From Pathetic Life #1
Sunday, June 19, 1994
Margaret has been hitting me since she came to San Francisco, but it seemed like playful fun. A slug on my shoulder here, a punch on my back later on.
Today she was hitting me harder, and it became genuinely painful. She must have slapped and slugged me sixty times, from Chinatown to the Marina and back again, between kisses and ordinary conversations. The inevitable explosions of temper have always been part of her, but her pounding on me is something new.
I have no interest in either hitting back or becoming a battered man. When I asked her not to hit me, she stopped for a while, but only for a while. When I asked if I’d said or done something since she’d been here, something to deserve her flurries of rage, she mentioned The Fart, and told me again that I know exactly what I’m saying that sets her off. Again I told her that I don’t, and again I’m not sure that she even heard me. The day was frustrating, enough to make me second-guess the whole idea of Maggie and me.
Back at the apartment in the early afternoon, she said she was bored, so I suggested a double feature at the Strand, Point Break and What’s Love Got to Do with It.
Yeah, I knew she’d find the Strand disgusting. It is disgusting — it’s a run-down movie palace that shows old movies at a cheap price, and caters to a skid row clientele. Many of the customers appear to be homeless, paying the discount admission not so much to watch the movies as to sleep in the seats. Can’t blame ’em — it’s more comfortable than a park bench, and it’s legal, so a cop isn’t likely to bust their heads.
I go to the Strand a lot, and at least part of the point of Maggie’s visit is to show her how I live, right? That was my thinking, anyway. And also, in my defense, having Maggie with me in San Francisco has been more expensive than I’d anticipated. The Strand is easy on the budget and really all I could afford. It’s $1 for a double feature, so $2 for both of us. Another dollar for four Tootsie Pops and we were set for the evening.
Except it turns out admission goes up after 4:00 in the afternoon, so it was $2 apiece. I always go early, when it’s cheaper, so that blindsided me. I’m a gentleman and a big spender, so I didn’t complain, didn’t ask Margaret to chip in, and still bought us Tootsie Pops. Am I a great guy, or what?
Well, maybe I’m not a great guy. I should’ve remembered what the Strand is like, before bringing a date. The sleeping and snoring drunkards, the talking, coughing, and spitting patrons — for me, that’s part of the charm of the place, but Maggie was uncomfortable. Can’t blame her for that.
And then, toward the end of What’s Love Got to Do with It, as Larry Fishburne was beating the hell out of Angela Bassett, voices in the audience were cheering it on. That’s a new low, even for the lowly Strand. I should’ve taken Margaret out of that place at that moment, but leaving hadn’t occurred to me, yet.
“He’s beating her up, and these people are laughing at it,” Maggie said to me, and again, I should’ve said ‘Yeah, that’s disgusting — let’s go’. But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything, and she turned to me and said, “And you’re laughing right along with them.”
I certainly had not been laughing, or even smiling, and after all of her insults all week, I heard this as the biggest insult imaginable. The perpetually pleasant face and mood I’d tried to maintain during her visit disappeared, instantly. “Don’t be a complete asshole,” I said.
Maggie was speechless for a long time, before she finally said in a very stern voice, “Don’t you ever call me that again.”
I was, ah, not at my best. How many times had she called me an asshole since I picked her up at the airport, a week ago tomorrow? How many dozen other insults had she given me in that time? And for what? For hosting her, for trying my best to treat her nice? She’s accusing me of sympathizing with a wife-beater, while my shoulder aches from the beatings I took from her today? It’s OK for her to call me vile names over and over, but unforgivable the first and only time I’ve said something mean to her? I was pissed. And still am.
All these thoughts were bumping into each other in my head, while words came tumbling out of my mouth. “You’ve been treating me like shit all day and I don’t know why,” was how I began, but the rest of what I said is a blur in my memory. I do remember her response: she started to cry.
I felt awful, but let her bawl for a minute. This, I think, is why evolution makes the womenfolk tend toward tears when they’re distraught; it makes the menfolk feel awful. I put my hand on her shoulder, a gentle squeeze, and futilely tried to turn our attention back to the movie, but mostly I was wondering what mean things she’d say when she again had something to say.
The theater was dark and loud so it took a few minutes before I noticed that she was still crying. And that made me feel awful all over again, but probably not as awful as she felt. If I’d known she was still crying, jeez, I never would’ve let her cry that long without a few soft words from me.
So it was a grand catastrophe of an evening. I asked if she wanted to leave; she did, so we walked home, six blocks, mostly in silence. I said a sentence every block, trying to find some nice words without actually apologizing, because I didn’t think I had much to apologize for. A couple of hours later, of course, I’ve figured out that I had plenty to apologize for.
And then, when we stepped back into the apartment, Margaret apologized. “I didn’t come to California just to treat you so mean. I’m sorry, and I don’t want us to fight.” She said it so soft and sincerely, it was hard to remember I had even been angry.
In a moment when one of us needed to be an adult, she was the adult, and I wasn’t. I apologized, too, of course, and we hugged and cuddled each other to sleep, sexlessly but sweetly.
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
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