There were two bedrooms and we slept in separate beds. The first morning, I woke up very early and slipped into bed with Allan. He rolled over and fucked me. We didn’t have sex. He just fucked me, and that was that: a chore he wanted done and out of the way. I stayed in my own room the rest of the trip.
When we got back, the Garnett situation began to escalate. I started getting pulled over for no reason. One officer would stand at my window asking me questions about where I was going and where I was coming from while another shined his flashlight around the inside of my car. Twice, there was a K-9 unit present, and they would walk the dog around the perimeter of my car. The staff at the bar I spent so much time in told me that the men’s room was plastered with papers similar to the ones that were scattered on our street that day. They were also getting calls from what was obviously a man disguising his voice as a crazy woman asking for me and saying he needed to buy meth.
I met with Larry, the attorney I’d hired for Allan and Kilo, explained what was going on and asked what it would take to have him on retainer. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “When and if the time comes, I’m your lawyer.”
All the trouble Garnett was causing should have been enough to scare me. Multiple run-ins with the police should have scared the hell out of me, but they didn’t. This is how sick I was:
I saw myself as a righteous woman being attacked by a deranged psycho. I knew that I was too smart to get caught with anything, and his efforts to bring me down were annoying at best. He was a thorn in my side, but I never saw him as a threat. He was so crazy and his claims so outrageous, that I thought I had nothing to worry about. Eventually, the police would grow tired of harassing me and, finding nothing, would see Garnett for what he was - someone who desperately needed psychiatric care.
As for Allan...I did every dumb-ass thing in the Desperate Woman’s Handbook. I sent myself lavish bouquets with notes saying I missed me. I stayed out all night even when I wasn’t on call, or when Andy was spending the night with Chuck. On these nights, I rented hotel rooms. I spent a lot of nights in hotel rooms during the last year we were living together. I went through his wallet when he was asleep, not looking for anything, but just to touch the things that he touched. I wrote long letters, on more than one occasion, that make me want to claw my eyes out today when I look at the words. I did all those things, trying to make him jealous, I suppose, but jealousy only exists when there are feelings involved. So I spent a lot of time slamming my head into a wall.
Dear Allan,
I’ve been waiting for the right time to talk to you. I’ve been patient, understanding, and supportive while kids, families, jobs, friends, bills, your legal issues and everything else under the sun has taken precedence in our lives. I have tried many times to talk to you and started more letters than I can count. I’ve walked the streets alone at night and cried more tears than you can imagine. I don’t know what to do anymore, but I feel like I’m dying inside. I don’t like the way I feel and the more time I let pass, the more things happen to further confuse and break me. I’ve come to dread being at home at night because of the emptiness that fills the house. I would rather be here in this dark, quiet office than at home where I feel invisible and isolated.
There are so many things I want to discuss with you...so many conflicting emotions I’m struggling with. I’m mad as hell at you. I’m hurt, sad, enraged, embarrassed, uncomfortable and confused. If I could turn these feelings off, there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to do so. I envy you men and the way you seem to be able to just move through everything seemingly unscathed and with no residual anything.
I can no longer tolerate our ambiguity. I need definition. I need clarity between us in order to be able to go on from wherever we are now. I can’t continue to pour everything I have into a situation where I feel I get nothing in return. I feel like I’m living in a vacuum-like I’m being sucked dry and soon there will be nothing left of me.
I want to ask you a million questions...I want to tell you a million things...I want to yell at you...scream at you...make you understand...make you want to understand. I want to feel like if I disappeared from your life tomorrow, you would notice. I want to be appreciated for who I am, not grudgingly tolerated for financial security. I don’t want to be anyone’s “sugar mamma,” “roommate and best bud,” or “roommate with benefits.” I try very hard to express what you mean to me… to show, as well as tell you, that you are important to me.
If that’s what I am to you, then nothing else that’s bothering me matters because...
Either I have been living in a convoluted reality-horribly misinterpreting the past year and a half-or you have been thoughtless and cavalier in your actions and words...
and you mutter a few words that trail off. You don’t touch me, or hug me. You shower the dog with all your attention, physically and otherwise.
We don’t do anything, we don’t go anywhere. You seem not to want me around at all...
So I’m embarrassed and angry and hurt and lonely. I feel weak and pathetic saying all this, but I miss you, Allan, and I need for you to talk to me about all of this. I’ve written you before and said that I really needed you to respond and asked you to PLEASE not just blow me off. You did exactly that. You ignored the whole thing. After everything I’ve written here, don’t you think I know how difficult it is to face uncomfortable situations? All I’m asking is that you respect me enough not to take the easy way out and continue to ignore me.
I don’t know what else to say right now, so I’m going to print this out, pick up my son and go home. I’m going to get him ready for bed, give this to you and take a long bath.
Kim
The letter was and is embarrassing. The whining, bitching and moaning went on for ten solid pages, but I gave it to him anyway.
I set the letter on top of the entertainment center where I knew he would find it. The only reason I know he read it is because it was gone while he was in the bathroom that morning. When he came out, he set it back where he’d found it, and that was that.
Except it wasn’t.
After he left for work and Andy had gone to school, I spent half an hour getting high and cutting the letter into a thousand tiny pieces. When I was done, I went to Allan’s room, pulled down the covers and scattered the remnants all over his dog-hair covered sheets. Then I pulled the blankets back into place. I knew how childish I was being, but I couldn’t help it. I was furious, embarrassed and heartbroken.
That was the day I decided to get rid of the dog.
I didn’t have the heart to drive the bitch out to the country and leave her there. I didn’t want that on my conscience. I knew if I took her to the pound Allan would find her and bring her back. I had to find a home for her. A good home where I knew someone would take care of her. After all, she was Kilo’s dog and I had much respect for him. I didn’t want to give her to some tweaker, although most of them wanted her. She was a pit-bull and tweakers just love pit bulls. They’re like a status symbol because, of course, every nickel bag meth-head thinks that everyone - especially the police - is just around the next corner, waiting for them with beady eyes and malicious intent. It took me a long time to find the right family and work up the courage to send the bitch packing. When the day finally came, I sent her with the collar she was wearing and nothing more. All her stupid toys and pretty leashes stayed because I didn’t want Allan to know what I’d done. I was hoping he would think someone stole her out of the backyard. He never locked the fence. I thought the plan was genius but I was nervous the whole day, waiting for Allan to come home.
When he did, he went straight to the back door like always and whistled for her. I went to my room and started playing poker because my heart was racing and I wanted to appear as normal as possible. A few minutes later, I heard him coming down the hall.
“Where’s Puppet?”
“In the back yard where she always is.” I couldn’t look at him so I busied myself counting and bundling a shoebox f
ull of money in preparation for my meeting with Mario later that evening.
“She’s not there.”
“What do you mean she’s not there?”
“I called for her like five times. She’s not there.”
“Allan,” I said as if this were the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard, “she has to be there. Did you look in the barn? Or on the other side of the house?”
He went to look. Shit. This was even harder than I thought. I’m a terrible liar and the whole situation was making me very uncomfortable.
“She’s not there.” He sounded upset and I felt a little twinge of guilt but I was sure it would pass with time. “Were you here all day?”
“No.” Yes. “I was at the office most of the day and then I had to see Shadoe. Oh no!” I feigned shock. “Do you think someone stole her?”
“No. The gate’s still closed.” Oops. I hadn’t thought about that.
“Well if someone did steal her, they would probably shut the gate so we wouldn’t notice right away.” I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. Just let it go, Allan, I thought. Just accept that she’s been dognapped and forget about it. He was ruining my high.
“I don’t think so,” he mumbled, walking away. “I’m going to look for her. See ya’ in a while.”
As soon as he left, I got my pipe out, loaded it and started smoking. I felt guilty and pissed off knowing I had done something to hurt him. That’s when I realized the full impact of my actions. I’d given him more reason to obsess about her, which is exactly what he did.
He spent the next few weeks making signs, checking the animal shelters in three different cities and generally being glum. Part of me, a very big part, was thrilled that his lazy-eyed whore was gone. Sometimes I would walk by the couch where Allan was lying, watching T.V. and looking like he was going to cry. After a few weeks, I had kind of forgotten about the whole thing and would ask him why he looked so sad. “I miss Puppet,” he would say. Oh, puke. I felt like slapping him. I wished we had never taken the stupid dog in the first place. But I also knew that if it weren’t Puppet, it would have been something else he paid attention to and showered with affection. Anything else. Just not me.
Chapter 18
On a cold Thursday night in 2006, two policemen came to see me at the bar where I spent so much time. I wasn’t on call that night, so I was drinking and playing pool by myself at my usual back corner table when I heard my full name over the intercom. I knew before I looked. Who the hell else would use my full name?
They asked to speak with me outside and we stepped out the back door.
“Ma’am, we’ve had a report that you’re selling methamphetamine out of the bathroom of this establishment.”
I said nothing.
“The person reporting tells us that you use these premises to conduct the business of selling meth on a regular basis, and that you always carry everything with you.”
I remained silent. There was nothing to say. No one had asked me a question.
“Ma’am, is this true?”
“No.” I was telling the truth. I had not made any deals in the bathroom that night.
The officers looked at each other. “Then why would someone make a report saying that you are? They gave us your full name and told us exactly what you’re wearing tonight, so there must be something to this.”
I relaxed my posture. “Okay, here’s what’s happening. There’s a guy who’s stalking me. He keeps making reports like this. I’ve had police at my house, he’s littered my street with flyers, he’s been doing this for two years, now.”
The officers looked doubtful.
“Did the caller give their name?”
“Actually, it was someone who flagged us down.”
“What did he look like? Wait, no,” I gave them Garnett’s full name and proceeded to describe him, complete with impersonation of his mannerisms. I told them what kind of car he drove and gave them his license plate.
They looked surprised. “That’s him alright. In fact, he’s driven by twice since we’ve been out here talking.”
They kept glancing at my purse, so I decided to do something I felt strongly against. “Look,” I said, “I never consent to warrantless searches. Never. But I’ll let you search me and my purse right now if it will put an end to this.” I shoved my purse at one of the officers. I was angry and my voice reflected it. They hadn’t asked to search and it went against everything I believed in, but I thought if it would help them see Garnett for the crackpot he was, it was worth it. Also, everything I had was in my bag in the trunk of my car.
The officer took it and tentatively opened it. “It’s okay with you if we look in here?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m giving you permission. But I’m warning you, there are tampons in there.”
He laughed. “That, I can handle.”
“You know,” I said to the other officer, “Garnett has felony stalking charges against his ex-wife. This isn’t new for him.”
“You should file a complaint.” He handed my purse back to me.
“Yeah,” I said, “I know. I guess I’m kind of hoping he’ll just go away, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”
We regarded each other for a moment before I said, “Are we finished here?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your cooperation. You have a good evening.”
I didn’t start shaking until I was back at my table in the corner. Of course, everyone saw them come in and heard me paged, so there was a lot of curiosity about what I was doing chatting with the police. Most of the regulars and all the staff knew about the situation with Garnett, and were very sympathetic. (The bartenders who did drugs knew what I did and bought from me. The ones who didn’t do drugs knew nothing, but they all loved me because I tipped astronomically.)
It took two double shots of Jagermeister to calm me down. The thing that bothered me most was that I hadn’t seen Garnett. I prided myself on being aware of my surroundings, not only because of the drugs, but because I was a woman and a bail bondsman who spent a lot of time alone in places women weren’t normally alone. He knew what I was wearing, but I never saw him. That’s what bothered me the most.
I still felt righteous and with each encounter with the law, I felt more invincible. I was beating the system. I was smarter than they were.
When you do as much meth as I did on a regular basis, alcohol has little to no effect, so if it weren’t for my chat with the police that evening, I would have driven my car to my downtown office when the bar closed. I didn’t want to take any chances, though, so I called a cab and figured I’d go back and pick up my car in time to get home and get Andy ready for school.
Mine was the only car left in the lot. I paid the cabbie and he drove away as I slid in behind the wheel. I’d just pulled out of the lot when I realized I had a flat tire. Shit. I called another cab. I’d have to wait until Allan had time to help me with the tire.
He was busy all day with no breaks and I forgot he was going skiing with his friends for the weekend. He planned to leave right after work. No problem. I rented a car and he promised he’d help me as soon as he got back.
His truck was in the driveway when I got home that afternoon. I knew he planned on taking a quick shower and throwing some things together before hitting the road. When I opened the front door, I nearly vomited. There on the floor sat a brand new snowboard, boots, pants, gloves...everything you’d need to go boarding. I couldn’t move. I just stood there, staring at his shiny new toy (accessories sold separately) listening to the shower run. I was still standing there when he came out wrapped in a towel.
I don’t remember what was said. What I do remember is feeling as if I’d been punched in the chest, and Allan leaving in a hurry telling me he’d help me with my car when he got home. And then he was gone.
I was still standing there twenty minutes later when Andy got home, and I remember feeling a numbness that was comparable to what I got from meth, except I still ha
d a strange feeling, like my bones were too heavy and my chest might implode.
I’d like to think I said something like, “What the fuck, Allan! You went out and bought this when you owe me so much money? Did you even think about paying me back? Even a little? What the hell is wrong with you, you selfish prick? Take this shit back and bring me the cash!”
I’d like to think I said those things, but I didn’t. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open, looking like an idiot.
Allan got home late Sunday night, exhausted from his ski weekend, so we went to my car on his lunch break the next day. He was going to change the tire, but that wasn’t the problem. Someone had pulled my valve stem.
Allan did whatever was needed to take care of the problem. He drove me to drop off the rental and back to my own car which I drove home at around two ‘o clock. A couple of people dropped by in the afternoon before Andy got home. Other than that, it was a quiet day.
I was home until just before nine, when I got a call from someone who needed to make a payment on a bond. I arranged to meet him in an hour, and started gathering my things. All my dope was at my office downtown. All of it, that is, except for my personal stash: three pea-sized rocks, a pipe and my pocket scale. I kept these in a small, black zippered case and it went everywhere with me, tucked inside my rolling briefcase. That night, though, I sat on my bed looking at it, debating whether I should take it with me or not. The only reason I did was that I intended to go to my office from the jail and I would need my pipe.
The people who’d visited me earlier that day told me later that when they left my house, the surrounding streets were swarming with cops. They both assumed they were the ones being watched and never made the connection to me. It wouldn’t have mattered if they’d called to tell me. I was invincible.
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