I have to do this right away or I’ll change my mind. You know, Option #7; the clobber Chai Latte with a baseball bat one. As soon as he leaves, I get the bat and wait by the door.
While I’m waiting, I got this song going through my head. It’s from the Spellbinding Fish Fry. They call it, One Heaven. It might be my favorite. It goes like this:
One Heaven when everything’s done.
One place for everyone.
Arabs and Jews,
Folks that’s got and ain’t got shoes.
Black and White,
Folks who’s wrong and folks who’s right.
Young and Old,
Shy and the bold, the tame and uncontrolled.
One Heaven when everything’s done.
One place for everyone.
So, we’ll all have to get along.
Yeah, I know. You got to be there. The song goes on like that for a hundred verses with all kinds of categories. Every time I go to a concert, they got more. They don’t call them spellbinding for nothing. Anyway, it’s a feel good song. They’re all feel good songs. They promote peace, love, and understanding.
The first time I went to hear the Fry I was meeting friends. I couldn’t find them, so I make my way to the stage, turn around, and work outwards, you know, so I can see faces. Everyone’s smiling and I start to get paranoid because I think they’re all laughing at me. I’m about to lose my shit right there in the middle of the concert; but, then I realize, hey, it’s feel good music. All these thousands of Deep Fries are just feeling good; that’s why they’re smiling. They’re not laughing at me.
I used to think I could be down with peace, love, and understanding. One heaven for everyone was good for me. Now I’m not sure.
What’ll I do when I get to Heaven and Chai Latte’s there? I hate it when he comes home. I hear his key in the door and I wonder how he’ll be. No, I can’t see spending eternity with Chai. A couple weeks is bad enough.
For that matter, what about Hitler, or Stalin, or Attila the Hun? How’d you like to be in heaven with them? That would be totally whacked, sitting on a cloud with Osama Bin Laden and strumming harps with Vlad the Impaler.
I know what you’re saying, they got Hell for that kind. They don’t let them into Heaven. St Peter turns them away at the door. It makes me feel real good thinking of Chai at the end of a pitchfork, getting roasted with his feet in a block of ice. I like that. But then I think, if I like torturing him so much, doesn’t that make me as bad as him? What’s worse, beating up your girlfriend a couple times when you’re drunk, or clobbering a guy with a baseball bat and wanting to fry him in Hell forever when you’re stone cold sober?
No, I’ll have to get my shit together before I show up in Heaven. They won’t let a bitter, vindictive type up there. Otherwise, I’d be like the one guy at a Spellbinding Fish Fry concert not smiling, arms crossed, scoffing at how naive everyone is, not even taping my foot, much less dancing in the dusty infield.
OK, so, maybe I don’t have to send Chai to Hell. God’ll do it for me. Or St Peter, or some other bouncer dude they got up there. But that doesn’t work either. Then you got God not smiling when He’s supposed to be the host. You got St Peter checking off from a list of wrongs, scoffing at people, because they’ve got the balls to line up for Heaven. You got a bouncer dude standing around with his arms crossed, saying with his eyes, just give me an excuse to kick your ass.
That doesn’t sound like Heaven to me. Heaven, to me, is like a Spellbinding Fish Fry concert. Everyone’s happy and loving everyone except, maybe for a few walking around, thinking everyone is dissing them. Hilter, Stalin, Attila, Osama, Vlad, Chai, that whole evil crew, getting uptight and paranoid because they can’t imagine a place where everyone’s happy.
I’m about ready to forgive Chai Latte and plan on smiling at him when we I see him in Heaven; but then I hear the door. I’m standing behind it with a baseball bat. If I don’t clobber him, I’m fucked.
- Tell Chai Latte I’m moving out and he can’t stop me. Have him beat me up because he wants to give me a going away present. Get an apartment where he’s a permanent fixture, peering in my window. Get stalked for years until I decide I’d rather have him next to me in my bed where I can keep an eye on him than maybe around the corner in a dark night.
- Call the battered women hotline and get put on hold. Talk to an undertrained volunteer who is manning, or womanning, the phone to comply with court ordered restitution. Get a room in a woman’s shelter with a snoring roommate. Get kicked out because I tried to suffocate her with a pillow. End up homeless, living under a dumpster like that cowboy dude.
- Lie back, spread ‘em, and take it, like I’ve taken many before. Whatever he says, say, “yes sir,” right back. Hope he doesn’t think I’m being sarcastic, or ingratiating, or robotic, or too much of a wishy-washy wuss for his taste. Get privately bitter until the Stockholm Syndrome takes over and he trusts me to leave the house. Let him use me to recruit another poor girl to replace me, so I get jealous that he doesn’t hit me and rape me as much as he used to. Go on like this for years until the cops raid his house and I get hauled to prison for being an accomplice.
- Play the Spellbinding Fish Fry over and over again, hoping that the song I’m playing syncs up perfectly with whatever song they are playing at whatever concert they’re playing at. This will make our vibes resonate so that I’m transported bodily to the front of the stage, leaving behind this shit hole and the people in it. Find out the hard way that it’s not humanly possible. Have Chai Latte get so sick of listening to the Spellbinding Fish Fry, even the little bit that leaks out of my headphones, that he rips the buds out of my ears and smashes my iPod all to hell.
- Bat my eyes and flirt with every guy who comes by so they’ll want to save me. Risk Chai seeing and beating me up like he never did before. Listen to a hundred guys repeat what Silent Bob said: “Bros before bitches, dude; bros before bitches.” Find out that the only guy who can stand up to an abusive prick is another abusive prick. Jump out of the deep fat fryer into the searing flames of hell.
- Sneak out late with as much as I can carry in a bag and push my car silently down the block to where I don’t think he can hear it start. Drive like hell in a direction he’d never expect me to go. Run out of gas somewhere in the woods of Maine. Get chased by a moose and a bear until I come upon a trapper’s cabin. Ask him if I can use the phone, only to be told there ain’t no phone. Ask him for directions to a gas station, only to be told you can’t get there from here. Spend the rest of my life tanning hides and missing whatever happens on the Walking Dead.
- When Chai is out, stand behind the front door with a baseball bat. Then, when he comes home, jump out and bonk him over the head. While he’s still passed out, douse him with gasoline from the can he keeps by the mower. Throw a match and watch him wake up to find himself covered in flames. Laugh as he staggers around the room, tripping over the coffee table and banging into the walls. When he sets the curtains on fire, run out of the house, and get hit by the fire engines coming the other way. Have a good looking fireman jump out and give me CPR. Die happier than I ever was in my lifetime, but thinking it really sucks I can’t go home with him.
- Go on doing what I’ve been doing, hoping Chai Latte will change. Enjoy the good days and try to keep my head down on the bad. Nurse my bruises, take a lot of Tylenol, and try to find a good dentist. Take up drinking so I can sleep at night. Count down the days, or years, it takes for Chai to become an old man and need me to take care of him. Then, kick his walker out from under him and, as he lays on the floor with a broken hip, tell him how I really feel. Steal all the money he keeps under the mattress and go to live in Aruba.
I’ve considered my options carefully. It looks like the best one is #7. I’ve always had a thing for firemen.