Lockout

It wasn’t the first time that cops had knocked on the door of our home but it was the first time one of us had readily called them.  It was about 6:30 in the morning and David had locked me out of our shared apartment around 4:00 AM.  There I was, pajama clad, hair in a messy ponytail, and standing in mismatched shoes – at least I had my glasses on so to see the back door I was trying with all of my might to break into.  I had just returned from Rite-Aid with a purchased pair of heavy-duty pliers and I was attempting to break the durable chain lock that stood between a comfortable place to rest my weary head and I.  All the while, politely shouting (if that’s possible), “David, please let me in!”  I was patiently keeping my cool as the last thing we needed was for one of the neighbors to rat on us to the landlord again.  Those who know me well know that this is too much drama for me – I do not willingly partake in such spectacles unless I am absolutely forced in to doing so.

Earlier that morning, I awoke from my snooze to pick up David from his bartending job in downtown Los Angeles just like every other night he worked.  We had opposite schedules and we shared a car, so I willingly woke at 2am on those necessary early mornings to pick him up.  It was just one of those humps in our lives that we needed to get past – it wasn’t for forever, I would tell myself, always trying to see the glass half full.  Unfortunately, David drank the rest of that beverage long before I recognized the glass was just plain fucking empty and I’ll bet with my bank account that it was once half full of whiskey.

David and I had been in a bitter fight the previous afternoon and for the life of me, I couldn’t begin to recall what it was even about.  What I can recall, however, is that when he got into my Mazda that particular night, he was completely obliterated to the point that I feared he would puke all over the passenger side of the car.  I asked if he was working in such a state to which he replied, “yep,” with an audible, heavy slur.  I will spare you the unpleasant details of his ongoing verbal abuse during the entire fifteen-minute drive back to our apartment.  I decidedly “took” his debasement, so to speak.  In other words, I didn’t utter a word or attempt to defend myself.  I had determined in my mind that as soon as we pulled up to our building, I would wait until he got out of the car and closed his door at which point I would drive down the street, park, recline the driver’s seat, try to take a nap and wait out the time before he would inevitably pass out from his drunkenness.

As David exited the vehicle and I eagerly sped away, I peered in the rear view mirror to witness a shocked expression upon his inebriated face – guess he didn’t see that one coming amidst the brunt of his intoxication.  Unfortunately, what I expected to happen afterward, which was him quickly passing out, did not happen.  Instead, I received a plethora of consecutive phone calls, which I intentionally ignored, until he finally left the nastiest voicemail I have ever received in my life that concluded with, “go fuck yourself.”  After this, I received a couple of repulsive text messages, one that passively read, “I hope he makes you feel good.”  It wasn’t the first time David had accused me of being unfaithful.

When I decided to return home to sleep on the couch about an hour later, I found myself intentionally locked out of my own apartment.  David chained the back door and dead bolted the front door.  When his careless actions were questioned later, his response was, “Because I didn’t want you to bring him back to the apartment.”  Wow.  Now, for the record, I was not cheating nor did I ever and nor did David have reason to suspect me of doing so, but if I was, give me a little more damn credit!  After several hours of attempting to literally force my way into our apartment and taking a chilly, cat nap in the backseat of my car, I called the cops knowing there was empirically nothing they could legally do that I already hadn’t but it was worth a shot, right?  Now that I think about it, the usage of the word legally might be pushing it considering I was failingly utilizing tools to destroy a relentless chain lock.

After the police made their departure, I sat at the community patio set outside the front door to our apartment.  My cats were visibly concerned as to why mommy was not simply coming inside.  My oldest even tried opening the door for me, stretching onto his hind legs and banging on the door handle with his big, furry paw – his version of turning the knob.  My best girlfriends finally awoke to the multitude of missed calls and text messages from me pleading for a place to sleep.  I made my way to one of their apartments around eight in the morning where I was provided with a change of clothing and a spare toothbrush.  I went shopping at Rite-Aid for a second time that morning for makeup essentials to make myself halfway presentable to the public because God only knew when David would awake from his drunken slumber.

When I arrived back at my apartment later in the afternoon, I was met with a myriad of histrionics.  The first being dried vomit in places other than where it belonged and the second being the stack of marriage memorabilia complete with the “piece of paper” or marriage certificate laying on the coffee table.  On top of the pile was a short note from David, which read, and I paraphrase, “I placed our marriage photos and certificate on the table because that is exactly what’s on the table right now…”  And I think one can safely say that that was the beginning of our demise.

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