Thursday, November 15, 2012

Fluff's Just So Stories: How the Pooperman Got His Name

My taste in men has sometimes been questionable. (I’m not even talking about my son's sperm donor, he never appealed to me) I’ve always found the most attractive thing to be talent, that and good looks.  I was drawn to the tragically flawed but brilliantly talented misunderstood artistic types. I wanted the Jim Morrisons of the world but the big difference between Jim Morrison and and a total loser is success. You see without success so many of these brilliant guys would be just another asshole who gets away with shit because they’re talented and good looking. Without success they are losers who are completely impractical and wind up being very expensive pets who’s parasitic tendencies become less endearing as they grow more bitter.
This was the case of Huck. He was truly gifted. He was also handsome. Huck undoubtedly had some of the Bubble effect that Tina Fey made famous on 30 Rock. Good looking people often get away with things and don’t have to be good at what they do because they are in a bubble. This was true of Huck not because he was given credit for being better at things than he was but because he got away with doing the awful things that he did. He was a hopeless alcoholic. On the rare occasions that he was actually sober, it put him in a bad mood and the entire world was more than happy to buy him the next drink to see him flash that charming smile again. People were also willing and even eager to give him things, he got furniture, money, clothes. He was a drunken male version of Blanche Dubois always relying on the kindness of strangers. He was exceptionally charismatic and exceptionally handsome. It was the bubble, he could vomit on someone’s couch and they would forgive him as quickly as he could wipe his dimpled chin.

What I loved most about him was how he lived as an artist. He viewed the world and everything in it with a quirky and entertaining point of view. I always believed that he was an artist who if given a couple of exhibits and a spot on a late night talk show would win the world over. People would flock to his openings and trip over their own feet for a chance to buy his paintings. They would make him a success and then at last I could feel proud to be his girlfriend. In the mean time, it was often embarrassing.

One night we were on our way a see his friend’s band. We were there watching the opening act and earlier in the evening had stopped at an authentic Mexican eatery. Huck was very into authentic Hispanic food and liked the places that served tacos made from the more often forgotten parts of animals. He loved tacos that were filled with what I called "Working meat" things like  tripe and tongue and other flesh that bore the distinctive flavor of having once had a function.  On this night I didn’t join him in eating and am glad that I didn’t. It would seem that he’d consumed a bad burrito and was now feeling the effects in his lower intestines. Undoubtedly it was not just the pet food grade meat but the hearty amount of Jim Beam dancing around in his gullet. He told me he wasn’t feeling so good and that we needed to find a bathroom. I pointed to the bathroom in the club. He said “No, there’s only one bathroom here and there’s a line. I’m not going to go in there and stink it up and come out to a line of people who know that I made the stink. I understood his desire to not embarrass himself and agreed when he suggested we leave to find another rest room.

We had parked in front of another friend’s mother’s house. He suggested we walk the couple of blacks back there to her home and use her bathroom. We arrived at my car and before heading to the house he grabbed his bottle of Jim Beam out of the trunk and took a couple of swigs to reinforce his buzz. We then went to the front door and knocked. There was no answer and there were no lights on, things didn’t look good. Huck knocked and even pounded to no avail. There was nobody home. After cursing a bit we decided to go back to the club but not before getting another swig or two. I suggested we find another place, maybe a gas station. Huck said he’d be lucky if he made it back to club Fuck. About half way there he announced that he definitely would NOT make it. “You’re kidding! Oh come on!”
“Not gonna make it”
“I think you can! I think you can!”
“NO! I can’t!
And with that he ran into a phone booth.
I braced myself, was he really going to use a phone booth as a toilet? I immediately turned my back to the horror and the noises I soon heard gave me my answer. I proceeded to try to be useful by looking for various things he could use to clean himself with. I was looking for napkins, kleenex, ooh here’s some leaves – a camper’s best friend. Ooh a paper cup! The noises from the phone booth continued and sounded like they came from the very bowels of Hell. I was just crumpling up a piece of paper I’d found to make it softer and more absorbent when the noise stopped. It was silent, very silent.
“Are you OK?” I asked cautiously.
“....Are you ....done?”
“Can I turn around?”
I turned around and there he was standing in the booth with his pants up. I admonished him.
“Huck! You didn't WIPE!! I’ve been gathering all these useful items you could use to clean yourself;  Why have you already pulled your pants back up?”He looked at me with an expression of disgust and pain.
“I never got them DOWN!”
“I couldn’t get my belt undone!”
I nearly soiled myself laughing. I laughed and laughed and laughed until I couldn't breathe. And Huck just stood there looking disgusted with himself. But I still wanted to see the show. “Maybe we can find a hose or run you through a car wash”
“We can’t go anywhere! LOOK AT ME!”He turned around slowly and his light colored pants were just covered in crap. It was disgusting but more than disgusting, it was FUNNY!
"Do we have to go home?”
“Of course we do!”
The good lord took care of me that day because for reasons unknown to me, I left one bag of non perishable groceries in the trunk of my car. In that bag were garbage can liners. I lined the passenger seat with them and took the T-tops off the car and we drove home.I was making jokes the whole way, “Your Khaki pants are now Caca pants! Bwahahahahaha!”I couldn’t stop laughing to the point where he was like “OK, stop already, this is embarrassing.”“Oh don’t you give me that! You are SO lucky that I find this funny. If I was like a NORMAL person, I would have left you on the sidewalk.” “True …true” he muttered and suffered through my laughter because it was a far better fate than an incontinent drunk should ever expect. We got home and before jumping in the shower, he looked in the mirror and nearly died laughing himself. “This looks like a Rorschach!” he screamed. I then pointed out that I couldn’t help but compare him to a super hero; after all he’d made this amazing transformation in a phone booth.

From that point on, he was "Pooperman".

Monday, November 12, 2012


I write this on November 25, 2010: An update will follow, when I get around to it.

I  do not believe in abusive partners. Co-dependancy is not a language I speak.  While relationships can be very complicated things to see clearly when you are inside them and you can find yourself slowly lured into a place you would never have agreed to had you seen it from the entrance, I was raised to have enough self esteem to know when I’m being compromised in a way that is not acceptable.  When it comes to any physical abuse,  game over.  That’s just not negotiable. I’ve never had much experience with that  attitude being challenged because I’ve never been attracted to the kind of men who have the need to display physical domination over women. Machismo? No thank you.
So why am I sitting here with an ice pack on my face where I got hit? I’m hoping I can keep it from swelling and turning into a black eye because I have a pitch meeting to go to tomorrow. I don’t want people to think the wrong thing.  People see a woman with a black eye and immediately assume she’s in an abusive relationship. One has to wonder what is wrong with this woman to make her put up with such things. What makes this bad is that it would not be the wrong assumption. Yes I am in an abusive relationship I have to be honest with myself about that.
So why am I? How can I be in an abusive relationship? I look at how every door in this house is cracked from being kicked in. My vacuum cleaner has a broken handle because it was thrown to the floor several times replacing me as a punching bag in a fit of rage. There are holes in the walls and plastic replaces a broken window. Remote controls don’t last long around here because they get thrown. They hit the wall or the floor but they are usually aimed at me. I have needed to wear long sleeves in the summer to cover bruises and bite marks – yes, bite marks!
We’ve gotten professional help. We’ve been in some form of counseling for years, we seem to move forward but then move back. The criticism and lack of respect eat at my self esteem and focus. The stress makes me scatter brained and compromises my short term memory. Sometimes I want to leave, I really do. I get in the car but rarely go further than around the block before I come back. I park somewhere and cry into my cell phone to a friend that is close enough that I am not embarrassed to discuss it with them. I don't want  people to know; I don't want them to think he is a bad person. He has such a wonderful side. After a while, he calls to say he's sorry and I know it's safe go back home.  
I really can’t live without him.
I can’t, I won’t. I am dedicated to him. He is my life. 
I love him unconditionally.
I refuse to  give up on him! We will work on this, it WILL get better! We will try other therapists. He can go on meds. Something will have to work because I don't want to live without him.
I can't leave him. 
He is my son.