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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v105) (the April 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

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You Are Not What She Thinks You Are

Robert D. Lyons

    “The first thing you have to understand, boy,” he looks out into that starry dynamo of night just listening for a moment, hearing the bugs buzz about harmonizing with the creak of my porch swing as it drifts slowly back and forth, “Is that a woman will tell you just about any lie in the world, only to convince herself that it’s true.” You always read stories about those moments that men bond, men that virtually couldn’t be more different, but share some kind of hazardous past or future engaging in the serenity of solidarity. The moments and experiences that bring us together, together through our anger, together through our insecurities, and together by the unknown or vague parallels that stump us all, even those ol’ enlightened coots who like to think that through age they got it all figured out, that nothing could ever send ‘em home weeping or take them off their vigilant guard: the illusion of control. This might be one of those stories, but then again, I’m not entirely sure.
    This is how I met Donald McCrery; he says his friends call him Don. What’s funny is if you happened to walk by Don in the street, you probably wouldn’t have even noticed him, but he would have noticed you. Don was one of those rigged rough men who you would think was born in the middle of the damn wilderness. His eyes were always sharp and on cue, his ears rarely left their elevated position, he was always listening you see, listening like nobody does anymore. When you grow up in a small town you’re hammered with the logic that you ain’t got no logic. The highest compliment a boy in a small town can derive is the unanimous conciliation that he’s got survival smarts and is not the kind of kid who would wander into the woods with no idea where he was going and potentially get himself eaten up by wolves, either that or you were a good athlete: which meant immunity to any ailment that might come your way. No matter who you were, you were considered dumber than dirt until you got some experience under your belt. Like barrowing hay is really an enlightening experience, but hell, in Southern Illinois there aren’t too many mountains to scale or deserts to endure a spiritual journey in. As you could possibly imagine, that scared the shit out of Don. I heard the poor fool didn’t open his god damn mouth until he was nineteen. He was always just listening, like there was some incontestable truth out there, and if he didn’t pay attention he might just miss it. Don, six foot two, the body and features of a bloody Neanderthal, but the civility in dress of an Englishman, sadly the personal hygiene of one too. Overall he was your normal, rough necked American male. You couldn’t pick him out of a crowd, and if you did you would forget him two minutes later... Unless you saw his face on Sixty Minutes under the headline of recent child abductions and murders. I’m not suggesting anything, just saying that bastard was serial killer normal.
    When Don was in his early twenties he moved up to Chicago. This is where he developed his trade mark accent; he ditched that Southern twang that seemed to be pounded into everyone’s head in his home town, which paradoxically, the farther north you get the heavier it riddles from their chewing tobacco tongues. He had one of those all proper accents, the one that most people call proper. He was so caught up in these heavily graphed functionalities of the proper language that he began to talk slower than an eight year old with Down syndrome, like he was trying to get everything down pat. Dissecting every sentence he let out, running it through his head just to make sure there wasn’t anything even he was missing. He didn’t talk much, but when he did you knew it was rehearsed. The things he says to himself in the mirror hundreds of times, the words that rule his life so much that he must release them, he must share. That was definitely a virtue in Don; he knew how to get to the point. Something he developed after years of putting people to sleep faster than the local preacher.
    It was in Chicago that he met Lauren. Lauren, who would later become his wife, and a little bit later become that cold hearted, psycho bitch who if she got the chance would put a bullet in his back, rob him blind and leave him to the vultures. Funny how times change, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, they met because they were both attending DePaul University. He was a major in engineering and construction, and she was in law school. He didn’t know too much about her, he just always saw her strutting around the campus in tight leggings hugging her curves like a humping dog, and those tall, black stilettos that stood soaring the way he always thought of gods as lofty. The only thing he knew is that she was in law school, and he had spent a good majority of his teenage years in the holding pen, so they at least had something to talk about.
    “As soon as I saw her, I knew she was going to be the woman to eat me alive and throw the scraps to the dogs. Women are predators, boy; never forget that.” He brought his hand up to claw some sleep from the corner of his eye. I could tell his mind was lingering somewhere in the past. Like he was going over everything that happened, replaying the years through his head, analyzing everything she ever said, and contemplating every night he spent on the couch. His meditation was broken with the sharp slam of the storm door as my dad walked out onto the porch.
    “Alright, Don, I’ve got the room all made up. Hope you don’t mind the boxes, there’s still a lot of useless shit from the old house with nowhere to go, and most of it is Sarah’s. She ended up using the divorce for an opportunity to take care of spring cleaning.”
    “At least she left you with something, even if it is useless shit. Lauren is planning on taking the shirt of my sun burnt back tomorrow.” He said it half jokingly, but we knew he was serious.
    “I better go finish making the sheets so we can call it a night. Doesn’t the court start at seven tomorrow morning?”
    “Yeah, doubt I will get much sleep anyway, but thanks.”
    “Alright, you heard from your lawyer yet?”
    “Nope, I decided to cut the bastard a break. She knows what she wants, and I know she is going to get it one way or another. The farmers always did say that sometimes it’s better off to just play dead, I figure I will take their advice on this one.” He looks over at me with subtle smile; probably expecting me to whip out some wide ruler and take notes.
    “It’s probably for the best. By the way, money is tight so I can’t really afford to run the air this early in the year, but if you get hot lemme’ know, I’ve got a few fans laying around somewhere.”
    “Thanks, Ralf, but I lived in the furnace for forty years. Now that I am finally out, I doubt there is too much more heat that I can’t handle.”
    Don’s first date with Lauren was not the kind of date he would want to tell his grandkids about, but it most certainly was not the kind of date he wanted to tell his buddies about either. You know those women who when you go out on a date with you have a game plan. You know where you want to go to dinner, why you want to go there. You know the perfect movie, and you can tell the girl all the reasons it is perfect. You have all the lines to widen her heart, or her cunt, whatever of the two you prefer. Well, Lauren was not one of those girls. Lauren was one of the girls that left your heart screaming and your tongue mute. She was the kind of girl that even if you did have all the right lines, you would fuck them up anyway. All it took was just one look into her eyes, and the next thing you know you find yourself rambling about that pack of cigarettes you stole when you were thirteen or how you cried after losing your virginity. You know those moments where you find yourself in the men’s restroom banging your head against the stall wondering what the hell you just said and how much of a fool you have made yourself out to be? That happened to Don on his first date with Lauren... twice.
    It took Don two weeks to finally ask Lauren out. The two weeks was crucial, it allowed him to find enough ignorant courage to finally muster out the words, “Would you like to go out with me?” I assure you, with girls like Lauren, it’s a lot harder than it looks. So he figured the night had to be perfect. He would take her out to the new Middle Eastern restaurant across from the patch of highway him and the boys had been working on. Then the film school kids were putting together a small festival. It would be perfect. She had to know what a cultured little individual he was. She was in law school after all. She had to know that he was not just another dumb hillbilly construction worker with an erection and too much money is his pocket. She could absolutely, positively NOT know that he was just a scared twenty three year old boy who was way over his head without the slightest inkling of what he was getting himself into. This was of the upmost imperative.
    The restaurant he took her to was called Ranoush, which he mispronounced not even ten seconds after walking in the door. As you could tell, he was on a roll. What you have to understand about Middle Eastern restaurants is that it is custom to have coffee before and after a meal. The coffee served is called Kahwa. Imagine your triple shot espresso macchiato hot and steaming in your hands, the aroma rising through your nostrils puts your hair to a sharp end. Now imagine that the incredible hulk, with his giant, green throbbing cock, just unleashed his slimy warm jizz in it as a mutant creamer... It’s that strong. It’s normally served in the glasses that look like they should be on a six year old girl’s tea table and surrounded by stuffed unicorns and fairies. The hole in the handle is barely big enough for Don to get his fact fucking pinky finger through it. So trying not to look like a circus clown any longer he downed that beast of a drink. What he didn’t realize is of that tiny amount of coffee in the baby cup, you are only supposed to drink half of it. The bottom consists of shards of coffee beans sharp enough to cut glass. He spent the next ten minutes coughing into his worn hanky trying not to throw up. The waiter finally arrived. He ended up ordering a lamb shish-kabob and a Pepsi.
    “Women can sense your fear, boy. In fact, they thrive on it. All women are vampires. Blood sucking leaches.” I could see him clenching his fist and pulling on what little hair he had left.
    “Jesus, Don. You really are gettin’ pissed.”
    “After years of being completely helpless, it feels liberating to finally get angry.”
    “It’s been buried deep for some time, hasn’t it?”
    “Boy, for ten years I wanted to punch that wretched woman, but I still wanted to fuck her too.”
    “You wanted to hate fuck her?”
    “How do you think we made it through the last ten years?”
    “I just assumed you didn’t talk much.”
    “Angry sex does wonders for a relationship. Also, you will never have a better lay than from a woman who hates your guts.”
    “Hey, Don! Wait up! I need to talk to you!” It was the day after the date from hell that can be described as pathetic at best. Lauren just happens to notice Don sneaking through the courtyard. He saw her, but figured he could sneak by without her noticing.
    “Listen, there’s no need to rub it in. Don’t worry; I won’t talk to you ever again. I just won’t bother. Is that what you wanted?” He was always looking at the ground during these types of conversations; he still did after thirty years of marriage. Like if he met her eyes at this point she would see right through him.
    “No, I’m not going to say it was cute, but worst things could have happened.”
    “Really, like what?”
    “Well yes, the meal turned out to be shit. The film fest was three hours of nude angels playing chess and performing oral sex. You spent a quarter of the time in the bathroom, and you managed to procure an erection throughout the entire duration of the films, I saw you trying to hide it, but for a man like you, I am sure that can prove quite exigent. For once though, someone actually listened, really listened instead of just waiting for their turn to speak. That moment is one that I would never trade. It’s the moments that make me feel more than a woman, or perhaps more like what a woman should be.”

    “When I was thirteen I tried to swipe a pack of Camels from the local corner store. The clerk caught me and said that he could call the police, or call my mother,” He pulls a cigarette from my pack, lights it and lifts his eye brows, “I told them to call the damn pigs.” Don’s dad was one of those ex-air force, Rambo drifters. He travelled from town to town fucking everything that moved, and takin’ any handout he could get without having to work. The fucker had a kid in each small town across the states, just breeding an army, a franchise, insurance. Well, he must have had abnormal sperm because he knocked her up with a linebacker of a baby. Don found out real fast what marriage would be like. When you’re the only son to a single mother, you are born married. Don also learned that regardless of what the movies say, women didn’t want to be loved. They wanted to be needed. To be craved. They wanted someone to eat up their entire massively growing ego and make them feel special. Make them feel wanted. They didn’t want love, they wanted addiction. They wanted your soul.
    Don and Lauren ended up popping out a few kids not long after they were married. However, as Laurens pussy got looser so did Don’s hold on her. He would lay in bed every evening watching the sun slowly set, and would find himself still awake every morning to watch it rise. He did this every day, like it would give him insight into her mind. That if her heart could fall as quickly as the sun, perhaps it could rise again just as easily. The sun became familiar. Like the creases and wrinkles on her hips and ass. He knew for sure that for the first time in his life he was entirely alone. He was growing old with each second. The hourglass was coming to an end. His knees would give out, and his back would burn. His hands would tremble and his eyes would sting. He was watching himself wither away, watching his heart break away. He knew at that moment that she would never again be there to hold him tight in warm embrace through the bitter nights he witnessed beginning to end. He knew that she would never be there to hear his cries for help. He knew she wasn’t even listening. At that moment you have to know who you are, discover yourself for yourself, not for anyone else, and certainly not for love. Lauren was deaf to his slow, but rising death rattle. She couldn’t hear his heart collapsing like the walls of Jericho, or see the tear stained pillow case. Don always thought that the person you love should see you, really see you, should find the depths of your soul that send most people running and kiss its cheek gently like an angel. He never told her anything, not because he didn’t want her to know, but because she should know. He always thought that if he had to tell someone what he was feeling, they probably never cared in the first place. He learned what love was at that moment. Don would tell me that there really was no such thing as love, only the need to be loved existed and the survival instincts to fill in the rest of the blanks. The person who loves you will never really see you. They are too caught up in being in love to look around for truth. They can’t see you, because to know you would mean ruining their love, the fairy tale in their head. They don’t need you; they need their version of you. The idea of love planted in their brains, and they will manipulate anything to conjure it up. They could never stop to understand who you are because that would take away the dream. They created you. They turned you into what they needed to fulfill their fantasy. No man is more handsome than you are in their head. No man is as romantic as they dream you to be. The image of love is what they are obsessed with, and they will distort any painting to see it. They will murder all your hopes and dreams, only to save their own.
    Medusa, all fallen goddess with serpent’s lies and treachery in her hair, in one glance will turn you into stone. Once that happens, there is no going back. The night she broke it to him, he was sitting with a watery light beer at the dining room table without a light on in the house, dark, because after so long it doesn’t matter if you are seen or not. She told him she couldn’t do it anymore. She told him it didn’t matter how much time would pass, that nothing would change. That the man she married was gone. He knew that man never existed in the first place. She put her hand on his shoulder like she was for once trying to comfort him. The first time she touched him that way in years, and it was only to destroy him. He knew this was his escape, but also his end. Time moved slowly, as it always did. The moments that you want to put behind you always do. Perfection is non-existent and the moments that feel almost complete always move faster than light, until you’re not sure if they happened at all.
    “There comes a moment that you realize that there are worst things that can happen to you then being alone. When you’re a worn down, old fuck with pluming like Alcatraz, you know there is no place to go. There is nowhere for her to go. The fact that she would rather die alone then spend another day in that house, can really tell you a lot about yourself.” He buries his face in his cupped hands, takes in a deep breath, and finally lets go. He lets go of every bit of her crunched up inside of him. He releases that anger that has festered in him for all these years. He wipes his eyes with his dusty flannel shirt and looks over at me and smiles, “Sometimes the fear and anger can get the best of you, boy. The fear to love or be loved, the fear to trust, and the fear to live. But if the fear get’s the best out of you, you won’t ever live. The feelings may bring pain, but it’s the pain that keeps you alive. Women are hunters, and you are the prey. They know what love is, and they know you could never contemplate it. They know everything about you, and they know you know nothing of them. So learn from them and listen. They know all the keys, tones, and notes, they have it figured out, and it’s just your job to make the sound that carries them off to another world. Their fairy tale. Yes, they are manipulators, murderers, and bastards. They will lie and steal. They will break your heart to the point that it will never recover, but they know the point of it all. They break our hearts so we can learn to keep them open. They are liars and cheats, demons and saints, monsters and angels. They are exactly like you.”

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