Over My dead Body...(Drake)

Get Into It...

   I must have been staring through the peep hole for quite some time, because 'Officer 1' rang the bell again. As he leaned on the bell, I just thought about how I didn’t want to let him in.I wondered if I was required to open the door. I didn’t care what he needed, whatever it was, it should’ve been important enough to secure when he –and his squad-were all up in and around my apartment-a few minutes earlier. Fuck them and triple fuck him. I had had enough of the NYPD-of any law enforcement-to last a lifetime. Maybe three lifetimes. This experience had pretty much ensured that any and all criminal acts, perpetrated against me-in the future, would not be called to the attention of the police; at least not on my end.

   I was right about them: ‘Police hats’ on asses; That’s all they were. "Fucking ass-hats!” , I thought, leaning with my back on the door. Once 'Officer 1' realized that the door-bell wasn’t getting my attention the way it should’ve, the official police knock began…the continuous five bangs, then a long pause , before the banging began anew...I should totally let him bang his way to exhaustion –with his rude ass. My neighbors always let the police bang, disturbing my rest/ work/ conversations, until exhaustion and the ultimate exiting of the building. Maybe I should do the same.

    “Ms. Wright, I know you are in there. I have one…one more form that I need signed and that’s it!” , he exclaimed from the other side of the door-in the buildings hallway. Upon becoming aware of my intention to not let him in or sign anything, he kicked my door-out of frustration. Automatically, I grabbed my door open, squinting, as I was still without my visual aides, to get the clearest view possible; “what the fuck are you doing? You don’t get to kick my door! You have lost your fucking mind!”, I pointed at the buildings camera, which happened to be trained on my door, ”Maybe losing  your fucking job will give you the much needed time to search for that shit!”

    I think he was betting on my reaction. He didn’t look all that worried about losing his job; considering so many of his kind, get away with shooting people, who look like me, dead in the street, for the most arbitrary of reasons, I suppose he was right not to worry about my feelings –or those of my door. He solemnly looked at me, jamming his foot in the door frame , lest i slam it, which would  again isolate him in the hallway, and waved another bright pink piece of paper in my face, “sign the paper.” Snatching the paper , from his hand, I signed it, balled it up and threw it over his head. He ran after it, like the bitch he was. Thinking about it immediately after my admittedly ill informed behavior, I wondered  if my action could somehow be construed as a crime…
   However, as quickly as the thought came, it left; if he tried to give me a problem over my chosen method of form delivery, I would just have to  give him a hard time about kicking my door-on camera .I closed the door behind me. Locking it and using the chain, something I rarely did. However, I just wanted to be home. I wanted to feel safe. Unfortunately, that was as safe as I could make my home- for now.
   Though Gerald didn't have a key, I wouldnt put it past him to sneakily make copies that I was unaware of. making a mental note to change my locks, I squinted my eyes and went to work on the never ending mess decorating my floor and seemingly every other surface I could make out.

***

   Waking up to the sound of the roosters, maintained by the local schools farming club housed a block to the West of my building, I managed to center  and lifted my fully clothed body off of the floor. Considering Gerald , in his rage had damaged the bed frame,  I wasn’t comfortable risking damaging the mattress set just to sleep on the bed-so I dragged my papasan cushion to the floor and made due.

   I found myself feeling grateful that he acted up on a week day; with everything open I could, at the very least, file any necessary insurance claims, replace my glasses and do whatever I needed to do to clean my apartment.I made a quick call to my optician, who arranged for a new set of my glasses to be 'cut' today and delivered to my home, no later than tomorrow. I appreciated this accommodation and was sure they would never lose my business. Secretly, I was also grateful it wasn’t a weekend, for Gerald's sake; he wouldn’t be doomed to jail for the weekend. Anything can happen in a tight place filled with a deviant portion of humanity and as angry as I was I hadn’t quite reached the point where I was wishing harm upon his person. I was still stuck on how he went from being that considerate, caring, helpful, loving and seductive individual who allowed me to stay at his home to now relating to me in this way. It was mind numbing for me, I couldn’t believe that I, someone with such high hope and ambition, could exhibit such poor judgement. 

   Taking it all in, I blamed myself for everything that had happened. I thought about how things could have, would have or should have been different if I had only altered one or two decisions…By the time I came to my senses and decided to eat something, three days had passed. The next time I had enough energy to make a grilled cheese, in the microwave, was four days after that.A typical day would involve me looking at my schedule, filled with doctors appointments, meetings, job interviews and typical family shit, and ultimately deciding that those things, on the schedule,  just weren’t  going to happen that day.  From there, I would sweep a portion of the floor or fix an area of the apartment to it an alternative glory and situate myself back in bed; feeling exhausted and accomplished. Friends, family, maybe an errant bill collector were calling…I didn’t know, because I had let my phone die and it remained go uncharged for a week. 

   Turning on my charged device, a week after the incident, only served to make me want to cut off contact with the world again. I had 32 voicemail, 258 emails and 452 text messages! “How does this even happen?” , I said aloud. My voice was especially raspy from the stress of the prior week and my vocal cords were sore from disuse. My alarm clock notified me, with a beep and flash combination, that it was now 6:30 am. If I hustled, I could run through the shower and head over to Chimeze’s .For a second I thought maybe we could have a candid conversation about what was going on, then I remembered a few months back, during a brief split, where I had a friend drop me over to” his home”-to talk. 

   I remembered confronting him in his driveway, blocking any escape with my body, really believing he was listening to me. I made quite a few good points before I heard that familiar “whoop whoop” that usually announces the arrival of law enforcement. I was clear that he lived with his parents, but I didn’t think he was THAT upset-apparently I was mistaken-as he had called the police and told them I was in possession of a weapon; hence his local police forces short arrival time, that was never matched when I called the police in the borough of Manhattan. I remember thinking how underhanded it all was, his calling of the police. I hadn’t even threatened him. Of course, this didn’t stop us from renewing our relationship, a few weeks later, giving it another go…only to give up on that ‘go”, less than a month later. 

   I would never do that again; and maybe that’s all he wanted; assurance that I would never-NEVER EVER-show up in that manner. I was in agreement with that modus operandi, until I continued to see  the poisonous things he began writing about me on social media. It’s very interesting how this generation thinks it is “quite alright” to slander people online; he didn’t even know the whole story, my plan, or “the basic” happenings between Gerald and I, but that didn’t stop him from painting a horrendously “speculative” picture of me to his 233 followers. He stopped for a bit, but only after I  again visited his home and told his father about his online activities. I always find it quite hilarious how an internet thugs delusions of gangsta fade when confronted in reality, people are too often not who they post to be; rarely would they repeat the ideas from their social media in real life. The internet has become a playground for people who cant handle real life conversation or confrontation.

   Quite honestly, I didn’t care about his followers, all "he-man woman haters types", or his  friends; an alcohol fueled, oddly shaped, older collective of baby mama nurses-based off what I had seen and what he had told me. Some drove late model luxury cars, all clubbed quite often and participated in group travel as well, but they all lived at home and had children. I was confused as to how that lifestyle worked, but I wasn’t curious enough to want to find out. I respected his friendships, but ofttimes I was forced to make it painfully clear that I wasn’t willing to accept from him, what his friends seemed to settle for, from their  respective “forever fiances”, baby daddy's  and such. 

   No disrespect, but I often find that most women, who are unflinchingly loyal , to men, that they had “to make”, are usually women who know they won’t find anything better; Women who know their limits,  live by them and wisely take what they can get.  Whenever, I commented on "his circle' being unattractive, his only response was, “attractive isn’t everything…Ryn’. We usually left it at that, I was satisfied that he was aware that his female friends weren’t anything that I needed to study. I needed him to be aware that I was just a different caliber of female. Period. Even though he constantly worried that I wouldn't be loyal, because unlike his friends, I had the options, He seemed aware that he had never known anyone who  was going to 'hold him down' in the ways that I did.

   So, I silently let him bitch about them, and ‘said bitching’ almost always focused on his friends poor decision making skills, the money they constantly borrowed- and ultimately never paid back, or how they were never available when needed. It seemed like he may have dated more than few of them, and somehow ended up friend zoned for a less worthy compatriot; now officially titled, as a baby daddy/ benefactor or in addition to the aforementioned-an abuser. That would seem to explain his bitter tone; men hate women for being gold diggers, but often balk at the gold diggers that reject them for someone offering a pot of gold in addition to a bigger mid line situated appendage.

To their credit, the few friends of his that I met, seemed laid back, but Chimeze ultimately seemed representative of the best their group had to offer-whether he knew it or not . All and All, I ultimately dismissed his circle as being far from as ambitious as myself or my group of friends. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it was differentiation enough to keep me at bay. And honestly,  if all Chimeze does, as a close friend of theirs, is talk about how, “they ain’t shit!” who am I to argue?

   Remaking my bed,  I managed a chuckle followed by sniffles, just imagining about him telling “untruths about me”; talking more to them -about me , than he had ever talked to me –about me. I thought about all the ridiculous posts he made on Instagram. How he often would claim to love me, and then a breath later ridicule me for doing something he didn’t understand and was too proud to ask about. He would rather just believe that I was a 'cheating whore', because he had been a cheating whore; dating me for two years while he was dating a woman, for whom ,he initially  mistreated me to be with. She was unattractive, fat, broke and in no position to ever betray him. HE KNEW that SHE KNEW that he was her savior; as a result she was more likely to remain loyal to him, than was I.
  
    At the time, with the whirlwind of expensive dinners and his overall attentiveness, I wouldn’t have dared to imagine that he would be “that guy”. However, it taught the valuable lesson that anyone can find time to cheat; anyone-even my chocolate covered Nigerian angel face, Chimeze, could be a variation of “that guy”.

If I had known that the last time we talked-would be the LAST time we talked-I would have inquired as to whether he thought his brand of abuse, his cheating, made him less the abuser than the handy Gerald? Once he decided to speak his mind, on Instagram, albeit after silencing me-by blocking me from his page; he had a lot to say about women being weak, damaged and irredeemable. I laughed aloud thinking about how his view of me-and ultimately of women-had changed so dramatically; prior to our break up, he would always compliment me for being cool, calm , smart and strong. He would praise my ability to think “outside the box”. I guess it’s easy enough to lie handing out empty praise. It’s proved harder still for him to actually ‘do the work” and ever trust in my ability to be all that he once claimed to believe I was. 

   The conversations Gerald managed to have with Chimeze, record and forward to me, within hours of our breakup, proved that I had been right to not trust Chimeze with any long term plan of mine. Judging from how candid Chimeze was, with Gerald, over the phone –yet another person, besides me, that he was “open with” -about me; it was providence that I chose not to discuss any long term plans with him. I knew he was emotional to the point of being a liability, but I also knew I still loved him, despite what he thought to be true.

My phone rang, interrupting my migration towards my bed. The display read unknown caller. Knowing it could be anyone, I hurriedly pressed the green phone signal and answered: “hello?”

“Hello, is this Ryndra Wright”, said a light but firm voice on the other end.

“Yes, yes it is. May I ask whose calling", I volleyed back in reply.

“This is ADA Mathew’s, I am calling about the Incident that took place yesterday involving Gerald Peters? “ there was a short pause, that I filled with a grunt of recognition. 

“yes? ok...so... It it customary for our office to let you know when he is released. So…So I wanted to let you know that he has been released. " he rushed , "Also, I wanted to schedule an appointment for you to come on down to—"

“Wait, one moment: released?”, I asked again ,interrupting his spiel, for the sake of clarity.

“Yes Mrs. Wright, he was released”, Mr Matthews affirmed as I heard him ruffling through what seemed to be paper work, before he continued, “Yes. Released as of the 28^th , of this month.”

“Just one moment. Please give me one moment”, I directed, as looked around , ultimately grabbing this years gold bound schedule. Flipping to the page that had the day I was attacked outlined in red; I realized that my first thought was correct; Gerald had been  released the same day  he had been arrested. 

“But wait. How is this even-”

“Mrs. Wright, um …well see, Gerald Peter’s has no criminal record and this is actually quite common that um generally any request for bail be denied. Mrs. Wright, please don’t over react. If he comes by or calls. Please notify the police and make them aware of your restraining order. Did you receive them? I mailed them out a few days ago…usually, they take about two days to…”, ADA Matthews rambled on for quite a bit about the mails journey, and some more filler before he ending the call with the directive, “ if you need any clarity , please call me or the number for Witness Aide Services ; their number is on the letter that came with your restraining orders.”

No sooner had his call ended then another call came through; once again the display read, “unknown”. I figured ADA Matthews had some information he forgot to decimate; again tapping the green phone, I answered, “hello…”

“Don’t hang up Ryndra! Just don’t hang up…just give me five minutes. OK? I let you live rent free in my apartment for three months, considering all that I've been through... I know you can spare me five minutes over the phone...”, my breath caught as Gerald’s voice traveled from ,wherever he was -NOT in jail - on his end,possibly at the payphone on my corner,  to my end…

"It was your mother's apartment", I corrected him, "your mother's apartment in the projects..."I continued, before he got into whatever his point was for the call, that the 'restraining order' , sitting in front of me, signed by him, maintained  he was in contempt of court for even initiating....

Mood