March 23, 2007
(<< continued from March 09, 2007)
Bailey was a drunk punk that followed me home from a show one night and never left. I didn’t feel inclined to kick him out because (A) he gave me a harbor from Calico’s drama and (B) he was really good in bed. He was an awesome lover and a funny guy.
However, he was also an unmedicated schizophrenic and a severe alcoholic. He was fond of saying that a forty was cheaper than Prozac and didn’t support some multi-million dollar medical company. I tried telling him that the fine folks at Milwaukee’s Best weren’t worried about their electric bill, but he’s have none of it. I also tried telling him that the alcohol made his attacks worse rather than helped them, but he definitely won’t believe that bullshit.
Bailey was deathly afraid of being court marshaled. He’d joined the Marines a year or so before 9/11 and went AWOL during basic training. From that point on, he had a morbid fear of Marines dragging him out of my bed one night and shooting him against the wall. This fear manifested itself in extreme paranoia. Sometimes, it was the guy with the “Go Marines” shirt in the gas station that would send him into a paralyzing panic attack; other times, every noise in the house was the military.
One night after downing five forties he heard voices coming from outside our apartment. I tried in groggy vain to tell him it was the McDonald’s workers next door taking a smoke break, but he knew that this was the big one. Crazed and boxer-clad, he charged down the stairs and out the apartment into the alley with a loaded shotgun. He nearly had everyone in the apartment arrested, and only when he started babbling - “Marines! Jesus Christ, didn’t you see them?!” - did the police drop the charges in place of him spending a weekend in the local mental institution.
To answer your question, yes, he was that good in bed.
But I did wise up. Saying it wasn’t an equal relationship was an understatement. I was one part counselor, one part mommy, and a big glob of sucker. He refused to even acknowledge he had a problem, and stole my money to support his habit. Most of my friends were afraid to hang out at my apartment because of his erratic behavior.
I was trying to decide my next move when he suddenly decided to take a roadtrip home for Halloween. I figured I’ve have a weekend to sort things out. The weekend passed. Then another weekend passed. Then a month passed.
Meanwhile things with Calico reached a boiling point. Since Bailey couldn’t possibly be held responsible for his own actions, I was. However, it was a bit of a “pot calling the kettle black” situation. While she was yelling at me for some stupid drunken thing Bailey had done weeks before, she failed to mention her own inebriated moments. I would hold my tongue as I crammed one and a half 33-gallon trash bags worth of PBR bottles that she, her on-again off-again boyfriend, and his girlfriend downed in one sitting. I’d try to study as they got into screaming arguments. I even held my temper when, during one of these arguments, her boyfriend threw a 30-pack of PBR through our glass door.
One day I simply had enough. Calico was sitting on the couch watching Oprah, and I sat down beside her. I’d planned for weeks how gracefully I’d tackle the speech. Before I could open my mouth, she said, “I’m moving out after finals.”
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Alexis Stewart is a thief and a shitkicker living in Huntington, WV. She edits the zine the Rhododendron Reader (a collection of Appalachian culture and weirdness) as well as the occasional one-shot. When she's not wielding a gluestick, she's making movies, working at her college radio station, collecting records, or stalking Ben Folds. Her column explores the weird nuances of the West Virginia underground scene from her command post in a fake fraternity called SKA House.