I’ll Take It Black - Enigma Pt. 3

January 26, 2018

I’m a practical person. One whose main dating experience could be summed up to a “passionate” 4.5 year relationship. Coincidentally, I had also ended this one in a car, and equally heartlessly. That boyfriends last words to me were, “I hope you die.” My last words to him were, “Okay.” If I could walk away from 4.5 years without blinking an eye. I could absolutely do the same with the 4 month “whatever”. But if there is anything I should have learned by now, it’s that almost no one responds like me. It was no shock when he didn’t show at work the next day, or the day after, or the one after that. Nor was his insistent texting and calling my phone. What was a surprise though, was essentially everything else. 


It started with a suicide threat. A obvious cry for help, but excuse my lack of empathy, a real bitch move. As my boss, the recipient of said threat, expressed her concern about dudes mental health to me, I sat disinterested. He wasn’t the first man to threaten it and he wouldn’t be the last. So why begin acknowledging the dramatics now? Aware of the manipulative game he was playing, I felt my small amount of patience already begin to thin. It didn’t take long for him to realize that this attempt hadn’t gotten the “bite” from me that he had anticipated. Making it time to make a new move. 

 


This one obviously had to be more drastic. More dramatic. More impactful. So much so, that I couldn’t possibly ignore his attempts at gaining my attention. So, a few weeks after our break up, he quit. Announcing his ascension to a professional poker player in the shit hole state we refer to as, Nevada. Now, before everyone jumps down my throat about Vegas. I am not referring to the party side of it that we all know and love. I am referring to the decomposing filth and trash that resides there in a permanent capacity to fulfill jobs that could be summed up to as “low life” type positions (ie. any job that leaves you smelling like tobacco for life). 


That being said, him leaving to play poker wasn’t actually the unbelievable part. Per say. He did previously live in Las Vegas, and he did use to play professional poker. Unfortunately, he also had a lease on that sweet little studio that overlooked Tacoma, WA. Despite this, he didn’t seem concerned. Persistent that this move was necessary and he had “worked it out” with his apartment. Leaving his friends to bid him farewell as he “went on his way”. This lasted, maybe, 5 days. Then one morning, at approximately 5:30 am, myself and a number of my other team members received an urgent text. It was from his phone, but supposedly written by his ex-wife. Who, magically, also knew the names of all his co-workers? 

 


The text read, something along the lines of, “”Dude” has been in a critical accident that has left him with life threatening injuries. I am reaching out to see if anyone has his mothers number for emergency information, as it may be necessary for her to make end of life decisions. If anyone has it, please let me know. It would be greatly appreciated.” Now, let me just make it clear, I’m pretty cunty. Like, to the max. So much so, that I immediately ruled said text as non-essential and went back to sleep. A. because I was still OD tired and B. because what the literal fuck, you lying ass bitch? It only took 10 more minutes for me to receive a call from my sobbing boss, whom had yet to realize the extent of this crazy ass scenario. 


Letting her live in her feelings, especially because I wasn’t entirely sure he was lying. I sat quietly, grunting in agreement as I half listened, half brainstormed plans to catch him in the act. Much to my surprise, my boss had rapidly caught on and concocted a plan of her own, all before I had even arrived at work. Mostly because, a co-worker of ours, whose husband had grown up with “dude”, had also found his “disappearing act” suspicion and offered to stop by his “old place”... just to make sure. Turns out, this bitch ass mother fucking dick dweller was at home, in Tacoma, the entire time! Shocking, right? Thirty-fucking-two and lying about almost dying! Who does that?! Answer: Him, apparently. 

 


This act had definitely gotten my attention. Maybe not in the way he anticipated, given that his plan backfired, but it did the job nonetheless. I was furious and had had enough. He wanted me to talk to him and express, in detail, the reason for the breakup? You got it, boy! Immediately after work, I picked up two of my friends and head to his apartment. Obviously, without any notice to him. After some finagling, we were finally in the building and at his door. My heart was racing and thoughts of what I would say when he opened the door ran through my head. 


My friend, the pregnant decoy, knocked on his door. No answer. She knocks again, this time a little harder. Within seconds, we heard a grunt and his footsteps as he stomped towards the door. He opened it, staring confused at the pregnant stranger in front of him. Then looked to the side where I was standing. Initiate *immediate face drop*. He tried to shut the door but was too slow. I had already slid between him and my friend, my foot in place, preventing the closure. 

 


“I thought you moved?! You lying ass bitch.” I yell while shoving into his entryway. (Did I mention he also owed me $450? $450 that he couldn’t pay back cause he was in Vegas?) “I’m gonna call the police!” He threatens. “Okay?! Call the police! I don’t give a fuck. I’ll tell them about your crazy ass and how you owe me money!” “Seriously. You need to get out!” His voice beginning to quiver. “I’ll pay you back soon. I promise. Just go.” His eyes now starting to swell. 


I wait a minute, contemplating if I trust it. Then finally respond, “Alright,” as I shove past him. The door slamming rapidly behind us. I felt good! I had scared him straight and dared him to fuck with me again. We met in an Albertsons parking lot the following week, where he paid me back and apologized for all the craziness. It seemed things had finally come to a resolve and we made our peace. Or so I thought.

 


Unfortunately, this was far from the end. Actually, if I’m being factual, it was slightly over a year away from being over. Not the relationship, that was dead, but the crazy. That’s a story for another time though. 


What really matters is the lesson I learned. Which is, don’t date below your league. Cause that’s when mother fuckas act crazy.  

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