Me and A Gun : My True Story [09/14/2010]

I'm a disembodied head with a painted on smile.  No one really knows me.  There is no me.

 

It's May 11, 2005.  Two days ago I was whole.  Two days ago I was young, naïve, and free.  Two days ago I was invincible.  Two days ago I was trusting.  I was beautiful.  Young, naïve, free.  I was me.

 

The day began like any other.  I have new car.  It's red.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Kim says, “Let's go out.  Derby police.  Fun.”  I go.  So does Pat.  We work together, no thoughts no feelings no emotions no worry.  I show up at the bar feeling good.  I'm young, naïve, free.  Twenty one, too young to learn these things.  Pat greets me at the door with a hug.  His smooth black skin touching mine, no thoughts.  He helped raise my brother in law.  He's in his 40's.  He's safe.  I show all my new ride, a 1995 Pontiac Grand Am.  V6, vroom vroom.

 

No money to drink, Pat takes care of me.  No worries.  Before long the room is spinning, and I cannot stand.  “Let's go to the strip club,” Kim says.  I go without a thought, Pat takes me on his bike.  We arrive, and I cannot see beyond what's immediately in front of me, and greedily grasp onto the sleeve of another co-worker who joined us.  Big, unattractive woman, and she leads me.  The night blurs a bit, but I remember the strippers begging for money like a homeless person.  “Please, do you want to tip?” And she gyrates, searching for someone interested.  Ben is beautiful.  Ben tips the stripper.  This is the last night I'll dream of him.  He works the overnights, and is the attractive older man to the stupid twenty one year old.  He never looks at me.  I see money waving, teasingly, in the air.  I take the money out of everyones hands, placing it gingerly in my pockets.  How do they not see?

 

Pat reaches in my bra.  This is nothing.  Women put money in their bras.  But his hand lingers too long near my nipple.  Must be my mistake.  I still have the money.  Soon it is forgotten.  “Let's go to Mike's house!”  Kim again.  Full of good ideas, good intentions, and soon full of Mike.

 

Soon we're on our way, I on Pat's bike.  We near closer to Mike's house.  Pat forces my hand on what he wants me to think of as an impressive hard on.  This is nothing.  He'll sober up, and I'll go home.  Still young.  Still naïve.  Still free.  Soon Mike has soft-core porn on the widescreen TV, and the good people start to leave.  Did Ben touch me?  I can't remember.  It's all a blur.  And I'm asleep.  I'm dreaming of Ben kissing me.  And then pain.  I slowly return to reality

 

and then BANG

 

I see.  I'm no longer young.  No longer naïve.  No longer free.

 

Pants past my knee.

 

Please let this be it.  Please don't let him rape me.  Please!  I can't scream.  I can't breathe.  I lie there, feeling more alone than I have ever been.  And the pain.  He's touching me.  I lie still.  I can't breathe.  I can't scream.  As he slowly takes my body away from me.  He grows bored.  Or drunk.  And he stops.  Pulls my pants back up, zipping them, buckling them.  I still feel pain.  I lay like I'm sleeping, all the while praying to a god I've never believed in.  Soon he nudges me, breathing beer-soaked breath over me, “It's time to go.  You fell asleep on me.”

 

Did I ask for this?  Before I fell asleep did I say I wanted it?  Did my eyes say I wanted it?  Where is the rest of me?

 

I get on the bike behind Pat.  No clutching his crotch for me.  With as little force as possible I hold on to him.  I want to fall off the back.  I want to fly under the wheel.  But there's nothing left of me.  No longer young.  No longer naïve.  No longer free.

 

Finally my car.  PLEASE LEAVE ME!  The inward scream.  I drive home, still drunk.  He's in my rearview.  As tears stream down my face like two rivers, the land surrounding pierces the night with its pleas, don't let him follow me home to finish the job.  I would rather die in a fiery drunken car crash then have him ever touch me again.

 

“I haven't seen Barbados, so I must get out of this.” *

 

He turns.  I burn.  Pulling, finally, into the large parking lot of my apartment, I rush inside, demons running fast after me.  The money cascades from my pockets, leaves from my dying tree.  Bath water, scalding hot, I need to be clean of his fingers inside me.  Peel the skin back til I see the rest of me.  Two rivers of lava slinking down the mountains and valleys of my face.  The water turns from fire to ice, and I lay in bed, covered head to toe, still shaking.

 

A day ago I saw Billy Idol.  I pretended nothing happened.  I see him.  I touch him.  He kisses my cheek.  I am still young.  Still naïve.  Still free.  But today I see Pat.  At work.  In the back room.  “I wrote you a poem.”  Bathroom, and tears, and ex-boyfriend Andy protecting me.  Shaking.  Still not young.  Still not naïve.  Still not free.

 

I am a disembodied head with a painted on smile.  I need to stay here.  Just for awhile.



* "Me and a Gun" - Tori Amos