Before I get started, I do have to alert some of you there will be possible triggers in this post. If you are not comfortable reading, please do not read any further. Also, I can expect to be punctuating and interrupting serious issues with what some may see as inappropriate given the situation. However, I need humor to keep it from getting too heavy. I had enough of that, and I left it in the apartment the morning I left.
Pork. In national television ads, it has long been touted as the “the other white meat.” As if a nation of poultry rose up in protest, took over the airwaves, and collectively demanded equal slaughter for all. And now it is also burned into memory as a trigger to the most ridiculous chain of events in the history of the world.
But how did this seemingly innocent cut of meat end up at the center of the most traumatic night of my life? To determine this, we have to start 24 hours ahead of the main event. He was in a rush as always to go out and smoke his brains out. He decided, however, to be prepared for a night of binging, he needed to eat. Here is where the pork makes its uneventful entrance. Little did I know how wrong that would be a mere 24 hours later. He cooks, sits down to eat, and 15 minutes later, one of his cockroach troopers pulls in the driveway and sends a text for him to come out.
I am asked to put the remaining amount of food, meager as it may be, in the fridge. Now I have two options: A. comply, or B. talk back. B always guarantees at smack across the face at minimum. As I haven’t seen minimum in a long time, I choose option A. Comply. Compulsory cooperation. And then I go to bed. Innocent beginning, but far from an innocent ending.
The next day went by uneventfully, and this eerie calm lasted until about 9:30 pm. Then he decides he is hungry, and he wants…. his leftover pork. He thumps around in the fridge, trying to make like Mr. Magoo and tells me he cannot find the giant red tray with the lid that is staring him in the face. So I get up and come to the kitchen and hand him the tray and tell him that I don’t know why he bothered having me save anyway. He takes the lid off and begins his long-winded descent into another paranoid delusion.
Who did you have in the apartment after I left?
“No one.” As usual.
You had another nigga here! That’s why there’s no meat left.. you were in bed and he come up in here without ‘chu knowin, opened my refrigerator, ate my food, and put it back as a message to me that he was here.
*Insert world’s longest eye roll here* “Who was here?” And how does this make sense to you?
That nigga went and ate my food, and your stupid a** was so oblivious that you didn’t even know he left me that as a message! Yeah! You was busy last night weren’t ‘chu?
I leave the kitchen. I am not arguing over a pork bone that he had his messed up mouth on. There isn’t a person alive that would put their mouth on that bone after his jaws had been gnawing on it like an starved, rabid pit bull. He follows me into the bedroom, picks up a hammer with an 18 inch handle and his trusty dope-com. He calls one of his dirty street friends and they debate this for an hour, and the friend tells him that it means I had someone there, too bad I should have lied and said I ate it. They then swap stories about times when they have been in another man’s house and did the same thing.
He got so excited, however, that he set the hammer down. So I sneak up behind him, grab the hammer and walk off into the kitchen and shove it up on top of cabinets where he cannot reach because he is short.
If you don’t tell me where you put that hammer, I’m gonna–
“What, hit me? Now there is a surprise ending!” Let’s try something different for a change.
You getting mouthy, aren’t you?
Can’t put anything over on you, Sherlock.
Shut your f****** mouth, you fat, white lumpy b****! Tell me who was here!
He refused to believe that I didn’t have anyone there the night before and wasn’t too happy when I pointed out that I wasn’t the one who liked to bring trash into the house. Then he slaps me, because I wasn’t answering him, and it spiraled out of control from there.
He would not relent. At first he thought that pushing and throwing me around a little would elicit the response he was looking for. But it did not. He backed me against the back wall of the bedroom and slapped me. Then he pushed me down on the floor and began punching me in the head with his fist, hissing in my ear all the while in an attempt to get me to admit to something I did not do. He would stop periodically and call another one of his street friends, and they would make fun of what he was doing to me. Then he would hang up and do it again.
I tried to lie down, but he came over next to me and punched me in the stomach. When I turned my back to him, he hit me in the back and pushed me off the bed. I sat there for a minute, until he yelled at me to get back in the bed. He stormed off into the kitchen, banged around in the drawers, and stomped back up to the bed. All the sudden, he hit me with with something on my left side several times (I think it was the knife sharpener) and then punched me in the back of the head repeatedly.
All he kept talking about was the stupid pork bone being a message. The only message he should glean from that was that he obviously needed to get his teeth fixed.
He dumped the trash all over the floor in the bathroom, dug through it, and then he made me clean it up. Then he randomly tells me to take a shower. I ask why I should and he comes at me with his fist. He got mad that I went to the bathroom first and washed my hands.
What the f*** are you doing? I told you to get in the shower! You don’t need to wash your hands if you’re getting in the g**-d****** shower! Hurry the f*** up, you stupid b****!
The entire time I was in the bathroom, he paced in and out. A few times, he jerked the door open and stared at me. Each time I would flinch and braced myself for a hit that didn’t come. I had just stepped out of the shower the last time he came stomping into the bathroom.
Put on your robe. The neighbors called the police. Hurry the f*** up.
I dry off, put on my robe, and I start to walk out the bathroom when he appears again, grabs my wrist, and drags me to the door. He stands next to the door in between me and the police. They ask if everything is okay. Of course he says “Yes, officers. Everything is fine. We were just fighting.” It was the best performance I had ever seen him delivered. Except maybe when he was high and called 911 during one of his hallucinations. I should have called the Oscars committee and asked for a write-in on the ballot for best male lead of the year.
They turn to me and ask if I was hurt, and I hesitated. I felt him glaring at me. I looked at the officers, wanting to tell them everything, but I complied and said I was okay. They told us to keep it down and they left. As he shut the door, I felt all the air in my chest get sucked out against my will. My heart dropped. And he started again.
Again I ended up back up against the wall, and I did what anyone in danger would have done: I pushed him back. He came at me again, shoe in hand, and hit me on the right side of my face. I grabbed it and threw it at him, and he went full tilt. I stopped counting at 5 punches in the head, but he kept going for a while. He growled at me when I put my arms up to protect my head and the hearing aid in my other ear.
Oh yeah? Put your f***** arms down!
I did not comply.
I said put your f****** arms down or I’ll break them!
Still I did not comply. I do not know anyone on the face of the earth who would comply with such a ludicrous demand. He backed into the kitchen, thumped around the cupboards, and came back when I was sitting on the floor, curled up in the fetal position with my arms covering my head. I tried to push him away, but he kicked me. He then raised him arm above my head and hit me with a can he had grabbed in haste from the kitchen.
One time, then he paused. My arms did not fall away. Two times, and he grabbed my wrist. Three times, and he jerked my arms away from my head and pinned them back. Four, five, six impacts. White flashes jumped across my field of vision. My head pounded. Again with the can. I don’t know how many more times. Then he dropped it on the floor and backed away, out of breath.
The can didn’t work. So he went and pulled out a pocket knife. I think he stole this, too. I don’t know where it came from, but he had no problems pointing it at my throat. I smacked his arm, and it went flying across the floor into the bathroom. Not one to be deterred from his goal, he promptly went and pulled a 2 x 4 out of the closet.
I went into the kitchen, and he followed me, talking about the pork bone obsessively. If I had known he was this close to it, I would have planned their wedding and subsequent baby shower.
He threw the food tray in my face, and he told me he was saving it for me so I could call the non-existent guy who was never anywhere near the apartment and cuss him out for it. I have a few ideas what he was planning, because he is a pig who doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. However, I have too much respect for myself to let it come out of my mouth in any fashion.
He watched me get dressed for work, followed me into the kitchen, and punched me in the head hard enough that it bounced off the kitchen wall. He became furious at me when I walked away, and he promptly pulled the knife out again, pointing it at my throat, threatening me. Then he abruptly walked into the bedroom and slammed the door shut.
I noticed his wallet on the counter. He had my pay card, and I managed to sneak it back out of his wallet before he appeared in the kitchen again to give me one last punch. Nothing says “I love you” quite like being hit like man. And I walked away from him for the last time, put my key in the door, locked it, and composed myself before walking out the door.
It was chilly and sunny. A breeze hit my face, and I looked up at the living room window. He was staring down at me with a contorted face, like a gargoyle. I turned away and got into my friend’s car idling in the driveway, and flipped the switch.
“Good morning!” I chirped, right on queue.
And that is the watered down version of The Great Pork Rib Caper.