Memories are like that
It had been a long time since I was inside the Aging Matador, even though the distancing restrictions had largely lifted. Most of the denizens had been fully vaccinated for weeks.
I sat down at the bar, ordered my Bender, and got lost in thought. At some point, Angus appeared on the bar stool next to mine, “Lost in thought? I get that way a lot lately.”
I said, “Yeah, I saw and heard a music video last night that has me thinking back across time to when I was just out of college, and struggling to find work that could allow me to help put food on the table.”
Angus just nodded, and then said, “Music and imagery have a way of doing that. What song is it?”
“It’s ‘Bed on Fire’ by Teddy Swims. A song that sounded much different than it looked.”
“Oh? How so?”
“It sounds like a guy telling his girlfriend that if she ever wants to leave him, just go ahead, but first let’s really steam the windows first.”
“I see… and the video tells a different story?”
“Indeed, it does. That imagery is what has me lost in thought.”
Then I told him the story of a lady I knew back when I was 23-24, and working as a housekeeper at a hotel. She had told me about her abusive husband, a guy who would regularly get pretty hammered, come home, and beat her up before passing out in bed.
One day, she’d had enough. She had tolerated a beating the night before, waited for her husband to wake up newly hung over, and then told him that if he ever laid a hand on her like that again, she’d end him.
Despite his wanging hang over, he got blustery and laughed that she’d never have the guts to do something like that. But, she cut him off. She told him that the next time he beats her up, she would wait until he passed out. Then she would sew the fitted sheet and top sheet together, with him caught between. Then she would beat him to death with a baseball bat.
I noticed Angus recoil a little from the description.
I went on, because that wasn’t the end of it. She was then going to set fire to the house with him dead or dying in it, and then drive away like a madwoman. She felt confident that she could get away with it, because everyone around town knew that she would often get beat up.
After a few quiet seconds, Angus asked, “Do you know what became of her?”
“Yes. At the time she told me the story, her husband had been dead a few years already.”
I noticed Angus sitting with his mouth agape… “She really did it?”
“No. One night, he got his typical level of hammered, got into his car, and then proceeded to run off the road and wrap his car around a tree. Dead at the scene.”
“Oh, I see…”
“She told me that he sued the owner of the bar for overserving him and knowingly allowing him to drive intoxicated. She received a decent amount of cash as a result. I mean, according to her story.”
We both stared into our drinks a while, Angus trying to decide what to say next, myself trying to make sense of how memories lie in wait for nearly 30 years and then come vividly racing back.
Angus broke the silence, “It’s hard to know how to feel about that woman’s case. On one hand, she was freed from her abusive, drunken husband. On the other hand, she lost someone who really meant something to her at some point before that. On the other hand, she seemed happy to capitalize on her own sorrow. And for someone who only looked at the facts, she really did deserve to get some compensation from the bar owner for his negligence.”
I was reminded in that moment of one of Angus’ favorite summary statements: “It’s complicated, friend”