I've heard people say that certain moments of your life are real defining points. Sometimes it comes in a mysterious phrase, like, "That experience really defined me as a person." As I grow older I think I am getting a better idea of what this means.
I Am Jack's Complete Lack Of Surprise
It's Sunday. 6 AM. Morning light has yet to re-claim the landscape. I am paralyzed on the interstate. Cars whiz by in the darkness at 70 MPH. But not mine. I am frustrated, helpless, and essentially fucked. They say trouble comes in 3's. My car dying was number 2. So I sat, waiting for number 3.
Trouble number two was nothing compared to number one. And so a part of me has to be thankful. Fifteen minutes earlier I was ready to fight for my life. Like I've done many times before, I put myself into a stupid and dangerous situation. The part of me that chooses risk and excitement over the typical and predictable is probably the stupidest attribute of my personality. But I can't live any other way.
I'm asleep, and quite drunk, passed out at a friend's house. Somewhere I never should have gone to begin with. He lives in a rough neighborhood, and on previous visits my wild imagination had asked me how I would react if an intruder were to come. It's funny how the things we think eventually manifest.
I'm not usually drunk when I'm there. I am almost always elected D.D. Tonight was my lucky night, up until we awoke to the sound of someone pounding on the door. I was half asleep, still intoxicated, but I knew that sound. That was not a neighbor. That was someone furious and quite determined to enter. It's hard to explain the instant fear and adrenaline that fills you when you perceive a threat. The body does something amazing.. It slaps you across the face and forces your shit together. Within three seconds I suddenly became sober as a judge, and my mind started calculating the essentials.
I knew that if we didn't open the door the intruder would quickly kick it in; that an alternative exit was too risky because I didn't know the layout of the house or neighborhood; and that I had nothing in my immediate reach with which to defend myself.
Had I been alone in the apartment I would have immediately found a defense weapon, called the police, and prayed to God that it would take this asshole a good amount of strength and time to beat the door down. Had I had more time to think maybe I could have come up with something better. But I don't think more than 5 seconds passed between the time that the pounding started and "Johnny" rushed to the door. I watched, horrified, as he unlocked the door and swung it open.
Hypothetical Madness
Dawn has broken on the freeway. Pale shreds of light start streaming into my lifeless vehicle. Big rigs roar by and send an unnatural vibration through me and my car. While I know to look for the gold in every situation, I can't stop thinking about all the places I would rather be than stuck on I-10.
I scan my phone for the number to a tow truck company. No luck. I try to think of a friend who can Google it for me, but it's 6 AM, and no one is awake. A technology glitch prevents me from receiving the one response that actually did come in (hours later.) A motorist assistance company stops by to help, but only tells me what I already know: it's not out of gas, and it's not the battery. I feel like the sinking Titanic.
I manage to get the number to a tow company. As I start to shuffle through my purse for my credit card, I find it: trouble number three. At some point in the long night my card has taken flight. No card means no money. No money means no tow truck. The inevitable moment has arrived. I dial my stepdad's number and prepare to get my ass beaten.
Later. Much Later.
I have survived the Sunday from hell. I feel disgusting, hungover, angry with myself, and about as smart as a bag of hair. Make that used hair.
I want to beat my own head in for repeating the same mistakes. Married apparently means married. I no longer believe in "separated," or "going through a divorce." If I ever hear those words again I will demand written proof, Carfax style. No, take it back. I'll just run.
It's now 10:30 at night. I dare to tiptoe out of my room where I've been hiding all day since our return from the morning family outing to pick me up off the side of the road. My stepdad, Steve, is thoroughly sloshed. But instead of the continued tongue lashing I expect to receive, he just looks at me with super glossy eyes. We exchange an awkward conversation, and I make an excuse to leave the room. Not because I don't want to be there, but because my eyes are misting over. I know that somewhere deep inside and past all of the scoldings there is a part of this man that loves me and wants the best for me. Not because he has to.
I am overwhelmed by feelings of gratefulness and guilt. I've chosen to give more time to my career and friends than to my family. And yet, it is family who is with us when our careers and friends turn their backs. As sad as it is, I am reminded of the brevity of life, and the things that made me bitter earlier in the day now seem far away.. Weightless. I am no longer angry at Johnny's wife who showed up to mortify us and pour water in my gas tank. I am simply grateful that I am not in a broken marriage. And that thanks to my family, not in a broken car. Helpless. Waiting for dawn to come and make it better.
I feel a little more defined today.
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