Why Was He Screaming At Me?
One night I got a phone call at work.
“Hello?”
“You … fuckin’ … BITCH!” said a slurring voice I vaguely recognized. It was a low voice, gravelly….
“Larry?”
“Of course it’s Larry you fuckin’ SLUT! You fuckin’ WHORE!”
I was beyond confused. Why was he screaming at me? I hadn’t talked to Larry since he’d told me to stay off the LSD. And I hadn’t seen him since the day of the box exchange, when we’d kissed like forever lovers.
Now he was spewing violent venom into my ear.
“You fuckin’ SLUT! You FUCKIN’ CHEATED ON ME!” he howled.
Larry was so loud that I had to hold the phone away from my ear. All of my Pennysaver colleagues could hear him, too. They stared at me then tried to look away, but there was no hiding the conversation.
“What are you talking about?” He probably thought I was denying cheating, but what I actually meant was: Which time?
I’d cheated on Larry constantly, the entire time we were together; I thought he’d always known.
This phone call made it rather obvious that he had not always known.
“I’m talkin’ about you fuckin’ cheatin’ on me you fuckin’ WHORE! You fuckin’ slut!” He just kept screaming, his words mashed into a loud, indecipherable jumble. “Fuckinslutwhorecheatfuckinfuckyoufuckinslutyafuckinwhorefuckyou!”
“You fuckin’ CUNT!” he spat finally. Larry knew this was my least favorite insult. Even over the phone, I knew he was proud of himself for remembering this fact. “You don’t deserve that fuckin’ car!”
“The car?” I was stunned. “What do you mean?” What I meant: What does my cheating have to do with the Camaro?
“You won’t even fuckin’ deny it!” he shouted. “I’m TAKING that fuckin’ car and you can fuckin’ WALK for the rest of your fuckin’ slut life!” My Pennysaver colleagues stood incredulous and still nearby. “You’ll never fuckin’ know what’s comin’ you fuckin’ WHORE!”
He slammed down the phone so hard, my eardrum throbbed.
A short while later, staff from downstairs announced that some guy had banged on the door and asked for me, then said “fuck you” to the poor person who refused to let him in.
The guy had driven off in the Camaro, with its awful red racing stripes, leaving me without a vehicle.
I’d thought Larry was living in Florida. Was he back for a visit? Maybe his brother nabbed the car for him? I would never know, since Larry and I never spoke again.
After work, a colleague drove me home. Thankfully, this happened on my last day of the work week.
I slept, then called my parents the next day. “Larry took the car back,” I said.
“What? You need a car for work,” said my mom.
“I know,” I said. “I can’t take a bus.” What did people do if they couldn’t take a bus and didn’t have a car?
“Let me call you back,” my mom said.
We hung up.
I smoked a cigarette and waited.
A short while later, Mom called me back. “Do you want Grandma’s car?” she asked.
“The Volkswagen?” I asked, excited. “I would love that!”
“It’s Grandma’s wishes that you have it then,” my mom said.
My grandmother had recently suffered a stroke and no longer spoke. Her daughters talked about “Grandma’s wishes” for many years, as possessions were doled out to the many family members who dearly loved her.
And Grandma’s wishes were for me to have her car, so I could get to work.
I couldn’t have been more grateful. I maybe even thanked God.