The nomadic life

Same Sty, Different Pig

Chapter 22

Though my afternoon had been a difficult one, and I once again find myself homeless, I am thankful for one thing that is going right in my life. I have met a cute older man who says he loves me. He teaches classes at Belhaven and seems to be happy when we are together.

Ah, the blissful ignorance of youth, the way we stumble through life, believing in people, love, and the possibility of a “happily ever after.” But it all soon fades to black when the world reminds us how sharp its edges can be. Heartache is an unforgiving teacher, and tonight, I am about to attend another one of its brutal seminars.

Our courtship began slowly, a dinner out here or there, perhaps once a week. But as time passed, our visits grew more frequent, occurring mostly in the evenings after Richard finished teaching his classes. Since neither of us had a living situation conducive for hosting company, we found refuge at one of his best friends’ apartments in a senior community.

The first time Richard introduces me to Paul; I recognize him immediately as the rather large man with the high-pitched loud voice from the bookstore in south Jackson. He lives in his late mother’s apartment and is tangled in some legal battle over the apartment’s lease and his mother’s death. I want to stay clear of his personal drama, but I do appreciate having somewhere Richard and I can be together without scrutiny. The ‘80s are a bit more liberal than the ‘60s but we still must keep who we are secret.

Thoughts of Richard and I spending time together fill my mind as I find myself humming to the song Cherish playing through the truck’s new speakers I purchased; unaware I would be losing my place to stay. Though I am still devastated by what I see as a betrayal of our friendship by Ted, I am thankful for the positives in my life as I drive to south Jackson and get a room at one of the less reputable but more affordable motels. They may have a seedy reputation, but at this time, it is all I can afford.

Knowing I will not get much sleep tonight due to the nature of the hotel and its clientele coming in and out at all hours, I turn to my old friend beer, which has never betrayed or abandoned me.

The financial gods are on my side this evening. I had forgotten it is Wednesday, a beer-bust night at the bar. Five dollars will buy me an oversized red Solo cup and an endless flow of cheap draft beer. My mouth waters as the bartender pours the ice-cold beer. Tonight, drinking my troubles away is the only plan I have.

As he fills my cup, I watch the amber liquid begin to form a head. I hand over my last six dollars, feeling guilty that I will not be able to tip more. I apologize to the bartender and promise to make it up to him on my next visit.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says graciously. “I can tell you are having a bad night.”

With a thank you, I grip the plastic cup tightly, as if letting go means facing everything I am trying to forget. A cup filled with the frothy goodness of “Screw life, I don’t give a damn” is just what I need to drown my sorrows and slow down a hyperactive brain filled with worry and a heart overcome with hurt.

I play pool for hours. The game has always been my escape. For as long as I hold the table, I don’t have to think about where I’ll sleep tomorrow or why my heart feels like someone has wrung it out like a dirty rag. I am good at pool, holding the table until inevitably, the effects of the beer catch up with me. By that time, I am glad to relinquish the table as I have achieved my goal, my mind and heart are now blissfully numb.

The hour is still early but the time comes to drive back to the fleabag motel.

Mom and Pop Myers shout out from the ticket booth to be careful. I exit the gate and with a backward wave, yell, “Thanks, have a good night!”

With the radio blaring, I am singing to We Built This City when, at a red light, my focus shifts to the parking lot of the bookstore.

Why I looked over, I will never know. But I did, and there it was…

I do a double take as something catches my eye.

Holy mother of God, I think to myself.

That’s when I see it.

A white 1978 Monte Carlo.

The unmistakable silver PRM radio bumper sticker.

My stomach twists.

Richard’s car.

Parked outside the bookstore.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel as a sick realization settles over me.

I know my temper. Richard, however, has not been privy to the Sicilian side of my personality. Against my better judgment, I pull in, parking two cars down from his. Angry and still tipsy, I carefully walk up to the counter and hand the clerk two dollars. No words are spoken.

Before I even step through the curtain, a high-pitched voice calls out.

“Richard!”

I hear the unmistakable rattle of a booth door opening.

I push the heavy maroon drape aside.

There he is.

For a moment, neither of us speak, but I know he sees how his betrayal of the trust I thought we shared is burning behind my eyes.

How naive can one person be? I ask myself. How stupid and gullible you must appear to everyone now. Will you ever learn?

I will not yell and refuse to cause a scene.

Instead, I allow better judgement to prevail and reach into my pocket pulling out the tokens I just bought, letting them clatter to the floor at his feet.

“Same sty, different pig,” was all I could mutter. To say more would have been disastrous.

Paul moves faster than I thought a man of his size could, scrambling to scoop up the valueless brass coins from the dirty floor.

How destitute do you have to be to pick up anything off this germ ridden and filthy floor? I think before exiting in disgust.

I turn quickly on my heel and leave, pushing the heavy metal door so hard that it slams behind me.

Richard follows.

“Wait!” he calls out.

I keep walking.

“Stop!”

I yank open the truck door, slide behind the wheel, and start the engine.

He reaches my window, motioning for me to roll it down. I refuse. I know better. If he sees the tears welling up in my eyes, he will know I have allowed him to hurt me. I will not grant him that satisfaction.

I hit the gas, and through my rear-view mirror watch gravel spray in all directions as I speed out of the parking lot.

As I drive to the “do me and leave” motel, I think back to just a few months ago.

I did not get as upset when I realized John was going to that filthy store on his lunch break before coming to visit me when I lived with Randy. After all, I already knew who and what he was. A man willing to cheat on his wife will cheat on anyone. I did not allow myself to expect more from him. But Richard, he used those three words so effortlessly and now they have lost any meaning they may have had.

So, in the nomad’s book of life another chapter is written where the main character never seems to learn, no matter how many times life proves just how cruel it can be to vulnerable and hopeless romantics.