YOU'RE WRONG 

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

Then things happen. Six times, either "AMTRAK fucks up her reservation," or the guy she's leaving to meet "gets sick." She said she'd stay a week. A month passes. I get mad. Then she starts stumbling. She tells me she's a junkie. She smashes up my apartment. She taunts me. I bash my head against a door. She smashes a mirror. She comes out of my bathroom with blood on her t-shirt. I suspect her shooting up. I'm wrong. Instead, she's taken a razor blade to the inside of her arm and cut through the skin.]

"You weren't supposed to see that." She tells me.

I can't find anything but an old rag hanging over the shower rod. I grab the rag and wrap it around her dripping arm.

"You piece of shit. You worthless scum." I yell, applying pressure up and down her arm to try to stop the bleeding. "I hate you more than I've hated anyone in my life. Go head kill yourself. Just do it somewhere else!"

I want to fist-flatten her nose. I shake with anger. I don't hit her. I move the bandage to soak up more blood. The blood only dribbles now. It looks as if she tried to carve letters, maybe a sentence into her arm. I don't try to read it.

I reach for the septic. That's the stuff you put on a shaving nick. It stops the bleeding. It's all I have.

"You fucking sleazeball," I tell her, stretching out her arm and rubbing the septic on it. "You make me nauseous. I want to puke just being in the same room with you."

She leans back and shakes her head.

"You weren't supposed to see it. You weren't supposed to see it." She says, rocking like a praying Jew. "I didn't do it for you. I did it for me. You weren't supposed to see it."

"When this stops, get out!" I yell. "You're going to get out or I'll call the cops. I can't take any more."

"Why? Why?" She asks. "Just for two days? You write about drugs. You say you hate the twelve steppers. Now you can't take it. Please let me stay."

The wounds still ooze, but more slowly now. I wrap her arm in the rag again and press.

"I just wanted to see what it felt like," she says. "I didn't want to kill myself. I have a gun. If I wanted to kill myself, I'd just put it in my mouth and pull the trigger."

"You little shitbag." I yell, "You're leaving."

She begins to cry again. "You can't throw me out, now. It's the middle of the night. I'll leave tomorrow, I promise."

I call a cheap hotel. Make reservations for the next day. I let her stay the night. She sleeps on the couch. It's Friday. The bus leaves Sunday. Monday, I go to New Orleans.

I take a couple VIVERIN-- caffeine pills. I've got to stay awake in case she tries something else. She has a gun. I set a chair next to the couch and watch her lie there.

At 4:30 in the morning she gets up. She has to piss, she tells me. I follow her.

I pick the bloody razor out of the garbage. Raw skin curls like wood shavings between the twin blades. I put it in my pocket. Then I sit on the tub.

"Please," she says, "I won't do anything. I can't piss in front of you. Please go out."

I refuse.

She pushes me. I leave. She closes the door. Pressing my ear against that door, I hear the medicine cabinet open. You don't need a medicine cabinet to piss. She's looking for another razor. There's silence, then the rustle of cloth.

I turn the knob and slam my shoulder against the door. Her head is on the other side. Already weak from blood loss, the force against her head sends her crashing to the floor. She lies between the toilet and the wall-- not moving.

I walk over to her. I put my hand on her cheek to see if she's dead. She's warm. Still alive. I pull off her coat to check for fresh blood. There's no fresh blood.

"This time you've done it some place I won't look," I tell the still-not-moving body on the floor.

I lift her shirt. Nothing. I unzip her pants and pull them down. She vaguely moves a hand to protect her modesty. I win. But there is no blood.

She staggers to her feet, resting her head between her hands.

"I think you've given me a concussion." She says.

"Good!" I answer.

Still tipsy, she sits on top of the closed toilet. There's a razor on the floor. She must've been lying on it.

"You bitch!" I yell again. "Once isn't enough! Damn you, why don't you go someplace else to finish the job."

I look at the razor. There's no blade in it.

She tries to stand, rocks back and forth, then falls to the floor. I grab her uncut arm to lift her to her feet. I drag her out of the bathroom and fling her onto the couch. She's still holding her head.

"I have to go to the hospital." She says. "You've gave me a concussion." Then she collapses. Her chin rests against her chest. Her neck twists at an odd angle.

I stare out the lone window over the couch. She doesn't move as the sun comes up. When the Broadway noise creeps in, she shifts her position, pulling extra covers over herself.

"Is it cold in here?" she asks.

"Not especially." I tell her.

"I think I'm getting sick." she says and pulls the covers completely over her head.

"I don't give a shit." I say. "You're going to the hotel tonight. I've got to leave tomorrow and I don't want to deal with you."

"You don't know how bad it is." She says. "It's a sickness like you've never had. You shake and shit and there's nothing you can do. It's the worst torture you can imagine."

"Fuck you." I answer. "You brought enough for two weeks. You stayed four. You deserve it."

"I stayed for you." she said. "I love you."

I fought the urge to push her teeth through her lip with my fist.

"You love me enough to make me smash my head against a door? You love me enough to cut yourself up in my bathroom? You love me enough to destroy my apartment?" I shake with rage like she shakes from the junkie cold. "Love is the most disgusting emotion in the world. People kill and die for it. They make themselves lower than worms for it. Love is more evil than jealousy, hate, fear, revenge. Get out!"

She sits up, still keeping the blankets tightly wrapped around her.

"Get up!" I yell at her. "We're going to the hotel."

"No!" she screams, "Please let me stay. How could you be so cruel?"

I dial 911.

"Police," says the woman on the other end of the line, "Where's the emergency?" I give her my address. "And what's the problem?"

"I've had a guest," I tell her, "and she has some mental problems. She's already injured herself. She refuses to leave."

"Is this a girlfriend?" asks the voice, as if she's heard this a hundred times before.

CLICK! The body on the bed had risen to place a finger on the phone to disconnect it.

"How could you be so cruel?" she asks again. "Do you know what would happen if the police came? They'd make me go through this in a little cell. They'd take one look at the scars on my arms and put me away and never let me out again. Please, I'll leave tomorrow. My father will come and get me. I'm sure he will."

"The cops are coming." I tell her. "Do you want to leave for the hotel now?"

Shaking with the cold and the start of drug sickness, she rolls out of bed. I grab her huge bag and heave it out the apartment door.

"Now." I tell her.

I reach for the keys to my door. There's a set missing.

"Where are the keys?" I yell at her, "Give me the fucking keys."

She denies having them. She says I must have lost them. We don't have much time before the cops come, so we leave.

"I'm changing the locks," I tell her, "You stole my fucking keys."

She still denies it. "Go head, change the locks," she says. "You'll feel pretty stupid when you find those keys."

We leave.

At the cheap hotel, the guy behind the glass shakes his head. "No," he says, "she can't stay here. She's too fucked up."

She doesn't talk, but stands in the hall with her arms folded. She stares at the floor.

"Please," I beg, "I'll pay in advance."

"No." He says, "now get out of here."

Eventually, we find someplace. It's expensive. More than a hundred a night. I take the last of my cash machine money and give it to the clerk.

"This is for tonight." I tell him. "She'll be gone tomorrow."

We take the elevator up to her room. I put her bag on the floor.

"Good luck," I say and walk out the door.

"Wait," she says, "Please, stay with me just five minutes. That's all."

I walk over to the bed. I put my arm around her. She sits very quietly. Soon, I get up to leave. She pulls at my jacket.

"Please don't go." She says, "I'll kill myself if you leave."

I stand and walk out the door. She follows me, yelling in the hallway, shouting my name. She begs me to stay the night. In front of the elevator, I turn to her.

"I have to go." I tell her.

"Please come back." She says. "Just for a minute."

I walk back to her room. Once inside, I immediately turn and run. She's on the eighth floor. I run down the stairs. She's behind me. I jump a flight. Race down the rest. I hear her calling me. Then I hear a shout and a rumble, as she misses a step and her body thumps down from one flight to the next. I keep running.

Somehow, I find myself in the kitchen. I ask directions out. The cook's suspicious. He tells me to wait. I see an emergency exit before he can return with the house detective. I'm outside and free, I think.

Back in my apartment, I'm breathless from the run. I go sit on the couch. Metal glints under my desk. It's the extra set of keys.

What a jerk I am. Why can't I trust her? Why do I always have to see the worst? Really, is she that bad? Why am I so cruel?

I'm hot. I shiver. I picture her in her hotel room. She's leaning up against the wall. Searching through her bag. Her hands shake. She pulls out the gun and one by one loads the chamber.

"I'll teach him," she says and laughs. "That's how he answers my love."

She puts the barrel of the gun in her mouth. She squeezes her eyes shut and pulls the trigger. The back of her head comes off and splatters against the wall. Someone screams. My name is on the hotel bill.

I pick up the phone. I call 1-800-FLOWERS. "I want a fifty dollar bouquet sent to this hotel." I tell whoever answers. "Can you deliver tonight?"

"Sure," answers the voice, "but it'll cost you extra."

"Anything," I say.

"And the card?" asks the voice, "what should the card say?"

I know what she wants to hear. I know what'll keep the gun out of her mouth. "I love you." I say into the phone.

Then I call the hotel.

She's still alive. Her voice is faint on the phone. She sounds sick. I ask how she's feeling. She says better. She tells me she fell down the stairs and then forgot what room she was in. She says the guy at the desk showed her back. She's settled now. She talked to her father and he would come tomorrow and pick her up. He knows the story. He'll take care of her.

I tell her I'm sorry things happened this way. After she dries out a bit... after we have a period apart... with no contact... then we can be friends again. Right now, I need some space, some time to sort things out. We both need to be alone.

We talk a bit more. The flowers come. She's happy. I feel better, too. I go to sleep. Her father will come the next day. She'll leave, and everything will be all right. I give her my phone number in New Orleans. I tell her to call me from her father's house in L.A. Just to check in. She says she will.

The next day I'm packed and ready to leave. I move my bags out the door and go to lock up. I decide to take the spare keys and leave my regular set at home. I pick them up. There's a key missing. The one to the apartment lock. It's not on the ring.

The bitch-- she got me. I run back inside and write notes to each of my neighbors. I tell them I'm afraid she'll come back. She'll have the key to my apartment, but she won't be able to get in. I usually only lock one lock, but now I lock both. She only has one key. I tell my neighbors not to let her in. I tell them to call the cops if there's trouble. I give them my number in New Orleans. It's for emergencies, I explain.

Then I leave for the airport.

I'm in New Orleans about twelve hours before she calls. I'm staying with a friend. She calls at 3AM. Her father isn't coming, she tells me. They're kicking her out of the hotel. Where should she go? How can I be so cruel?

I give her the name of another hotel, then hang up. The next call is from my neighbors. She's in the hall. Camped in front of my door. She's begging them to let her into my apartment.

"Just ask him," she says about me, "He'll tell you it's all right."

They ask. I tell them to call the police.

A few minutes later, she calls. How could I be so cruel? Don't I know what she's going through? Don't I know the pain of withdrawal? She's doing it for me. She's suffering the pain of a thousand knives for me. I won't even give her a place to do it in.

I ask her about her father. She tells me he's coming, any day now. He just has to get the money together to fetch her. It costs a thousand dollars, she says. She'll leave right away. Tomorrow.

I hang up. Turn on the answering machine. Don't take anymore messages. Let the tape fill up. Erase it without listening.

Day's pass. She keeps calling. She says her father put her up in another hotel. They're taking care of her. She'll leave soon. She asked her former lover to come take her to LA, she says. She calls again-- and again.

She calls to say where she is. She calls to ask directions to Western Union. She calls to ask how to get to the bus station, as if she were really leaving.

Her previous lover calls. I don't recognize the voice on the machine, but it identifies itself.

"I just want you to know, Mykel," says the voice, "that she called me to stay with her until you got back. She wasn't planning to go anywhere. She just wanted company while you were gone."

It's been 48 hours since I've heard from her. She'll be in the city when I get back. Waiting. Curled up on the front porch or sleeping on the roof. She'll be there.

She kicked drugs for me. She went through that pain for me. I owe her something. I owe her care; love. She'll be there.

The next morning, she calls again. This time I talk to her. "Someone'll give me $1500 to stay in New York." She tells me. "Would it be ok with you? I'd just have to live with you until I can find a new place. OK?"

"No NO NO NO!!!!" I scream. My fear and anger melts the phone in my hand. "Away! I don't want to hear from you again unless you're at least 1000 miles away. Leave! Go! Get out!"

I hear her lip quiver. "Alright Mykel, I won't call again until I'm in California."

"Great!" I say and hang up. Ten minutes later, the phone rings.

My friend tells her I won't speak to her. She calls again in the morning. Then again. My friend lies that I already left for the plane. I know she'll be waiting on my door step when I get home. It's not gonna be very nice.

Back at home, the answering machine tape is filled. I remember the story about Henry Rollins. I listen to the tape. She's gone. She's in L.A., she says.

The phone doesn't ring for three days-- at least not with a message from her. Then the calls start.

Long rambling calls. Love-filled called. Hate-filled calls. Malicious. Innocent. Calls for information.

The phone company wants forty eight dollars to change my number. Plus two dollars a month to keep it unlisted. I'll stick it out.

The calls are down to once a week, now. The last one asked for the price of an Alice Cooper record. I didn't listen to the rest of the message. I never answer the phone. I don't tremble so much when it rings, though. Not like when I hear someone at the door.

ENDNOTES:

--> I've already ranted against GLAAD, a homo "anti-defamation" group. They want to censor those they think are anti-homo. BUT, unlike the Jewish Anti-Defamation league, these guys point up the good stuff. They try to defend it against the censors.

We should applaud this part of their activities. Here're some examples: TOYOTA took out ads in an Australian homo magazine showing two guys (as a couple) and a Toyota. The caption "The Family Car." The pro-censorship AMERICAN FAMILY ASSOCIATION flipped. They started a letter writing campaign against Toyota. (Evidently, the car-maker also sponsors U.S. TV shows with homo characters.) GLAAD is encouraging a campaign in support of Toyota. Good idea. You can write to: Mr. Y. Togo, President, Toyota Motor Sales, PO Box 2991, Torrance CA 90509. Tell him you think it's great that he's supporting all kinds of vehicular orientations.

Also on the "queers as ...er...normal people" front, a Marvel Comics character, NORTHSTAR, has come out of the closet. A homo superhero! (This time you can congratulate Terry Steward, President, Marvel Comics, 387 Park Ave. S., NYC 10016) I think DC will take longer though. I can't wait for Superman to finally take Jimmy Olsen to the back room at The Stud.

--> April Fools repercussions still come in. It's amazing how many folks fell for it. My column the month before was about being a sucker. Again, I'm right. To compound it, I get Ace Backwords last Twisted Image (1630 University Ave (#26), Berkeley, CA 94701.) In it, is a letter from a woman who says she gave $150 to my defense fund. I stole the money and destroyed her faith in punk rock, she writes. The letter is obviously a fake, but I'm pissed as a tongue-tied feminist. Why did Ace print it without checking with me first? I may be an asshole, but I'm no thief! I call the guy. Sent him a telegram. Call his friends, my friends, everyone. I feel like Richard Gere trying to disprove the gerbil story. Then I find out. April Fools! The issue of T.I. Ace sent to me, was a fake. Ace, himself, made up the letter and the fake issue as an April Fools prank. I was the sucker. Moral: Don't believe what you read. Check. Check. Check. Don't take anyone's word for it. We're all suckers.

--> Though I usually just sell 'em to RECONSTRUCTION or their friends at VENUS, major labels still send me stuff. In the latest pile of Euro-synth and Nirvana-clones came a cassette of the new LP by ANDREW DICE CLAY. I know the guy caused a lot of trouble, but most of it happened while I was in Japan. Since trouble-making is usually a good sign, I put on the tape. It was funny-- and it hit.

This guy isn't as dumb as his audience-- or the people who hate him. In lots of ways, he's like Archie Bunker, a parody of bigotry. Of course, folks don't realize it and take the character for the person. But if you listen, you'll hear almost feminist phrases come out of him. The stupidity and cruel carelessness of guys in bed... the conniving and superficiality of marriage. The list goes on. The guy's no Lenny Bruce, but he's not evil... And sometimes he's funny.

--> Speaking of funny. Thanks girls! I've been getting more letters from girls who jerk off in strange places. Among my favorites is a girl who spied another girl in science class. This other girl had hidden a testtube-- in an extremely convenient location. I just hope it didn't break.

--> Finally, I want to teach you a bit abut Japanese culture. There's this poetry form called renga. It's kind of like a co-op haiku. One person writes a verse and mails it to another. They write a reply verse and mail it back. Sometimes more than two people participate. Well, I think we can do it with a song. I want ARTLESS to record the world's first co-op song. It's called "Love Canal." It's about that polluted area where they had to evacuate everyone, but there are lots of double entendres. Actually I don't know what there are yet, because the song hasn't been written. Here's the first verse:

OK, it's not very good, but you get the idea. Send in a verse or two and I'll put the best of 'em together to make a renga-song. As usual, you can write me at PO Box 137, Prince St. Sta., New York NY 10012.

-END-

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