I was almost strangled to death once. A lying little toad named Oscar Costa tried to garrote me with a length of orange extension cord. My full name at the time of this incident was Emily Brinks. You read that right; I wasn’t given a middle name and at school I was bullied and picked on and made fun of because of that lack. I never forgave my mother for giving me only two paltry names and screwing up my identity and when I legally changed my name to Suzette MARJORIE Wimple, I made a point of spelling MARJORIE with all CAPITAL, UPPER CASE letters. With adamance. With pride. I made my middle name an emphatic statement to make up for lost time. I’d missed out on a middle name from the time I was born onward. When I was born, 402 milliliters of mysterious blue fluid spilled out. I was born with a caul covering my face. I was born with a clubfoot. I was born with a full set of teeth. I was born on the same day JFK was assassinated, November 22, 1963, except my birth occurred in Clarence, Vermont instead of Dallas, Texas. That’s the only major difference. Remember how I said I was almost strangled? Before they had a chance to fade (as bruises do), I had the ligature marks tattooed permanently around my neck. To show people. To remind myself how close I came to being murdered. Every time I look in the mirror I am confronted by the marks of my mortality. It’s a commemorative necklace of a near-death experience. My mother hates it. I never met my father. My mother called him a “drifter” and a “drunkard,” a “dipshit,” “racist” “womanizer,” and a “worthless sperm donor.” She never revealed his real name. When I was little I used to pretend his name was “Dave.” I always liked that name for some reason. I’ll never celebrate Father’s Day or have him over for dinner, which is just as well since my vacuum cleaner doesn’t work now and I have all these dead carpenter ants cluttering the rug. If I use a broom, it just grinds their little black carcasses into the fibers, creating these creepy dry stains. The rug is nailed to the floorboards because my water heater burst last year and flooded my living room and they had to tear up my old peach-colored wall-to-wall shag. They replaced it with this cheap-ass green shit that looks and feels like the felt on a pool table. And now it’s all dotted with black ant corpses. When it stopped frosting outside, the ants awoke from their slumber and tried to muscle in. I caught one of the little bastards crawling along my left elbow and the tickling sensation sent a blast of panic deep into my fragile bowels. I almost shit. I think I screamed and I brushed the ant away and when I spotted it recovering on the floor, I stomped it to death like I was Attila the Hun or Genghis Khan or Vlad the Impaler or that big barbarian pirate guy who quashed a rebellion and executed the perpetrators by strapping their stomachs to cannon muzzles and blasting their digestive guts across an open field. Yeah, that guy. He was cruel but fair. I felt like him with the panicked ant snuffing it under the weight of my ruthless moccasin. But I still needed to deal with the ant infestation. I could never afford an exterminator, and besides, I don’t like letting workmen into my home anymore (especially shady exterminators) so I purchased a jumbo can of Raid insect spray and made a holster out of two short leather belts, a large car door cup-holder, shiny rhinestones and hot glue. I walked around my apartment like a gunslinger, spraying raid over every ant I caught trespassing on my property. I was the fastest spray west of the kitchenette. I decimated the little motherfuckers with extreme prejudice. When an ant is sprayed with Raid they don’t just keel over dead. They try to flee from the gas and lose their sense of direction and go into spasms and flex and bend and curl up into themselves and THEN they die. They make a big production out of it. Anyway, now the shitty green felt surface of the floor is a vast killing field and my vacuum cleaner grinds and squeals and smokes when I start it so I can’t suck up the ant massacre and have learned to step around and over the little dead bodies. I can’t have them sticking to the bottom of my feet. When I cross the room it looks like I’m dancing, which I’m sure thrills the middle-aged voyeur guy who peeks in on me outside the living room window. He’s a neighbor, I think. I have reason to believe his name is Carl. He spies on me after midnight. I don’t know why; I’ve never provided a show for him. My existence is not titillating in the least. I’ve always been uncomfortable with my own nudity. I even feel slight embarrassment when I take a private shower. My time spent in the living room is just me sitting on the couch in front of the TV and that’s it. Big whoop. Yet I still find dried ejaculate on the window sill. Somehow he gets off on watching me sit still while fully clothed. To each his own, I guess. It takes all kinds of perverts to make a world. I don’t bother lowering the blinds because I don’t care. Some might find it peculiar that I take such a laissez faire attitude toward “Carl” when I was almost strangled to death by a previous weirdo. People think my past trauma should have instilled a more guarded and suspicious disposition. Well, sure, fine, maybe so, but the truth is, I don’t want to report him to the police because then I’d have to REPORT HIM TO THE POLICE! Cops only make a bad situation worse. Never invite them into your life. For example, I once dated a man named Bill Boone. His middle name was Barnabas, like the guy in the Bible. I thought Bill was the bee’s knees. He encouraged me to quit my job at the Bronson Valley K-Mart so I could assist in his experiments. He was trying to invent a new formula for ecstasy. He was interested in designer drugs. It was just a hobby at first (I just dig mixing chemicals, baby! he once told me) but it turned serious in the winter of 1999. You could’ve called him obsessed at that point, I guess. He encouraged me to take a remedial chemistry class at the Learning Annex over in Fulton County so as to better assist him. I did, but I didn’t learn a damn thing. I couldn’t light a bunsen burner if my life depended on it (hopefully it never does). We referred to my time in chemistry class as “Fulton’s Folly.” I wasn’t interested in chemistry anyway. At the same time that Bill was tinkering with his test tubes, I was busy inventing a new Muppet. I had drawn up schematics and was building a prototype. The character was called, “Amelia Amoeba.” Amelia was pretty cute. She was a one-celled organism that was always changing her shape according to her mood. She had braids and buck teeth and spoke with a lisp. She also had a pseudopod (false foot) with a steel-toed work boot that would appear when she got angry and she would kick people in the ass with it. I sent my ideas to Jim Henson’s Creature Shop as well as The Children’s Television Workshop Inc. and The Jim Henson Company but I never heard back from any of them. I’m willing to wager that if Jim Henson were still alive, Amelia Amoeba would have been greenlighted immediately. The man was a visionary. Amelia Amoeba would have her own show on HBO by now. Her plushies would be lining the shelves of every toy store in America. She’d be a huge cosplay character as well. There’d be conventions. But alas, poor Jim neglected his health and perished in 1990 when I was twenty-seven and living with my Aunt Ida in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I was devastated to learn of his passing and didn’t get out of the bathtub for days. That reminds me, I should probably buy one of those handheld Black + Decker dustbusters to suck up the dead ants. They’re cordless (the dustbuster, not the ants), which is a plus since I’m uneasy around cords. Any long, slender, flexible cable, really. Even wires can make me nervous on any given day. I think dustbusters are relatively cheap. Or I could replace the broken belt on my vacuum (I think that’s all it is), then I can finally rid myself of all these ugly dead carpenter ants. In 4th grade my friend Missy Custodian (that was her real name!) and I scooped up some ants on the playground and trapped them in a cylindrical Quaker Oats box. We brought them into the classroom after recess. We named the various ants after the cast from The Brady Bunch, so; Cindy, Peter, Bobby, Jan, Marcia, etc.. Our teacher (Mrs. Funte) turned a blind eye to our homemade ant farm at first. We put strands of grass in the box and a bottle cap of water and we fed them from sugar packets. We also used a pencil to poke air holes in the lid. The next day we looked and there was a little white egg in there. A baby! Me and Missy were thrilled. That’s when Mrs. Funte put a stop to the experiment and made us get rid of the ants. She had us dump them outside and throw away the box and wash our hands. Something about that egg really freaked her out. I wonder if that experience is the reason I hate ants today. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, that time my boyfriend Bill called an ambulance because he was delirious with the flu. The ambulance arrived but it arrived with two cop cars and a fire engine. For flu symptoms! The police burst in like they owned the place and noticed Bill’s lab setup. He wasn’t as clandestine as he should have been. They asked him what he was up to but his flu-wracked mind made him insensible and he just babbled at them. So those fucking pigs whipped out their nightsticks and committed police brutality on him. They beat the shit out of him, making him even more insensible. They dragged him away and confiscated the laboratory and kicked me out of my own house because it had become an official crime scene and it would take time to process everything. They also questioned the hell out of me but I managed to lie my way out of the situation. So anyway, that’s why I shy away from the police and let my neighbor jerk-off on the side of my house. I guess I could handle him myself (pun intended) and confront him on his peeping activity but I try to avoid confrontation whenever possible. It gets me into trouble. Sometimes deep. I’ve thought about spraying him with a hose or squirting something gross at him (since he started it, ha-ha) but he may be unstable and a drastic action like that might cause physical injury (to me). So fine, let him be. I’ve thought about adopting a dog to bark him away but hell, dogs are so expensive and saddled with endless responsibilities (license, grooming, house-training, vet-checkups, plus; slobber, drool, shedding, and heartworm medicine, etc.). Plus they all die in the end. No thanks. I’ll take my chances with the midnight masturbator. Hey, maybe I should just blast a recording of a barking dog next to the window. That might scare him off. Something with ferocity. With a vicious snarl to it. I should have thought of a dog before I met Oscar Costa (the guy who tried to strangle me). In fact, it would have been worth it to bring an actual dog with me on our date. To defend me. A mean rottweiler to gnaw his balls off. Fucking psycho. I met the bastard on a (now defunct) dating app, Swingles on the Mingle. It was sleazy but free, so what the hell. I met him on there. I’m still unsure what a “swingle” is. I guess it’s a combination (or portmanteau) of “single” and “swinger”. That should have tipped me off right there. Sometimes I feel stupid when I remember my past. So, he reached out to me and bragged about his doctorate in philosophy, his exploits as a Navy Seal and his chain of ice cream parlors, Costa’s Cold Cones. He was a smooth operator alright. I figured he was probably juicing up his resume to impress me but he had the gift of gab and I thought meeting him might prove entertaining at least. What did I have to lose? If he was a real creep or a bonafide bozo, I’d just give him the ozone after the first date. I decided to roll the dice. Take a chance. I think you need to inject a little adventure into your life once in a while. You only go around once (thank god) and other people can often provide the laugh track. I mean, we’re all phonies up to a point. I told him I was related to Cyndi Lauper. So, we arranged to meet at a Lithuanian restaurant just over the border in Cloverdale. I teased him by suggesting we go to one of his ice cream parlors for dessert but he explained that all his stores were located in the Philippines. The Lithuanian place had a pretty fancy reputation and he joked that it would, “Costa plenty!” which was a play on his last name (I responded with my first and only “lol”). Of course, I learned later that that wasn’t even his real name. I was so nervous before the date that I had explosive diarrhea for hours. I needed a seatbelt for the toilet. It was bad. I have IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) and when I get nervous, it aggravates my condition. Things can get violent. But I recovered in time to keep the date (although in retrospect I probably should have canceled—my bowels were trying to tell me something!). I was still anxious as hell but at least my ass had cleaned up its act. It had stopped shouting into the void. We arranged to meet outside the restaurant. He said he’d be wearing a black cowboy hat (which I wasn’t exactly thrilled about). He got there first. I took a good look at him and couldn’t help feeling devastated with disappointment. I felt my soul drop out of my body. For one thing, he was shorter than me (and I’m only five six) and had a sizable spare tire around his middle. And he wore thick Coke bottle glasses. How was this guy a Navy Seal? I almost fled back to my car but he caught me in mid-turn and yelled, “Yo! Emily!” (I wasn’t Suzette MARJORIE yet). And YO? You gotta be kidding me. What the everlovin’ fuck. I should have flipped him off and turned right around. But I didn’t. Again, hindsight is 20/20 and bla bla bla, I know. “Wow! You look great!” he said and he stepped toward me with his arms raised like he wanted to embrace but I stopped him cold by stepping back and crossing my arms. It was better than a force field. He got the hint and emitted a little laugh that sounded like the mewling of a baby sheep. He clapped his hands, rubbed them together and said, “Well, should we go in?” I noticed he wore several gaudy rings. This stupid date just kept circling the drain. “I hear this place is great!” he said and I thought his eagerness and enthusiasm were overdone to the point of parody. Everything about him was exaggerated. Oh well. At least I’d get a free meal out of it. Although, I was dubious about Lithuanian food. I tend to stick to a strict, very bland diet because of my fucked-up stomach. I live on unsalted crackers and low-fat cottage cheese. Dry toast and skim milk for dinner three nights a week. A lot of water. We walked into the restaurant and they had an actual maitre d’, like in an old movie. Oscar had made reservations. The maitre d’ wore a three-piece suit with a bow tie and had an earring and long ponytail. His demeanor was pretty loose and friendly. I expected a maitre d’ to be stiff and rigid and proper. Like Cadbury, the butler in Richie Rich comics. But this guy seemed pretty cool. It was at this point that I started to shed my shell and enjoy myself. Well, maybe enjoy is too strong a word. I was slightly less appalled and no longer wanted to flee screaming into the night. They sat us at a small round table with a white tablecloth. The name of the place, by the way, was Lietuviškas Baras ir Grilis, which means something in English but I forget what. Oscar Costa told me so it was probably a lie. Everything about the guy turned out to be false after it was all said and done. The waiter was nice and didn’t speak with an accent, which surprised and relieved me. I have trouble understanding accented speech. I once worked with a guy named Thomas who was from some Scandinavian place. Norway maybe? I don’t know anymore. A country that used to have Vikings, I think. Although “Thomas” doesn’t sound very Viking-like to me. Tom the Viking? Anyway, he and I worked together at K-Mart and it was hard for me to understand him with his weird upward lilt and wrong vowels. I was glad to leave that job and Thomas behind. Our waiter wasn’t like that. He talked like me (I have a Connecticut accent). He poured us ice water then took our drink order. Oscar ordered a vodka martini and I said I would stick to the water. I was still worried that Lithuanian food would be too spicy for me but Oscar assured me I was worried about nothing. I didn’t mention my condition because why would I? Not on a first date (even though at this point I already knew it would be our last). We got the (skyscraper tall) menus and I had no idea what the fuck I was looking at. It was written in gobbledygook. This was worse than talking to Thomas. I signaled my confusion to Oscar and he smirked and said, “Try the Varškėčiai!” with his irritating enthusiasm. He explained that it was like cottage cheese pancakes which didn’t sound particularly awful. It sounded like the kind of shit I eat anyway. So I trusted him and asked him to order for me. “You’ll love it!” he announced. I didn’t. I also didn’t say much during dinner. I didn’t have to. Oscar never stopped talking about himself. I don’t remember answering a single question. He even went on about his Navy Seal exploits and I somehow managed to keep a straight face. It was absurd. He just lied and lied. My end of the conversation amounted to sporadic single words: Oh? Yeah? Wow. I nodded a lot. The night moved like the goddamn Ice Age. At least he was gentleman enough to take care of the check. For a minute I worried he might insist on going Dutch. I can’t help wondering how much the bill was. How much did he shell out just to kill me? We left the restaurant and he walked me to my car. “I can’t believe this fucking dive doesn’t have valet parking,” he said, which was so suddenly out of character it surprised me. When we got to my car we faced each other for the dreaded good night moment. The point in the date when I’d have to let him down easy and pray he wouldn’t get all weird or pushy or make a scene. Of course it was all three and went far beyond my worst fears. “I had a really nice time,” he said, without enthusiasm. “Yes. Thank you for the dinner,” I said. And then he stepped toward me and leaned in for a kiss. I raised my hand to stop him. “Good night, Oscar,” I said, fishing in my purse for my car keys. I expected him to be crestfallen. Instead, he just smirked and said, “So that’s the way it’s gonna be, huh? Okay, cool. Whatever. Take it easy.” My first instinct was to start apologizing and thank him again and throw some flattery his way. Try to repair his hurt feelings. But then I thought, Why bother? Fuck this guy. I just wanted to go home and forget the whole damn night. I found my keys and turned to open the car door. The extension cord was around my throat before my hand hit the handle. The funny thing about getting strangled is that after the initial shock, it feels kind of pleasant. It gets you high. You become euphoric. That’s why it’s so dangerous. You lose your ability to fight against it. You just “succumb to the numb.” I remember starting to lose consciousness and thinking, Well, looks like this is the end! My purse had dropped on the ground but I still had my keys in my hand. I remembered watching one of those Self-Defense for Women videotapes they used to make, so I used one of their methods of defense and arranged my keys in such a way that they were sticking out between my knuckles. In my fist. It’s like having brass knuckles that you can stab with. Bear in mind that all these things occurred in a split-second. But very often a life-or-death emergency has a slowing effect on time. It gets condensed. So I swung my arm behind me, weapon in hand and luck was on my side. I hit him in the face on the first try. Pretty hard too. I might have stabbed him in the eye. I don’t know. The eye is a pretty big weak spot for us humans. That, and testicles on men. Anyway, the cord around my neck relaxed and I dropped to my knees and fresh oxygen whooshed into my lungs. It was cold and good. It reminded me of when we were kids and used to play a game with our brains. We’d give ourselves a “head rush” by hyperventilating and then holding our breath while simultaneously applying pressure on the carotid arteries. It made you super dizzy and you’d fall down and sometimes pass out. It was like a free high. Now I realize how stupid it was. It causes brain cell damage. To this day I have memory lapses. Anyway, “Oscar Costa” ran off and another guy ran over to me like some big fucking savior. His name turned out to be Stan Ransom and he witnessed the entire attack; he just waited until I’d successfully fended off my attempted murderer before coming to my aid. So many so-called “macho men” are really just wimpy little cowards. This Ransom asshole told me he’d called the police as if I was supposed to thank him. As soon as he said the police were coming I wanted to leave. He called them without my consent. He kept asking me if I was okay. The fact that I hadn’t pooped my pants in the attack occurred to me. Luckily, I’d voided my bowels with a vengeance earlier in the day. By the time the pigs showed up, of course, my assailant was long gone. They immediately began insisting on things. I had to describe the attack. I had to describe the attacker. I had to file a report. I had to go to the hospital. I said, “No” to each item on the list but they insisted with so much insistence that I threw up my hands and ultimately acquiesced. Whatever. I was tired. I had no more fight left in me. I just wanted to go home and cry but by the time I was released from everything it was the next morning. I went straight to the tattoo parlor. My choke bruises had actually darkened during the night. The colors were pretty drastic. I permanently recorded them on my skin for posterity. As a reminder. It hurt like hell getting it done but I relished the pain like a sassy masochist. It was an assertion of victory. I was wounded but I won. The police eventually figured out that “Oscar Costa” was actually a real-life serial killer that they’d been hunting for all year. And thanks to my reluctant cooperation they caught him. Bagged him hiding out in his mother’s apartment in East Greenville. Well la-dee-da. I didn’t care. His “real” name was Joseph Smith, like the guy who caused Mormonism to happen. They informed me that his MO (modus operandi) was to lure lonely women out on dates and then strangle them with a length of extension cord. I told them, No shit. I already knew that. I passed on pressing charges to avoid going to court but didn’t need to since useless fucking Stan Ransom witnessed the whole thing. He was eager to testify. He was such a ham. The big phony. None of that mattered in the end anyway. They connected Joseph Smith to three murders and two other failed attempts. He’s on death row now. I wonder if he’ll request Lithuanian food for his last meal. I wonder if I’ll be invited to his lethal injection. If so, I might go just for the experience. I’ve never watched a guy die before (unless you count my grandfather’s coronary when I was five). And it would feel like cold sweet revenge to see the fear in his squinty little piglet eyes. Anyway, that was the story of one of the worst dates of my life. For a myriad of reasons. Strange as it might sound, the experience has become almost a fond memory. I mean, I did successfully fight off an assassin. I proved myself capable of preventing my own death (up to a point). There are plenty of murder victims who can’t say the same. There’s so much fucking stuff in this nasty, implausible world.
And now I’m going to bed before “Carl” comes around.
Crumbling Asphalt 