Divorced Dating and Damn Drama (13 page)

The night is a blurry glazy of disappointment. One after another I'm berated, torn apart and left for dead. The guys are harsher today, tearing me apart for the slightest imperfection. A conversation rings in my ears as I drive home on the narrow dark streets home.

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing, isn't just a thing." Zed stammers.

"So you took it upon yourself to say my smile is wonky, why?" I demand.

"It's not just that. That I could overlook. Your teeth aren't white enough. "Zed says with a sly smile.

"I use strips" I assure him.

"Then you need it professionally done." Zed snarls.

"Is that it?" I ask, trying to find something to distract myself.

"Hardly, your thighs are huge, have you thought of liposuction?" Zed snarls.

"You know I could sit here and critique you." I say, with added confidence.

"What's the point, you have already been rejected." Zed scoffs.

What's the point? What's the point? It would give me great satisfaction to point out that his head is bald as a cue
ball, he's missing his front tooth, his nose hair could be braided along with his ear hair, he looks nine months pregnant, and those are his good points. Need I say more?

A flash of light from an oncoming car springs into view. I swerve to avoid it and am sent spinning out of control. The car flips over and over again as I roll into a ditch. I have to tell you spinning is like falling only in circles. It's terrifying. What did I hit? Another car? I look frantically around and see nothing. After looking around and realizing not only that there is no other car stopped but no one is coming to help me, it dawns on me that I'm alone. I must still be in shock because I feel no pain. All I can think about is that I
almost died by falling in a circle but I'm ok now. After a few seconds I snap back to a
survival video I watched and I snap into action. I shuffle to get my seat belt off and notice blood dripping on my dress. Wait, this isn't my dress, this is Sara's dress. She is going to strangle me. I reach up and touch my forehead. When I bring my hand away, I notice it is covered in fresh blood. I glance up at the crooked rearview mirror and see that there is a gash in my head, one from which blood appears to be spilling rapidly. I abandon the seat belt mission and grab some of the napkins scattered about car. I hold a clump of napkins to my forehead. Oh, no not now. Blood makes me woozy, oh no please don't pass out. Please don't pass out. You might have a concussion and if you pass out you will die. You will die and you will never come back to life, ever. I look out the smashed passenger window and see a figure. Just standing there, staring at me. It's so cold that if I die of hypothermia, then I will be dead. I watch him for what seems like hours, with my head pounding. Then I hear shouting. Who the hell is shouting, can't they see I have a head injury. A woman runs up to my door and starts shouting at me.

"Are you all right?" she shouts. She appears to be more distressed than I am.

"Yes I'm fine" I reply, and then direct my attention back to where the figure was but he has now disappeared. I ask the woman what I hit. She says she didn't see anything, she just saw my car spinning out of control. I then ask the woman to take me home. She begs me to go to the hospital but I refuse. No need to add an ER bill onto my already growing pile of overdue bills. She drops me off at my apartment with a promise to pray for me. When I'm walking up the stairs I just think that if I die of blood loss I will be dead. What? It is completely true. If I die I would be dead. This is a true fact, no one can argue with this logic. Unless I become a zombie, then I would be undead. I don't think that would be any better. The undead are still pretty dead if you think about it.

"Another bust!" I cry while entering the apartment, still clutching the bloody napkins. How am I not dead yet?

"You forgot your phone." Yells Ruby.

"What?" I stammer.

"I literally hate you." she tosses the phone at me and storms off. I look down. Ten missed calls. from a blocked number. Who? Who is trying to call me. I quickly hit redial.

"Your call can not be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again." rants the phone. I let out a scream. Sara walks out of her room.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"I have no idea." I exclaim.

"Sounds like your life." Sara laughs. Then goes over and gets a rather large extensive doctor's bag out of her room. She motions for me to sit down, and then proceeds to clean my wound. After it is all bandaged up, Sara turns to me and says "It would be wise not to upset Ruby." She then gets up and hides in her room. What does that mean? Is anyone else confused? I almost died Sara, I don't care about upsetting Ruby.

My apartment complex is rampant with drug dealers and prostitutes. I think people think it is easy to sell your body for sex, but I don't think that the women think that way. I think it is hard. I think it's hard to not be able to make a living another
way.
People see prostitutes as
lazy and whores. But when I walk
home from the drug store on Friday night I see them standing around. Would you believe me if I told you they mostly service cops. I think the reason is that cops are the only ones with extra income lying around.

"Hey honey, want to walk on the wild side?" Asked Jenna, one of the prostitutes that live in my complex. She is 6 feet tall and masters the 5 inch heel.

"Not today, I plan to add to my growing debt." I chuckle; it's funny because it's true.

"Come on, sit with us." She drags me into her apartment. It was actually upscale, I was under the impression that the five women living here lived in filth. The place smelled of peppermint and fresh baked cookies. I was lead to a pink fur couch and told to sit down. This is nice. I feel the couch, so soft. This apartment is remarkable.

"Your apartment looks lovely." I say as she hands me some tea.

"Thanks, we save a lot of money living together." Jenna tells me while sitting down on the couch.

"That's a smart move, how many rooms are in this apartment?" I ask looking around. It looks so big and so nice.

"Three, same as yours." She says kind of confused. " So, how are you doing after the divorce?"she asks clutching my hands in hers.

"I'm fine; I think people are really blowing it out of proportion. I mean does this town really have nothing better to talk about?" I ask, glad I have someone to really talk to.

"Oh no, we have nothing better to talk about." Jenna smiles. Well, at least she is honest.

"Oh." I said, trying to hide my disappointment. I kind of thought a sex worker would have better things to talk about then me. But I was wrong. Wrong to make assumptions.

"Have you seen the Lucifer website?" She is grabbing at her laptop.

"Yes," I say. It's a website that compares me to the devil.

"It stars you." Jenna says pulling up the website on her computer screen.

"I know." I say meekly.

"Take a picture with me?" Jenna asks.

"Sure." I respond. She takes a photo with me then uploads it to the website labeling it "Tea with the devil."

Is it just me or does Sara have a lot of wigs? I had to look through her collection because I didn't want everyone to see the gross and disgusting scab slashing across my forehead. If it becomes a scar, I will then debate on getting bangs, well technically, I have bangs, but they grew out. I'm lucky to have a friend with such a vast collections of wigs. I now can be anyone I want. I grab at a brunette mullet wig and place it on my head. I look in the mirror. I look funny. If I had a mustache, plaid shirt and cop glasses then no one would recognize me. I could walk around and no one would give me evil eye or tell me I threw my life away. But the hair and mustache might be a turn off for men; then again it might be a turn on for others. You never know.

"Stop messing around and pick one!" Hisses Sara.

"I can't decide, they are all so perfect." I shriek with delight.

"Just pick the long blonde one." Sara suggests waving her hand towards a gorgeous blonde wig.

I walk over and put it on. The fake hair goes down to my hips and the bangs hang down in a long sweeping manner, almost covering my left eye.

"I don't know, I don't want something so different." I try to explain.

"The whole point of a wig is something different." She steps over and starts combing the sleek soft wig hair. "This one was imported from Germany." she says, now styling it.

"Fancy!" I say, trying not to sound sarcastic.

"It's very expensive." She warns.

"Maybe I shouldn't use it then." I say taking it off. I mean, I don't want to ruin something that cost more than the car I wrecked. I now take the bus, which has its own challenges. I have found out that I must always stand up because if I do sit down then I am not able to get to the front of the bus in time to get off at my stop. I think the passengers on the bus make a game of preventing me from getting off. I have tripped several times, have had hot coffee spilled on me and several people have threatened to end my life. I think the bus is a great mode of transportation, but for Henry's ex, it sucks. Again, I really think everyone hates me.

"No, you should wear it. It suits you." Sara says snapping me back into reality. She positions the wig back on my head. She styled it into an up do with various twist and turns. I'm going to fashion a plastic bag hat for this wig least my bus patrons decide to miss with it.

I went to work after one of those long weekends, the one where you get Monday off for some holiday or another. I arrive at work sporting Sara's wig and it does not go over very well. I'm 27 years old but I swear everyone is 13 and just entering puberty. Due to the taunts and ridicule from my coworkers I
take the wig off and stuff it in my desk drawer.
During my solitary lunch break in my cubical, I log on to the dating site and after carefully looking to make sure no one is watching, I put Sara's wig back on and take photos which I later upload. I thought it looked good. Me in my office work clothes with long blond hair with swooping bangs. In the office they knew my hair didn't grow several feet overnight, but online, anything is possible. Yes, it is lying, but can't I just have this. This one lie just until my head heals? What? It's still wrong. Ok. What If I make sure I tell them it's a wig, is that ok? Good.

The weeks to follow go on without a hitch. My hair grows out a bit and I'm able to cover my scar with my new bangs, cut by the cheapest stylist in town, myself. I went on a few dates, before my bangs grew out, wearing the wig and one in particular stood out. Greg Thomas, 42, widowed and caretaker for his mom. Greg was balding so he had made the choice to wear a very ugly toupee. Now one might call a Toupee a wig, since it is in fact fake hair, but I will get into that later. So we meet at a bowling alley one Friday night and I was dressed to impress. I had on my pink dress with white flats. My hair was tucked under my enormous long wig. I was strutting my stuff.

"You look like a beauty queen." Greg says with a smile as I sit down at the table. He is really trying too hard to look like a teenager, and he is doing it wrong. He has on an over sized purple Justin Bieber shirt on with shinny pants. His sneakers, although ill fitting, look like they cost more than my wrecked car. Oh, my car, I am taking the bus. The noise here is unbelievable since the place mainly consists of teenagers. I can hear bits and pieces of conversations around me. "Oh my God" this and "Shut up" that.

"Thank you." I reply to Greg, generally flattered.

"Do you like long hair?" Greg asks motioning to my wig. Oh, I had forgotten I had this wig on. I mean I knew I was wearing it but it moved from my conscious mind to my subconscious. Does that make sense?

"It's ok." I say pulling nervously at it. Oh no, I am cat fishing him.

"It's so soft." Greg says invading my personal space and putting his grubby hands all over Sara's imported wig.

"Thanks it's Russian." I say freeing myself from his grasp.

"You're Russian." He says delighted while looking at some older man at another table and winking.

"No, the hair is. It's a wig." I say meekly. Someone over in lane nine just bowled a strike or something because the noise grew to an unbearable level. Greg and I had to wait for it to die down to continue our conversation.

"Really? You're what is wrong with online dating. If you're a man say you're a man. Don't be lying and wasting people's time." Greg accuses.

"I'm not a man" I protest.

"You're right, you're just a little boy. And you're what's wrong with everything in America." Greg shouts getting up.

"Even poverty?" I ask sarcastically.

"Especially poverty." Greg bellows and storms off. I, under frustration, lied about my hair. What's that saying? Lying by omission? Something like that. He however, was also wearing some form of a wig so I don't know why we could not have called it a draw. That just happens when you are online dating, or with me dating in general, it's entirely my fault. However, I don't see how I'm responsible for poverty. I just don't see it. Now to the bus ride home. I walk three blocks and look at the bus schedule, realizing it doesn't come for another half hour so I go into an antique shop close by to kill time.

I attended a self help seminar at the local community center. I was feeling down and I just wanted a boost to my moral. "My name is Posh." Posh leans in and whispers in my ear. I know who he is; he works in the cubical next to me.

"I know who you are." I said taking my seat.

"Well I am here to tell you all that you are important. You are worthy. You are the future." He addressed the class. Oh, so he is the self help instructor.

"Thank you." I say in unison with the class of five.

"Now everyone get up. Stand on the desk and say 'I am the star of my own movie.'" Posh shouts raising
his hands. The wo
man beside me, who looks to be nine months pregnant, starts to get up on the desk. I grab her and motion for her to sit down. Posh fold his hands and g
ives me evil eye. He walks over and
grabs her arm leading her to get up. I have his arm and lean in.