David Erlewine
Rebecca,
I don’t think I realized I was actually going to leave you and the baby at your friend’s house until I tossed the car seat onto the grass. I drove home like a Nascar guy and packed a suitcase, the whole time sure you were going to bust into the house and start yelling again about how I’d nearly killed our baby. Look, the only reason I took my eyes off the deck stairs for 12, maybe 15, seconds was because your friend’s husband was in my face, grilling me about whether his business scheme sounded “kosher.” You were on the deck, too, talking to your friend about her drawings of plums and apricots. And the baby was still a foot away from the top of the stairs when you swooped in to “save” her.
You were so dramatic, grabbing her in one swoop and then yelling about me getting tipsy and almost killing her. Tipsy? Women get tipsy. Dudes get hammered and shit-faced. And even if I was tipsy, it was because you keep me on such a short leash that I never hung out with other guys and threw back a few. That’s why 24 fluid ounces of Heinken hit me so hard. You’re lucky I didn’t yell back at you. I think it was the way the guy was staring at me that made me stop. His judging me brought back memories of high school, always a target.
This hotel has free internet access but I didn’t bring the laptop. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I didn’t think I’d be gone long enough to need it. Ajay, the guy at the front desk, is letting me use their computer. It’s at least 1:30 a.m., I think. I can’t believe I drove off only 12 hours ago. I’m wired. Ajay thinks I should write this and say good luck with all the chores and walking the baby around at 3 a.m. when she screams and taking the trash out and unclogging the shower drain. He says I should wait for your reply and only leave if you ask me to come home. He is standing over my shoulder calling me names because I changed “beg” to “ask”. He’s sure you let the baby crawl all that way to the edge as punishment for my tossing back a couple of beers on a Saturday afternoon, for talking shit with another guy, for not stressing about work or the mortgage, for acting like a man. Ajay thinks you should say sorry for that, too, before I check out of his hotel. His shift is about to end and he’s taking me out. He knows this bar that is killer and stays open all night even though city ordinances say it can’t. He wants to talk about just what exactly I’m hoping to get by writing this. He is tossing around words like cuckold. He left his wife last year, says it’s the best thing he ever did, says that woman was draining him of his machismo. He has asked if I’ve seen the “True Blood” vampires suck blood. I think he means that’s the way she sucked his testosterone. He knows a lot about Aristotle, says the guy figured it all out. The soul may well be the core essence of a being, but it is most certainly NOT deserving of its own existence.
Okay, Ajay is telling me to hurry up. He is asking why in the fuck your friend doesn’t have a gate at the top of the stairs. We’re heading out and I hope this all makes sense and you can send a quick apology that doesn’t have to be dramatic or whatever.
Looking fwd to your reply,
Carl
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David Erlewine’s work is forthcoming in Staccato Fiction, Per Contra, Dark Sky Magazine, and other places.