September 13, 2005

• Dear Misantrhope: My Life With Pat Part 1

  

   

  Dear Misanthrope
  (My Life With Pat: December 1991-May 1995)
  Begun 9/13/05

   

  1. Merry Christmas and Hello
  She never had it easy, but she didn't seem to mind. Her life up to our meeting had been a sorry series of misbegotten episodes, inspired by tragedy, and sustained by restlessness. She was the embodiment of the "homeless free spirit", who knew that she would survive, even if the world were falling about around her. She interpreted things a bit differently than most folks, and that was just allright with her. She knew when she was right about something, even if she was dead wrong and was proved so. She never wavered in her singular opinions. Sometimes this was endearing and sometimes it was frustratingly naive. Sometimes I just wanted to shake some sense in her,  and sometimes I wanted to hug her with a pity so strong I always thought it would eventually be the glue that ultimately bonded our union. That our union eventually fell apart is proof that the glue never held, and is a good thing, and even though I will always love this woman, this unique individual who spoke her own language, whether or not anyone was attempting to listen, or even worse, understand her, I am glad our union at the end couldn't hold fast, and when I was freed from the bonds of that union, I felt as if I had been freed from a three year prison sentence, which had been complete with the slavering flames of hell and the nagging furies of fickle fate.

   

  It all began with the company Christmas party.

   

  Each December, on the last half day before the three day Christmas holiday, the family that owns the company for which Pat and I worked hosts the company Christmas party, a tradition that goes back thirty or so years. It is usually held at a restaurant or banquet room at a fancy restaurant, and we all eat a great meal, and participate in the winning of door prizes, and having a gift exchange. For me, this ritual became my "Christmas" and usually the door prize I received was my only Christmas gift each year. I believe to this day, that the reason I alway win a door prize is because the family insures I do so, knowing that this is my only "Christmas" celebration.

   

  In the year 1991my"door prize" was to be much more than a new cordless telephone or boom box. I sat down next to Pat at the Chrismas banquet table, and we soon found out we shared a somewhat alcoholic kinship. She had worked at the company for about a year, and I was relatively new myself, having been hired in 1988. I was managing the new panel shop and had four technicians reporting to me. Pat worked as a technician on the other side of the company, building the switches we sold and used in some of our panels. We became fast friends during the evening. I had always thought this tall gal with the long legs and strange unfathomable fashion sense was cute, and I was single, healthy, and celibate, and wanted to get laid. As the heady feeling of drunkenness wafted over me, I and Pat became more enmeshed in a conversation that seemed to drown out the rest of the proceedings.

   

  I have always been able to coax pretty girls into the act of "driving me home" in those frequent times when I didn't have a set of wheels. I was riding a motorcycle, which was in the shop getting it's head gasket replaced, when I attended the company party. Pat offered to drive me home. I asked her if she were sober enough to drive the 15 miles to the "frat house", the place I shared with Joel and Bob. She lied in the affirmative, which was enough for me. I was pretty drunk myself, if the truth be told.

   

  We spent the night together. I can remember in those giddy minutes before we removed each other's clothing, her whispered, "I'm not looking for a one night stand." "Neither am I," I proclaimed. Later on that evening, after the heated throes of passion had cooled and we lay curled in a tandem fetal position, I told her I thought we "fit" together perfectly. I couldn't have been more wrong, but I felt ecstatic at the time.

   

  Oh, to be almost young and in love. Pat was about five years my junior. I was 38, not exactly a spring chicken. The companionship increased. I took her to my favorite restaurants, which failed to impress her in the least. We watched movies in my suite of rooms at Bob's place which had plumbing so bad we sometimes had to "dredge" the tub after taking a shower, and pour buckets of tub water down the toilet in order to "flush" it. I met her son, Charlie, 12 and daughter, Laura, 14,  both sired by different fathers, and entirely different in their nature. I liked them better than they liked me, another suspicious "Uncle Daddy" dating their mom. We had some alcohol fueled "discussions" in which we nearly tore each other apart. Now I never laid a hand on her, nor she I, but we could quarrel until the rafters shook. We always "made up " real neatly, and within time, I was spending a lot of time "over at Pat's" with my kit bag and three nights change of clothes.

   

  Within four months of our relationship, I was writing her love poetry, we were sneaking sex where-ever we could, and I was spending more time at her apartment than in my own bed. I was blind to the trap being set, and dived in with gusto. "Pussy is the most beautiful thing in the world" I would purr to Bob and my friends when they asked me what I thought I was getting myself into. I dove into that Pussy, and that pussy was fine. Pretty soon, of course, Pat started to take up the slack a little on the reel.  "Why don't you move in" was more like a sentence than a simple question, but I naively thought that it might be a good idea.

   

  People sometimes join forces because of unforseen circumtances, which make them think they had better do this now or else. I don't know why more people can't wait until they are comfortable with each other as partners and friends, no matter how much they think they might "love" one another before they make any mistakes moving in with each other. With Pat, I loved the steady diet of companionship and sex. I knew Pat and I wouldn't be discussing Kantian philosophy, or the finer points of Italian Renaissance Architecture any time soon. But I found her accounting of her life interesting, and she seemed to like watching movies when we were together. I love movies, so figured I had found a soulmate. My friends all kept telling me I was making a big mistake, however. A mistake of "Biblical Proportions" I think one of they guys said. Joel took dibs on my suite of rooms. "You won't get em back when you come back either" he warned.

   

  By late April of 1992 we had planned to move in together. My plan was for us to look for a new apartment, since she lived in a tiny two bedroom apartment in southeast Long Beach, which is among the worst parts of town. We couldn't find anything that we both liked. Pat kept goading me to move in with her. I thought the place was too small, and was adapting very well to living in my own place and commuting to hers. She and I once had one of our famous quarrels about the fact she thought I should be paying some of her rent because I was there so often. My bike was a total wreck, and she was driving me around a lot. Bob's plumbing was getting so bad that sometimes there was standing water in the tub and shower, and he didn't try to fix anything much, and Joel was pretty lackadaisical as well. Pat had a good point. I had spent a lot of money on Bob's place over the years as it was.

   

  So I made the decision. I loved her. I moved in with her in Long Beach. I filled my 66 Caddy with my stuff, we rented a trailer, and hauled my furniture and life into the small two bedroom apartment in the worst section of Long Beach about two and a half weeks before the riots broke out there.

   

  I always equate the Los Angeles "Rodney King" riots with our relationship. No sooner had I moved all my belongings, which started to dictate the "look" of Pat's living space three hours after I started "moving in", than the riots broke out, both in South L.A. and in southeastern Long Beach. Businesses were burned three blocks from the apartment building. It was my birthday May 1, and Pat and I drove out of town with Charlie and Laura for San Clemente, which was one of Pat's favorite places. The riots eventually ended, but the fireball of animosity toward the human race that I had moved in with didn't end her relationship with me just yet. She had just snared me, and wanted to keep me on the hook for a while.

   

  I wouldn't say I was "rich" but I made more than Pat did, and I now paid half her rent and utilities. I had a lot of money when I was living with Bob, so Pat and I spent our first few months as a couple going out a lot. I like to go places, and we travelled all over the south bay. She was always interesting company. She introduced me to her mother and step father, who owned racehorses. Pat loved to bet the horsies. I went with her to Los Alamitos, learned from her how to read a racing form, and forever ruined my gambling virginity when I won two consecutive trifectas. "This is pretty easy" I proclaimed, "You could make a living from this." From that moment on, we "visited the horses" where ever they happened to be, from Santa Anita to Hollywood Park. Friday night, and Saturday and Sunday "dates" were spent with the horses. We didnt' gamble much. I had already taken control of the finances, since I paid for most everything, so Pat could have "spending money". She also had growing children, so they took a hefty portion of our finances. We limited ourselves to $20.00 to bet, in $2.00 increments. Sometimes we would win, and sometimes lose. A couple of times we won pretty big. We always went to dinner afterwards. I got to where I didnt' really like gambling all the time, but other pursuits of Pat's were not so comfortable with me either.

   

  I always try to understand my mates, both friends, and lovers. Pat was not easily understood. I don't even think she understood herself. She was born in Rhode Island and is the youngest of three, and the only girl. Her father fell from an oil tower about 20 feet when she was young, and was paralyzed from the waist down. The strain was too much on his wife, Pat's mother, and she left him, fleeing to California. He was paralyzed and now had to raise three children himself. He soon married Pat's step mom, and the atmosphere was so suddenly different to Pat, that she dropped out of her sophomore year at high school, and left her home at the age of 15. She hoboed around the country, and eventuall became a high priced prostitute, kept by rich Saudi Arabian oil magnates. She always felt this was the best time of her life.

   

  Eventually , she ended up in California, after many romances and missed opportunities. She didn't read too well, and always "filled in the blanks" and so misunderstood almost everything she read, preferring to "interpret" what she thought she was reading. Jilted and abused, road weary and tarmac tough, Pat remained a survivor. She drifted from relationship to relationship. Laura's father was never mentioned. Chaco was the father of her son, and he was never far from the scene, berating Pat for her mothering skills, which were almost nonexistant, the pure picture of a "macho" Mexican male. By the time I met her, the scars were part of her makeup, and she exuded a pungent aroma of helplessness to me, and I always attempt to be the White Knight, a savior to all womankind.

   

   

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  To Be Continued.
  Okay, for those of you who think I should "break up" my entries, I am offering this first part of a new "reminiscence." Since it's about my ex girlfriend Pat, subject of the "Pat Poems" written in 1992-1995, parts of this story will show up later in "My Sexual History". In this series of essays I am not going to write from a "sexual" standpoint, but from a "relationship standpoint". and this series will simply outline my somewhat eerie yet sometimes touchingly loving, but always harrowing relationship with Pat. Since I'm in a "new and exciting" relationship right now that sort of nicely came out of the blue, but really didn't if I was paying attention. I just started writing this essay tonight as the muse dictates. Basically, I can see that it's going to get fairly long if I want to talk about it at all. I did want to write a story about Pat a long time ago, and perhaps this is it. Below are ideas for future chapters.
  2. 2 adults, 2 Kids, 2 bedroom apartment: 2 Close for Comfort
  3. Away from the gangs Part 1: The first house.
  4. Away from the gangs Part 2: The second house
  5. The Garage
  6. The Prison Break
  Stay tuned. This is the fourth series currently  being posted on this blog
  Series 1: "My Sexual History" On Chapter 7
  Series 2: "Goin' Crazy" On Chapter 2
  Series 3: "Childhood in Los Angeles" On Chapter 2

   

  • 10:59 pm
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