My Turn

You know what, Dad? Fuck you. Those were MY jeans. So what if they had holes in the knees and I wanted to wear them to church? I was 14! That's what 14-year-olds do — they act out. They rebel. It's not a sin, for Christ's sake. I didn't even want to go to church; Mom was making me. And she made me change, too, didn't she? So what was the problem, huh? So what if I sulked through the whole Mass — you weren't even there! You never came to church with us. You thought it was a waste of time just as much as I did. So how could it have even remotely mattered to you what I wore there?

Those were MY jeans. I paid for them with MY money, from the job YOU made me get, and you had NO RIGHT to slice them up each leg with a pocket knife and leave them on top of the kitchen garbage can for me to find when we got home. Not even IN the garbage can, but ON TOP of the garbage can, so I'd be sure to see them and "learn my lesson." What the fuck, Dad? And way to be a man about it and not even be in the room when I found them. To not even say anything when I started crying. To not even acknowledge me when I slammed my bedroom door and screamed "That’s not fair!" And yeah, sure, that's another thing teenagers do — they slam doors and cry "it's not fair." But this time, I think I had a right.

And you know what else? Fuck you. What kind of 14-year-old girl confides her deep-secret boy troubles to her father? Never mind what kind of 14-year-old would ever trust anyone, with anything, ever again after that stunt with the "holy" jeans. And what kind of father, with his heartbroken daughter sniffling and hugging her Nuffy Bear and playing Gloria Estefan's "Anything For You" on an endless loop, as she shook her head sadly and hiccupped, "I don't want to talk about it!" would make her feel even worse by responding, "You can't even talk to your own father? Gee, thanks," and leaving the room in a huff? What kind of insensitive, self-centered jerk does that to a kid?

And what kind of thougtless, manipulative jerk thinks he’s going to get away with repeating that routine on the next daughter, once the 14-year-old has grown up, contemptuous and resentful, and while she's still there to intercede? What kind of big sister wouldn't protect her impressionable little sister from the same hurtful bullying she’d had to endure? What responsible and sympathetic sibling wouldn't expertly deflect that negative attention back to her own hardened self to shield someone she loved? What kind of self-preserving sister wouldn't speak up for the other, for herself, to say everything she should have said then, when she was angry and miserable and 14?

Not this one.

Fuck you. Those were MY jeans.

How It All Ended

I once had a boyfriend who owned a Jeep. He was pretty proud of it, especially of the fact that the top and the doors could come off. During the summer, we'd drive everywhere that way. It was exhilarating, slicing through the open air like that at 60 mph, but also a little terrifying. And somewhat uncomfortable: even on a hot day, the wind would make you wish you'd brought a jacket and would whip your hair into one giant tangled knot no matter how you tried to hold it back. The exhilaration and the terror, the fluctuation in temperature, the helplessness and the mess were also a pretty good metaphor for our relationship as a whole.

After all, this was the same boyfriend who was "straight-edge" when we met and, on principle, would refuse to kiss me if I had had so much as a single beer at a party — the same boyfriend who later became a bartender. The same boyfriend who saw no problem with inviting his ex-girlfriend out to the movies with us, yet steadfastly refused to participate in any event involving my family. The same boyfriend who would high-five his drunken friends, in my presence, when they'd crudely congratulate each other on "scoring," but who also managed to imply, every time we were together, that I was lousy in bed.

Looking back, it’s hard to recall what motivated me to stay.

Our final showdown occurred at a Friendly's, of all places, in the parking lot, in the Jeep. It was winter now, so the roof and doors were firmly in place, and the enclosure only intensified every insult and accusation hurled. Finally — FINALLY — I reached my breaking point. Midsentence, I grabbed my purse, unbuckled my seat belt, and reached for the door.

"If you leave this car right now I will never speak to you again!" he shouted.

"Good!" I yelled back.

As I swung the door open and climbed down he called out, mockingly, "Well, it was nice knowing you!"

Icy now, I turned back to face him and replied, "No, it wasn't."

Slammed the door.

And left.

I had to walk home alone, about a mile, in the dark and the cold, but every biting breath of frozen air that filled my lungs felt like my first, and I thought, finally — FINALLY — this is freedom.

And that's when it all began.

My Subway Subculture Initiation

So about 2 summers ago, I made the grand pilgrimage all the way from Long Island to Brooklyn to look at an apartment. On my way back home, I get on the Q at Church Ave. I'm only going a few stops, so I just grab onto a pole as the doors close. Distracted by the adorable giggling baby in the stroller to the right of me, I don't even notice this guy on my left until he gets up as if he's about to get off the train, but instead grabs onto the pole I'm leaning against and gets right in my face. He's balding with long hair, missing a tooth, wearing socks with sandals, and seems drunk, even though it's only 11 am.

"I like your tattoos," he says, smiling so wide he's almost leering, and leaning uncomfortably close to me.

"Thanks," I say before really thinking about it, "I have more" — my standard response to such compliments.

Bad move.

"I'd like to see them sometime," he says, stumbling and nearly falling on me with every lurch of the train. I just smile nervously and shift positions, but this doesn't stop my admirer. "Look," he says, conspiratorially, "I'm getting off at DeKalb, but I'd like to get to know you better. Maybe you can give me your phone number?"

Before he even gets the full sentence out, I tell him, "Sorry, I have a boyfriend," which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to flat-out hurt these psychos' feelings. But my white lie doesn't deter Mr. Flatbush Casanova.

"He doesn't have to know," he replies and winks at me.

Oh, gross.

"Sorry," I repeat, grateful that these bug-eye sunglasses are practically eating my face so no one can see the half-amused/half-repulsed look I'm giving this guy right now.

"Do you live together?" he asks.

God damn, he's persistent! "Yeah," I tell him, "yeah, we do," and I'm even starting to picture it now — my imaginary boyfriend and I, curled up on a couch in the apartment I just looked at, eating take-out, doing something cozy and domestic, like a jigsaw puzzle. There's even a cat purring by my feet.

"That's great," he says, still not backing off. "I wish you luck. Tell him he's a lucky guy."

And then — relief of reliefs — it's my stop. "I will," I call over my shoulder as I hastily exit to the platform. I don't even watch the gap.

Man, I think, cracking up by myself in the middle of the empty train station, why can't "normal" guys that I'm attracted to ever be that direct? It would make things so much easier. Because even though I'm more than a little creeped-out, I'm still, strangely, and embarassingly, a little bit flattered.

And I did take that apartment.

[NOTE: Had you been at DimeStories tonight, you could have heard this enchanting story live.]