A List of Things I Have Stolen from, or Just Never Returned to, Ex-Lovers
Mostly I’m thinking of the two things I half-stole
from Paolo. The book and the knife. I didn’t really
steal them. I mean the book, he let me borrow it,
and when I broke things off he didn’t ask for it
back, so I figured it was mine to keep. The knife
is another story. Let me start by saying: I don’t
know why I was with him. Our whatever-it-was
lasted less than a month and that was a month
too long. Let me start by saying: it was a time
in my life when I flung myself at anyone
and everyone who’d have me, hoping something
would stick, to distract myself from the feelings
I had for this guy I was in love with, like, angel
chorus, slam pit, no amount of whiskey in the
world could get me past this, I want to have
10,000 of his babies, oh God I think he’s The One,
in love with, because I was too scared to tell
him or even admit the truth of it to myself. Enough
excuses. Back to Paolo. He was a jealous
macho jerk wrapped in the body of a scrawny,
swoopy-banged emo kid. He was an asshole,
and also a total dumbass. One example:
soon after our first date, he tried to impress
me by saying he ‘used to be in Yellowcard,
before they got famous.’ Which was a.
a total lie, I checked, and b. dude, if you’re gonna
lie and say you were in a band to try and
impress me, at least pick a band I like. He
could’ve said he was in Black Flag and I
might’ve half-believed him—everyone was in
Black Flag. Another example: the time I
went to the Kwik Mart across the street
from my apartment to buy a 40 oz.
of Icehouse. I was gone all of ten minutes
and in that ten minutes Paolo called me fifteen
times and when I returned his call and
told him where I’d been he accused me
of fucking the Kwik Mart clerk. (You’re right,
dude, I totally fucked him! And when I left,
he said: “Thank you! Cum again!”) Two
weeks in and I already wanted to cut
and run, I mean we’d only been on a few
dates and had only fucked like twice; we
hadn’t labeled our relationship and I was
still seeing several other people, and speaking
of cutting, we’re getting to the knife now—
One night Paolo was lying on my bed, holding
his knife. Not a true switchblade, but it had
a release button which you’d press down
then flick your wrist and snap! The silver
blade—half-serrated, half-not—would pop
out from the shiny black sheath-handle.
Then you’d push it down and click it back
in again. So he’s lying there, idly playing with
his knife, and, flick! “You know,” he said.
Snap! “If you ever cheat on me?” Click. “I’ll
kill the person you cheat with,” flick. “Then,”
snap! “I’ll kill myself.” Click. Flick, snap!
He traced the blade across the veins of
his skinny little wrist, lightly, not drawing
blood, but. What the shit, dude? For me to
cheat on you we’d have to be exclusive,
which we are not, and if you think we are,
you gotta get out of my bed and my life, like,
yesterday. Is what I should have said. Or:
“Oh, you wanna slit your wrists? Be sure to go
down the road, not across the street.
Make it count!” But I didn’t because, look,
I was drunk and yeah, he was scraggy
and pathetic and I could beat him
at arm wrestling but it’s kinda scary when
someone threatens you with murder-
suicide. So I just made some noncommittal
hmmm sound and pretended I hadn’t really
heard him. Did I mention his dick game
was weak as hell? And he was a fucking
whiner. Constantly woe is me I can’t find
a job I’m always broke you’d rather spend time
with your friends than me I’m so lonely the
world is out to get me, blah blah blah, poor
lil’ hipster whiteboy, meanwhile if I said
anything about something shitty in my life
he’d brush it off as so much nothing compared
to what he was going through. About a week
after he’d made those threats he lost
his knife, and that became his newest proof
that the world had it out for him. Yeah.
Paolo was a veritable god damn carnival
of red flags. I finally broke things off about
a week later—because he’d read my
fucking diary and had the nerve to get angry
with me over what he’d read there. Less
than a month after that when I was packing
up my shit, getting ready to leave that
apartment and hit the road, I found his knife
under my bed. And I still had that book
he’d let me borrow. I guess I could’ve called
him but I had less than zero desire to ever
see him again so the book and the knife
went on the road with me. The knife became
my traveling companion; my reward for
having to tolerate that shitface, Paolo.
The book, which was Rocky Horror related
though I can’t remember how exactly, I sold
to a bookstore for store credit, which I spent
on a stack of postcards and an anthology
of stories about Pittsburgh.
Horror Sleaze Trash 