You (You #1)(101)

“You need help,” you say. You are deaf. “You’re a sicko.”

I would like to be a bigger person, but you call me names and then I think about your crimes.

“You should be locked up, Joe. Okay? Do you understand that? This is all bad.”

You don’t close the refrigerator all the way and twice in your place we’ve had to toss out all the food.

“You’re a sick person and sick people need help, Joe.”

I am healthy and you are a trollop; you threw yourself at Nicky. You’re incapable of admitting that you’re jealous of Blythe.

“Joe, let me call the doctors. Please, let me help you.”

I don’t need doctors and you lie, even now you are looking around for a weapon. You try to return clothes you’ve already worn and even though you’re my girlfriend, you let me go to voice mail when I call you sometimes. You’re not always attentive with your razor and sometimes I think the lady who waxes you doesn’t have a license to wax anyone because your thighs are often coated in little red dots that don’t feel good against my nice, clean legs.

“Joe, you need to let me go now.”

And you need to stop judging me. You’re a slob, and not in the way you think you are. You leave used tampons in your trash and you don’t take the garbage out frequently enough and for a week last month, your apartment reeked of moon-blood. You still masturbate even though you have the honor of access to my cock. That silk blouse you’re wearing? You look slutty, Beck. I thought so this morning, but in an everythingship you have to let things roll off of you and focus on the positive.

“I’m leaving,” you say. Ha.

“You don’t want to do that right now.” I remain calm because someone has to remain calm. “People always regret what they do in emotional moments like this.”

You don’t even bother trying to get past me. You respect my strength. But I see you looking around. You are an animal and you run into my bedroom. Mine. You reach onto my shelf. Mine. You pick up the Italian Dan Brown. You throw it at me.

“Where’s my phone, Joe?”

“In good hands,” I promise. And I pull it out of my pocket. “You left it on the table.”

You call me a sick fuck and you groan and you’re a slob and slobs suffer.

“Stop imagining things, Beck.” I would be a great zookeeper. I am good at this, slowly closing in on the animal as it works itself into a tizzy.

“I’ll scream. You don’t know how I can scream. Your neighbors will come. They’ll know.”

I don’t mean it but I say it: “I’ll kill you if you scream.”

And it’s over. You begin to yelp and spring at me and I don’t like you right now. You make me do terrible things like hold you down and clap my hand over your mouth. You make me twist your arms and bear down on you, and this is our bed. You kick.

“You scream and it’s over.”

You just kick.

“Beck, stop fighting me.”

You squirm but I’m stronger. You’re a danger to yourself, to the world. You don’t know what you’re saying and you need me now more than ever and eventually, your anger transforms into sadness. Again. Your muffled blubbering heats the palm of my hand and I don’t loosen my grip. “You’re gonna wind up with nodes like your friend in Pitch Perfect if you keep yelling like that.”

You stop, finally. I make a proposal. “Beck, blink your eyes if you promise not to scream anymore. If you promise, I’ll take my hand away.”

You blink. I am a man of my word and I take my hand off your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You are hoarse and you flash your eyes at me. “Joe, we can talk about this.”

I can’t help but laugh. Ha! You think we’re gonna talk while you’re in the middle of a PMS explosion? We can’t talk now! Your mood swings are psychotic! My goodness, Beck, do you think I’m that stupid? But you beg.

Please, Joe, please.

I love the sound of your voice and that would have been my #10:

Beck has a beautiful voice.

Unfortunately, you were lying and you kick once more, trying to escape. The worst part of being a zookeeper is the moment when I have to save the animal from its emotions, from its wild, illogical nature. You kick and scream. You bite. But your Portman-sized body is no match for mine, Beck. I count to three. I give you the chance to shut up. But you don’t shut up and after three, I take your little head in my hand—sorry—and smash it against the wall—sorry. You are going to be so sorry too when you calm down and realize what you made me do.

I am lonely in the silence and I kiss your forehead. Clearly, you have problems and your menstrual cycle issues are just the tip of the iceberg. What kind of a girl climbs into a wall? You can’t accept my love when you’re this messed up. And you’ve got one hell of a way of asking for help. I move fast. You won’t be asleep for long. I pack supplies and sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and lift you up and carry you down the stairs and hail a cab.

The driver sizes you up and wants to know which hospital. But we’re not going to the hospital, Beck. We’re going to my shop. This is New York. The driver doesn’t ask questions. Animals know you don’t fuck with a zookeeper.





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