just go ahead and say it, shit went wrong and you just shot three kids…just say it.

“Look”  Danny started the slow creepy talk “We got over there and…..them fools was gone yo! Hahahaha….we was just fuckin’ witchu…Damn you was scared…haha…fuck girl..look at you!  You is hilarious!”  

Pop-O joined Danny in his razzing, slapping the back of my seat, squealing while I caught site of Lil C smirking in the rearview. That was as close to laughing as he got, pretty sure about that.

“You shit bags!!! Not only am I NOT taking you to Mcdonald’s, I’m never taking you anywhere again!  I am not a wheelman! I’m just a chick bangin’ one of your friends! I don’t wanna be some dyke’s toothbrush holder o.k.? O.k.?! “

 My hysterics made it all the more humorous to them for awhile. Finally the laughing died and we rode in silence through the narrow streets off Michigan Ave. Danny tried to turn on the radio but I slapped his hand from the knob. He had a gun, yeah, so what? I was too angry to be afraid of him anymore, he seemed to respect that.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” He purred his apology in a sweet tone that bared zero resemblance to his usual nature.

It stirred nothing.

“Buy you a Big Mac? Girl? Steph?”

Calming down, I was grateful. Thankful they didn’t rob or kill anyone, including me. Glad I wasn’t in gen pop, emptying my bowels in a cell full of prostitutes.  Most twisted of all, appreciative that I would be allowed to degrade myself in any way Jose’ saw fit for at least one more night.

“Make it two.”