The Memoir Outline: 4-6

(But first, a bit of rambling.)

I was just going back through all of my posts and "labeling" them. I have another blog, on Wordpress, with 271 followers. It's well-read, and that may be because I tag my posts on that blog. As a matter of fact, the tags are so effective that if you Google a certain word that I've tagged numerous times (I won't tell you which word), a bunch of my pictures show up in Google Images. That's pretty exciting. That, and, I think more people are interested in photography than about some chick losing her marbles and trying to gather them up again. I think actual marbles are probably more interesting than that. They are pretty cool-looking.

 

I had labeled my posts here on this blog in the past, but then I removed all the labels because I was only allowed 200 characters per "bunch of labels", and I had a hard time excluding certain ones. But, with my Google Images discovery, I decided to add labels back on to my posts here yesterday. 

In so doing, of course, I had to read through each post again to find keywords. And when I read them, I was more than a little embarrassed, and more than just a few times, I just wanted to skim over the incoherence and delete the post entirely in disgust. I dunno, maybe it's a good thing I only have one follower here. (But thank you so very much, you loyal follower, you.) 

I didn't really stick to my original plan for this blog, at all. I wanted to write about relationships I've had, from childhood through now. But there are many posts where I'm ruminating and trying to “make sense” of "everything" in a sort of "diary" or journal-istic kind of way. Begrudgingly, I've decided not to delete anything – who wouldn't want to keep a record of her own insanity? (That's only half sarcastic.) But now, I'm finally working on the real thing. The word is memoir (n.): account, biography, history, chronicle, record – those are some of its synonyms. I believe a memoir answers the question, “What happened?” Further details provide answers to who, when, where, and how, but as for the why – if I don’t have the answer to that myself, perhaps I oughtn’t tackle that question. At least, not yet. Or maybe I’ll leave that to the readers’ interpretations entirely.

I still appreciate my inventory - it was a good start. But, instead of picking men with whom I’ve been involved at random about whom to write (the word “random” here modifies the “picking”, although it could certainly modify the being “involved”, in plenty of cases), my goal now is to chronicle – chronologically – the who, what, when, where, and how, in a coherent fashion. I’m reducing each “chapter” to such minimal elements. I'm not interested in superfluous, mellifluous, figurative, and whatever-other-adjectives-make-for "intelligent"-sounding language. I’m interested in the clear facts, subject-verb style. I think of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, and maybe a bit of Stephen King (I always hated King’s style – such simple sentences got on my nerves). And of course Brad Land - I'm throwing quotations marks out the window for now, to save time (but I won't throw out periods or capitalization, most likely).

Ultimately, my hope is to get help with my writing at some point, and I think the best way is to start with nearly nothing, leaving room for plenty of notes. I prefer building slowly upon a foundation to repainting, remodeling, or downright unmerciful demolition.

I'll be adding much. I'll expand, expound, describe. I’ll have places in my outline where I’ll say, “Ooh, this will be a good place to go back to add a scene from my childhood.” That's what all the "good" memoirs seem to do.

But now that I've superfluously expounded upon writing, here's some more actual writing (again, bare bones, subject-verb style). Here's my memoir outline, 4-6, draft 4:

4

Evan and I have been having sex for two weeks, since the night I left Ronnie. I’ve been seeing Lyle back at the apartment every day and still working. I lie to Ronnie and say I’ve been going between my aunt Jessie’s and my friend Rochelle’s. I don’t tell Ronnie about Evan. I can’t live at Evan’s parents’, so I’ve decided to live with my aunt Jessie. I’ve been getting things from the apartment and out of storage and taking them to my aunt’s. Clothes, books. I used to live there in high school.

I’m in Evan’s car. We’re kissing. I love you, I say. Don’t use those words, he says. I’m sorry, I say. I guess I’m just so used to saying that, I say. Don’t worry about it, he says. We kiss some more.

Evan goes to work and I go back to the apartment to see Lyle and to get more things. I get in a fight with Ronnie. He takes the car keys away from me. I put a bunch of my CDs in a bag and sling it over my shoulder and I go out walking.

I go down Ammunition and turn left down Main St. I walk about a mile-and-a-half.

The Irish Pub. There’s a band playing. I go inside. It's The Clovers. I recognize the piano player. It’s Jennie. She and I were in the music program together at Mira Costa Community College, where I sang and she accompanied me. I drink a few bloody maries and listen to them play. I talk to some people I recognize from high school. Aaron Simpson wants my phone number but I don’t give it to him. I have a boyfriend, I say. I call Evan to come pick me up.

5

I go back to the apartment to get bill stubs for the dissolution paperwork and to spend time with Lyle. Ronnie lets me in, like he has for the past two months. Lyle and I watch Barney together while Ronnie asks me questions.

I get the bill stubs out of the closet and start putting them in a box. Ronnie comes in and starts taking them out of the box. You aren’t taking anything with my name on it, he says. I put them back in the box. Yes I am, I say. He grabs the box. I grab the box. He grabs my arms. Lyle comes in. I go to pick him up but Ronnie picks him up first. I punch Ronnie in the face. Lyle is crying. I grab the box and I leave.

6

I take Lyle out to the park on my days off. I go to pick him up.

Ronnie’s mom comes down the steps and I roll my window down. She hands me some papers, stapled, and walks away. I start reading. It’s a restraining order. I have to stay away from Lyle and Ronnie. I can’t contact Ronnie at all.

I scream and cry and beat my steering wheel and I plead with God. I turn the ignition, put the car in reverse, and then I drive to the courthouse, crying.

There isn’t anything I can do, they say. Just have to wait for the court date in three weeks, they say.

How This Whole Thing Started: The Husband, the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend, the Acapulco Parking Lot (recap), and The Sexophone Player

Three weeks prior to the night before my ten-year high school reunion when I went to an Acapulco for a 300-dollar karaoke contest and cheated on my boyfriend (for whom I'd left my husband) by having sex in the parking lot with a guy I didn't even know, I had punched my husband square in the jaw during a melee struggle over a box of bills that I was trying to get from the apartment to file for divorce.

The only explanation I can give for a five-foot, hundred-and-ten-pound woman giving a six-foot, two-hundred-and-ninety-five-pound man a concussion is that he's a Muay Thai/Boxing/MMA aficionado...and a very good teacher. Of course, I didn't know that I had given him a concussion, because I left in a flash of victory, box in hand.

The next day, when I went over to pick up our son to spend time with him, before I could unbuckle my seatbelt, my dear mother-in-law flew towards me down the steps with papers in hand, outstretched towards my now-cracked window. She dropped them inside and flew away again, without a word. I read them, and I wept. And I wept, and I wept, and I screamed at the top of my lungs until I was completely spent, and I sped to the courthouse to see if there was any way I could get that restraining order lifted, but no - there was not. I would have to wait until after Christmas for the court date. And the only way I knew to medicate that indescribable, excruciating pain of having a mother's not-even-weaned child taken away from her was with: karaoke.

I started off with a beer at the brewery across the parking lot, and I was tipsy. I had also tipped and tumbled over that cliff of insanity upon which I had been teetering. I didn't invite my new boyfriend to go with me and because I went to the bar alone, of course, a man came up to me, sat down, offered to buy me a drink, I accepted, he bought me more, and more, I tore up that Adele in not a good way - I was completely drunk - and I realized...I don't even like this guy. What the hell am I even doing here?

I tried to get rid of him: I hid in the bathroom, but he waited. I went to my car to "charge my phone," but he followed me. I told him about my husband and my son, and he told me about his wife and his son. We exchanged pictures and stories of pain. He invited me to Salsa and I tried to wear him out...but he wore me out. I wasn't accustomed to heels.

Finally...he asked if we could go to his car to charge his phone. We started kissing, he wanted to go further, and I conceded, because, well, nothing else had worked to get rid of him and I figured this must be the only way. I acted like it was good, like any not-self-respecting bar slut would.

Aww, but he was sad when I told him afterward that - oops, actually - I had a boyfriend, and, I really didn't like the fact that I'd just cheated on him, so, "Sorry, Angel...I can't see you again. Take care. Bye."


Rewind:

My husband was drowning in alcoholism, verbally, emotionally, physically terrifying. He punched holes in walls, kicked doors down while our son and I hid, took my phone so I couldn't dial 9-1-1, blocked the front door. There was no escape, nowhere to go, except to work, where I went, leaving our son with his award-winning father.

There was a new delivery driver at Pizza Hut where I was assistant manager. He was kind, funny, had beautiful eyes, tall, was single, my age, an artist, had been to three universities, like me. He had been living with a Chinese lady while going to school #3, but when her house was foreclosed, he dropped out, moved home, and was living with his mom in his stepdad's mansion. They had just moved into our little town from the OC.

We sometimes worked alone together, and on those days, Evan and I shared the most intimate colloquy. I cried about my marriage, and he said, "You should leave your husband"...and in my head, I inserted the words..."for me."

I finally did leave him, five months after I met Evan, after Ronnie had made out with some women at a bar and threatened me with divorce for the sixth time. It was a violent fight. I tried to get a hold of our son to protect him and take him with me, but Ronnie grabbed him and wouldn't let him go. I hit Ronnie and tried to get our son away from him, but he was too strong. And then I realized that I'd become my mother...and I left, crying.

I texted Evan while driving, nervously, beside myself: "I did it. I left. I don't know what to do now...".

He responded, after a moment, "Come over." It's exactly what I hoped he would say.

I said, "I can't...I'm scared." It was the truth. Could I? Should I?

And he texted me, "Then let's get to the scary part."

He sent his address, I drove over, we did get to "the scary part," over, and over, and over, starting in his driveway before making our way inside, for three hours - then, we took a break to eat the exquisite salmon dinner he prepared, with buttered collard greens and paprika mashed potatoes, over wine - and then we did four more hours of the "scary part" all over his parents' house.

So this is what sex is supposed to feel like, I thought. This is what love is supposed to feel like.

I told him I loved him after only two weeks. I really felt it. But Evan didn't react he way I'd hoped, this time.

"Oh no...don't use those words," he said.

I couldn't believe it. I was shocked as he was. "Oh...I'm sorry," I said, sheepishly.

I was heartbroken. How did this happen? This is who I left my husband to be with? I tried breaking up with him, but he didn't want that, either, of course. But I couldn't be with him any more. It hurt too much. Pain on top of pain.

So, since I'd had sex with Evan for four hours a day for over a month, I'd had sex with someone totally random in the parking lot at Acapulco, I decided I'd go have sex with someone I really wanted to have sex with. I had just wanted this hot saxophone player I'd had a huge crush on in college, for years. And I thought, ah! This will certainly assist with the getting-rid-of-the-guy-who-helped-break-apart-my-marriage-but-who-doesn't-actually-love-me dealio, and, since I was having so much sex anyway...hey...what's one more?

I specifically did not invite Evan to my ten-year high school reunion the next day so that, before the event, I could stop off over at Rico's Vineyard. The way I saw it, we had some unfinished business.

Rico and I were in jazz together at SDSU in 2008. I sang Corcovado, and he got the sax solo. He was the sexiest man I'd ever seen. Italian, tall, dark, handsome, eyes that watched me intently from the moment we first saw each other. He'd look at me while playing his sax with his sensuous lips and hands, as if to say, I want you, I want you to know that I want you, and one of these days, I'm gonna take you, woman. I was tantalized. Powerless.

He invited me over to his house to practice before our performance at his parents' winery in Rancho Cucamonga. We didn't actually practice, although I actually thought we would. He made me a margarita and we went to his room, where he started changing into his performance attire, right in front of me. He asked me if I had a boyfriend while he was unbuttoning his shirt, slowly. I said, "Oh...well...yes". He was bummed. So was I.

But there was still an air between us, as if at any moment one of us might just grab the other in a sudden act of passion. I downed my margarita hoping it'd be sooner than later. No such luck. When he was done getting his clothes on, he offered to give me a ride over to the country club up the road where the performance was to be, having me leave my car at his house. Not too implicit.

Later, after the gig, he took a detour on the way back to my car. He wanted to take me on a golf cart around the winery. So off we went, at dusk. It was beautiful, like him. Between the vines, he stopped the cart, leaned over, and kissed me on the neck. I let his lips linger - they were warm, soft, and wet. My breath became heavy. My body was thrilled.

But I stopped him. I managed to utter, barely above a whisper, "I'm sorry...I can't." I had wanted to...so badly. But I still had a somewhat-functioning moral compass, at this time, and I didn't want to cheat on my boyfriend of six years with whom I lived (even though I hated him with an equal passion). So Rico dropped me back off at my car, and I drove home.

When I got home, Ronnie was drunk with his uncle on the couch, as usual. I was disgusted with both of them, as usual. Ronnie and I got into a huge fight and I ended up spending the night in my car in the driveway. I texted and tried to call Rico for hours, but, no response. I was pissed at myself for losing my chance. I cried myself to sleep, and I dreamt of Rico.

After that, Rico and I started sexting each other and chatting online. He told me one day in a chat that he wanted to - get this - fuck me in the ass. I wouldn't even let my boyfriend do that. And I still didn't want to cheat on Ronnie. And didn't know if I wanted to leave him, either, just so I could go indulge in some risqué activity? Would I leave Ronnie, give up my place to live, to fulfill a sexual fantasy? I emailed my best friend to ask her what she thought.

"Oh my God, don't do it! Don't let him fuck you in the ass! Ewwwwww! Gross!" she emailed me back her shocked response.

The next morning, Ronnie asked to use my laptop while I was in the shower since his had a virus, and I said, "Sure, honey!" I'd completely forgotten that the last thing I'd done was read my email. Eva's response was still open on the screen.

I was still showering when Ronnie burst in and demanded to know what it was all about and who the guy was and what I was doing and what I was planning on doing - and really, what the fuck? - and it caused the fight to end all fights (for now), culminating in Ronnie throwing some of my clothes into a suitcase and me finishing the job and storming out and taking the bus and train to Eva's house to live.

Ronnie got a hold of Rico's phone number. In my distress, I had left my phone behind. Before that, after Ronnie badgering me for hours, I had told him who the other guy was. So Ronnie called Rico and warned him to stay away from me (and Ronnie told me later that Rico cried like a little girl and blamed me for everything). I didn't hear from Rico again, and a couple of months later, I went back to Ronnie after we talked things out. He asked me to marry him. We would stop drinking, get married, and have a baby - that would fix everything.

In November 2011, three years later, I left Ronnie for good, for the pizza delivery boy. Now, I needed to leave Evan, too. As aforementioned I had already demoralized myself with someone totally random, so, I figured I might as well go ahead and do some of those nasty little things with Rico. He was the hottest guy on the planet, after all, to me - even though he was an asshole.

I got his number again from facebook and I texted him. I couldn't wait. We "sexted" about all the things we were gonna do to each other. He was okay with it now that Ronnie was out of the picture. He even agreed to meet with me that very night, before my high school reunion. So I went out and bought a slutty black dress and some slutty black heels and some slutty black thigh-high panty hose, a new bra, a new G-string - I felt completely ridiculous. I could hardly walk; the heels were so high, my feet kept tipping over. The dress was so short I had to keep pulling it down to cover the tops of the thigh-highs, and when I did, it would reveal my bra so I had to re-adjust the dress  some more, because come on, I didn't know who I was gonna see out there. I'm a T-shirt and jeans kinda girl - shy, book-nerd, tomboy-ish, don't even wear dresses - and if any one I knew had seen me, they really would have thought, WTF?

But once I practiced walking like a model in my room for awhile, I was good to go. I totally "tee-hee"d as I tiptoed out to my car after making sure that my aunt and uncle weren't around to catch me.

Tee hee...

I pulled up to the winery and waited for Rico to come pick me up at my car as planned, leaning against the bumper, half-sitting, half-standing, shifting around, trying to look calm, cool, sexy. Finally, he screeched up alongside me in his white BMW. It reminded me of the time I was his passenger the night of that gig, when we screeched past a homeless guy and he spit out the window, saying, " 'Get the fuck outta here, homeless trash!' Fuckin' bum."

Rico shouted at me to "Get in!" I did, walking carefully. He sped off for a short distance before pulling over on the side of the road in the darkness. I thought we'd be going to his house, but apparently not. I wasn't really sure what to make of all this. But I wanted to be sexy, so, I started to try and unbutton his pants from where I was sitting. But he snapped at me: "Did I fucking tell you to fucking touch me? Don't you fucking touch me until I tell you to touch me, bitch." I laughed and said, "Okay," like it was no big deal. I didn't let him know how fucking scared I was.

I wrestle with how much detail to go into here, so I'll just share the facts:

Rico made me shove my fist up his ass while he made me shove my fist up mine while he shoved his fingers inside of me and shoved my head so far down on his cock for so long that it hurt like fucking hell, and I threw up, and he made me swallow my own fucking vomit before he let loose his fucking load into my throat and made me swallow that, fucking, too.

When it was over he all but shoved me out of his car back at my car before pealing away. He might as well have spit on me, too. Hell, he might have; I don't remember. I was in a bit of shock.

I got into my car and I just sat there for a moment. My throat and my heart hurt. Before I knew it, I found myself holding my throbbing throat as I sobbed, hard. I screamed and I cried and I drove on the freeway towards the racetrack country club where the reunion was, but I pulled myself together so that I could change, while driving, into my jeans and into my plaid button-up shirt and into my converse shoes (and into me again). I re-did my smudged make-up and brushed my wet, tangled hair. I sprayed myself with perfume, because I stank like cum.

When I got to the reunion, I answered a call from Evan, and told him no, he couldn't come. I went in, said hi to a few people I hardly knew (Eva was my only real friend in high school, and she wasn't there), made my way to the bar, sat down, ordered a single-barrel jack-and-coke double, and downed it. Then I ordered another. And then another. And then...I was...sort of...okay.

If you thought it was bad with my husband, and you thought it was bad with #1: The Pizza Delivery Boyfriend, and you thought it was bad with #2: The Acapulco Parking Lot, and you thought it was bad with #3: The Sexophone Player...*laugh*. That was just the beginning. I still had numbers 4 through 8 to go...

...that very night.