Jason Starr - Twisted City

When she started to kiss me I was finally able to pull away and say,

"Stop it," although not with much conviction.

"Ooh, you're ready for me, I see," she said, reaching into my gym shorts and starting to kiss me again.

"Stop it," I said again. This time I took a few steps backward, creating several feet between us.

"God, what's wrong with you?" she said. "Wait, I know, it's your wallet, right? You're still bumming about that."

"It's not my wallet," I said. "Look, I know this isn't the best time to talk about this. I mean, you're obviously wasted»

"I am not wasted," she said defensively. "I didn't even smoke tonight.

I just had some E, a few drinks, and one teensy-weensy little line of coke." She held up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, as if measuring.

"Whatever," I said. "I just wanted to let you know I made a decision."

She stared at me for a long time with her mouth sagging open in exaggerated disbelief, then said, "Decision? What decision? You're making decisions about my life, telling me I'm fucking wasted? I am not fucking wasted, and you are not fucking breaking up with me."

"Seriously," I said. "I want you to pack your things and move out as soon as possible. Let's not make this any more difficult than it is."

I started toward the hallway leading to the bedroom, proud of myself for expressing my feelings so well, when a large object soared by my head. I ducked, then heard the crash. I looked up and saw that the vase of fake orchids from Pottery Barn had smashed onto the floor, shattering glass all over the hallway.

I turned back toward Rebecca and said, "Are you out of your fucking " then I had to duck again as another vase this one ceramic came at my head. It missed, crashing against the wall behind me, and then I charged her. She was reaching toward the mantel above the fireplace for more breakable objects. As she grabbed a small ceramic pitcher in one hand and a glass candlestick in the other, I held her arms from behind, trying to restrain her.

"Get off!" she screamed. She swung her arms and kicked violently, as if I were trying to strap her into an electric chair.

"Calm down," I said, "just calm the fuck down," but I knew I was just wasting my breath. I I managed to push her back against the brick wall adjacent to the fireplace. Her face was bright pink and she! was trying to bite my arm.

"Come on," I said, then groaned as she kneed me in the balls. I keeled over for a moment and she was able to break free. With her right hand she swept everything off the fireplace mantel onto the floor. More glass shattered. I She headed toward the kitchen and I went after her.

I was about to grab her when she turned and slapped me in the face. It was a real slap it stung and before I could do or say anything she slapped me again, harder than the first time. When she came at me with both hands, fingers extended like claws, ready to scratch my eyes out, I finally snapped into action. I managed to get hold of her wrists and I forced her back into the living room, pinning her down on the couch.

"I've had it with this shit," I said. "Tomorrow you're out of here, got that? You're out of here!"

She spat at me, and started screaming again, when someone knocked on the front door. I put my hand over her mouth, but she was still able to scream.

"Is everything okay in there?"

It was Carmen, the old Italian woman who lived across the hall from us.

"Fine, thank you," I said.

"It's not fucking fi…" Rebecca said, and I pressed my hand down harder, muffling her words.

"Are you sure everything's okay?" Carmen said.

"It's all right," I said. "Thank you!"

I held my hand over Rebecca's mouth for about a minute, until I was sure Carmen was gone, and then I said, "What the hell's wrong with you?

Are you out of your mind? Huh? Are you out of your mind?"

Rebecca had started to calm down, breathing normally, and I moved my hand away. I realized I'd been pressing down with more force than I'd thought, because her lower lip was bleeding. It must have gotten cut on her bottom teeth.

I moved to the other end of the couch and sat with my head in my hands.

Then I heard sobbing noises and I looked over and saw that Rebecca had started crying. I sat there, letting her cry, figuring it was better than letting her go on a rampage, breaking things.

Finally she said, "I'm not a bad person, right? I'm not a bad person, am I?"

Her mascara was running and blood was collecting on her lower lip.

"I know I'm not a bad person," she said. "I'm a good person. I have problems, but everybody has problems, right? I'm not a bad person.

Please don't tell me I'm bad.

Please don't tell me I'm bad."

"I never said you were bad," I said, hating myself.

"I won't be bad anymore," she said. "I promise. Just don't leave me.

I couldn't handle it if you left me."

She started kissing my neck and my chest, then my stomach, then lower.

I tried to push her off me, and when I tried again it was too late.

"Sit back and watch me," she said.

WHEN THE ALARM clock blared I couldn't get out of bed. I had to hit the snooze button four or five times before I managed to make it into the shower. I got dressed lethargically, wishing I were still asleep.

I said good-bye to Rebecca, but she couldn't hear me. She was snoring, drooling onto her pillow.

Heading toward the subway station along Seventy-ninth Street, lost in thought, I stepped onto a huge pile of dogshit. Cursing, I looked around for a puddle to dunk my shoe into, but it hadn't rained in days, so I had to scrape the sole against the edge of the curb to get off as much of the shit as I could. People rushing by smiled at me smugly or gave me look-at-that-stupid-idiot-who-stepped-in-shit looks, and I glared back at them, wishing they'd mind their own fucking business.

Continuing along the block, still cursing under my breath, I decided that my real problem was New York. I was sick of the crowds, the pollution, the noise, the smells, the traffic jams, and the dog shit.

And I was sick of rushing everywhere and feeling stressed-out and angry twenty-four fucking hours a day. I didn't know why I even lived in New York anymore. I never went to the theater, or clubs, or museums, and I hardly ever went out to restaurants or bars. Actually, aside from going to work, I rarely went below Seventy-second Street or above Eighty-sixth, or ventured farther east than the sliver of Central Park between the northern end of the Sheep Meadow and the southern end of the Great Lawn. Despite living in one of the biggest, supposedly greatest, most culturally diverse cities in the world, I spent about eighty percent of my time in roughly a half-mile radius of my apartment.

If I left New York, I could start my life over again. With my Wall Street Journal experience alone I could move to a smaller city and get a job at a newspaper. I could be the big-shot reporter from New York; everybody would look up to me and respect me. Maybe I could meet a woman, someone I really liked, and I could have a normal, happy life.

We'd have a big house and kids a boy and a girl and we'd have a backyard and a swimming pool. I tried to imagine myself and my happy family living in California or Florida someplace sunny as I descended the steep, dirty steps to the subway.

I rode the jam-packed train to Fiftieth Street, then walked uptown on Broadway. Manhattan Business's publisher was a cheap shit, and, although the magazine had been at the same location on Fifty-second Street for years, the office had been designed and decorated as though it were a temporary location. Except for the executive offices at the far end of the cavernous space, there were no walls. The office was divided by rows of closely aligned room dividers to give us a sense of "privacy." The floors weren't carpeted, and the old floorboards were corroding in spots. The walls had chunks missing, and the place desperately needed a paint job. The windows were filthy, the ceilings were cracked, and the air-conditioning and heat never seemed to work.