For Thursday, Feb 2, 2006 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 785 words


Beauty and Beast 2


Last week I was explaining why I would never take my outspoken feminist girlfriend, Janet, back to visit the rural roots of my Pennsylvania home town. I drew that conclusion after observing her in a close encounter with a crazy man in Modesto who was way too similar to the kinds of guys I grew up with. It became apparent that day that if I ever took Janet to meet my childhood friends, it could be bad for her health.
When we left off, Janet had just confronted Mark, a barrel-chested biker who lived in my Modesto studio apartment building. Eight single guys lived in eight studio apartments, one building, McHenry Blvd. near J Street. It was Janet’s premiere visit to my home after a month of dating, and I hadn’t introduced her yet.
As I explained last week, I’d left Janet lying in my Murphy bed while I went down the hall to a party that she didn’t want to attend. Why a woman wouldn’t want to go to a party peopled by eight lonely, desperate guys is beyond me.
I’d taken a bowl of my homemade chili with me, leaving gallons of it on my stovetop. Mad Mark, with his wild hair, flowing beard, tattoos and bullet holes, seeing the chili, moseyed down the hall to help himself, without telling me. That’s the way we lived, wandering in and out of each other’s apartments.
He encountered Janet in my bed, made a few rude, lewd comments to her, and continued to the kitchen, ignoring Janet’s ordering him to “Get out or I’ll call the police.”
When he returned to the party, he said, “You better go check on your old lady, man. She’s freakin’ out,” I dropped everything and ran to find Janet wrapped in my sheet, visibly shaken, on the phone to the Modesto police. I convinced her to hang up.
So there we were, on the edge of my bed. Janet was angry, offended, humiliated, insulted. “Let me call the police. No one has the right to barge in here and talk to me the way he did. How dare he.”
I tried to explain. “Janet. He didn’t know you were here. That’s how we live. He just walks into my apartment. I walk into his. It’s like a frat house.”
“I don’t care. I told him to leave and he ignored me.”
“He just wanted chili, then he came back to the party.”
“That’s not the point. I told him to get out and he swore at me. I have the right to have him arrested.”
“Jannie, please. Mark’s a good guy once you get to know him. He’s just obnoxious and vulgar. We accept him like that. He’s our friend. Geez, I live with him. I can’t have you calling the cops. How would I face him after that? It would make my living situation very ugly.”
“He has no right to talk to me that way. You should step in and defend me.”
Just then Mark opened the door wide and stepped in. “Hey, how’s your old lady?” he yelled. “Did she calm down?”
“Get out of here, you $%%#&!!” said delicate, petite Janet, my lovely outspoken feminist sweetheart. “Or I’ll call the police.”
“Calm down, chickie. Don’t get your shorts in a bind.”
“Don’t you talk to me that way.”
“I’ll talk to you any $#@%* way I want.”
“Get out of here.”
“I’ll go when I’m ready.”
During this exchange, I was directly in the middle. With my left hand, I was trying to console Janet. With my right hand, I was waving Mark out the door. It proved no use. They kept yelling. Finally, Mark flipped. He took a big step closer and whipped out a butterfly knife, which he deftly flicked open.
“Listen, b____. I’ll cut your throat out if you don’t shut up.”
Janet finally, miraculously, stopped yelling. I stood up and faced Mark. “Mark. Please. Put that away and go outside. Give me a break, will you?”
“Your old lady needs to learn how to control her tongue,” said Mark. He put his blade away and left. I shut the door.
We talked and talked about the right and wrong of my behavior, Mark’s behavior, Janet’s behavior, the best thing to do versus the right thing to do. We bickered over that incident for the three long, wonderful years we were together. We fought and resolved many other quarrels, but never, ever, to this very day, have we ever resolved what should have been done differently on that fateful day.
Her feisty temper was a trait that made me love her. It’s also the main reason I could never take her home.