I know that warehouse. It’s where that crazy party was a few
years back. The one where Anabelle
was smacked in the face with a box of mac and cheese thrown from the roof like
a grenade. I lean on a rickety
lamppost in a busted up parking lot along Schuyler Street. It’s a good spot to rest and scan the
flat landscape. I met Monica at
this warehouse.
I never understood
Monica. We’d see each other
frequently. All summer we went to
pubs, shows, and other events. The
Fallen Angel bar was our hangout and we may or may not end up elsewhere. Sometimes, we’d plan to meet and she’d
never show up. Never
apologize. Never mention it or
even fake an excuse. It would of
drove me crazy if I didn’t think it was a temporary relationship.
Anyway, at that party, I was
at the bar/receptionist desk when this girl put her arm around my waist and
head against my chest. I wasn’t
complaining when I said, “Yer pretty friendly” thinking it was a case of
mistaken identity.
“Can ya pretend ta be my
boyfriend? Hey Anabelle.” she said
under her breath. I hate getting
into the middle of drama, especially at parties. “These two guys won’t leave me ‘lone ‘nd I told ‘em I was
with ya ‘cause I saw ya with Anabelle.”
They looked like ‘roided out creeps with preppy appearances and
unblinking stares. There’s nothing
wrong with having a girl on your arm, so I agreed. “Thank you so much.
I’m Monica, by the way.”
She really wasn’t my
type. Too much of a
girly-girl. Took forever getting
ready. Always worried about her
hair, makeup, or whatever. All
dolled up even though we were only going to a dive bar. How can one person own so many damn
shoes? Her roommates and I became
good friends as I took up space on their couch waiting around. We’d be at least an hour late to everything. It got to the point that if we were
going to something I’d lie and say it started an hour earlier than it really
did. Many times, we’d still be
late and it drove me nuts.
Beyond the superficial crap,
she was an interesting person. I
have no idea where she’d get this stuff either. I’d mention I liked some band and she’d give me a bunch of
music from all sorts of unknown groups.
She’d loan me books by authors I’ve never heard of or thoughtful movies
from strange places. I’m no
artist, but she found some of my junk fascinating. I still don’t know why. Monica took a bunch of my doodles and gave them to
others.
One time, we went to a lousy
bar because they had some lame promotion.
Of course, there was a line halfway down the block in spite of five
better pubs within eyeshot, all with available seating and cheaper, stronger
drinks. Anyway, here we were
standing on the sidewalk like idiots when some girl came out of the lounge to
talk on the phone and have a cigarette.
No big deal. So, the girl
tries to go back in and Monica pushes her. Starts mouthing off about cutting in line and all sorts of
nonsense. Obviously, Monica didn’t
know she had already been in the bar.
Well, I bear hug Monica and apologize to the girl, allowing her to go
back inside.
As I started to explain the
situation to Monica, she started hitting me and spouting off about embarrassing
her in front of everyone. Now I’m
embarrassed about the both of us.
I hate that bar, I hate fighting, and I hated the whole situation. So, I just went back to her car and sat
until everyone was done and we could go home. I was a designated driver by default. Monica loves picking fights. Would pick a fight with a grizzly if
she perceived it wronged her somehow.
No idea what went through her head when she got like that.
Monica’s not crazy, at least
not more than the average person.
There were just some topics I learned to avoid. Hell, I don’t bring up some topics with
anyone anymore after her reactions.
She could be extremely sweet too.
Like the time I was sick and she brought me spicy soup I like from the
Thai place. Or when she cleaned my
grandpa’s house for him when I had to put in all that overtime. But, she either ran “hot” or “cold.” There was nothing in between.
That was two years ago. It’s funny the things I remember and
the stuff I forget. Thinking about
all that’s changed and how everything is the same. How random it can all be. All because I hitched a ride with Anabelle and she decided
to bring me to this warehouse instead of going home.
It was uneventful when
Monica moved to L.A. to be an actress/waitress. She just told me “I’m goin’ ta Los Angeles ta fulfill a
dream” and that was the last time I saw her. As I said, it was a temporary relationship and I went back
to Milwaukee a few weeks later.
Maybe I’ll go to the Fallen
Angel for a drink before closing time.
It’s not that much out of the way.
On Station Street, I seem to be the only person around. It’s eerily quiet as the orange lights
obscure the midwestern sky. I
wonder if the bartender is still there; the aspiring singer. Gave us lots of free drinks while
singing along to the jukebox. Not
bad either. I hope it hasn’t
turned into a hipster bar or anything.
Then again, there’s something depressing when nothing’s changed.
Thank you for reading and your support. This would not be possible without you!
If you have any submissions, questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com
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