Grab Her by the Hair (short story)

 

My attitude shifted from anxious commuter stuck in early morning traffic to a woman with a purpose, albeit violent one.  Others on their way to offices in downtown Miami, Miami Beach, Coral Gables, Coconut Grove (destinations better suited for tourists invited to visit by billboards along the highway) on  potholed I-95 South honked horns, cut each off, flicked middle fingers, read newspapers, put on makeup, smoked, ate breakfast, dozed, chatted on Blackberry phones, sang, or gyrated their upper bodies to the beats of a loud pounding bass. That day, I was onto something bigger and better than driving to and from work. “I’m gonna kick her ass!” I said to myself, the words gnarled and growled their way to life.

Even daydreams of running away to another continent on a commercial jet flying overhead to or from Miami international had no appeal; my deepest, darkest wish had arrived as if dropped via special delivery by one of those same jets.  Calling the children’s hospital where I worked as a receptionist in the critical care unit to let them know I was running late was not important.  Adrenaline flowed in my blood, quickened my breath, and charged my purpose with clarity.  Two days ago, I had read an interview with a man accused of taking part in home invasions across town. When asked how he could commit such violence, he said he got his adrenaline going by pumping iron at the gym before driving to the scene of the crime.

For two years, my husband had been having an affair with his secretary. I raged in secret, daydreaming of hiring a strongman to pound him like chicken fillet with a rusted, nail-crusted wood mallet the size of a 2 x 4.  To others, I was cool and collected, taking the loss of the family home, stability, and security, which left me struggling to pay bills and buy groceries, in stride: I found an apartment after getting a loan from my mother for the first month and security deposit, and I took a full-time job to make ends meet. Friends asked why I didn’t hire an attorney; it wasn’t that easy. The logistics of keeping my life going while caring for two elementary school-aged children, an elderly mother, a new job, and a home did not leave much time for anything else.  Anyway, I couldn’t’ afford the attorney’s consultation fees.  So, for the sake of my children, my daily life proceeded as if nothing had happened while my husband--who refused to settle with me-- and his lover sailed the Atlantic and shared five-course meals and couple’s massages with his lover at hotels on Miami Beach, as evidenced by the American Express bills I had found uploaded on the computer.

A beating was in order (Not murder. Spending life in jail for killing my husband’s lover was not worth it, but I was willing risk being charged with assault, do time, and end up with a record) as confirmed by my husband’s lover’s name, Dawn, written in large, bold, red letters on the trailer of a semi-truck driving northbound.  A sign! “Bitch,” I screamed out my open driver’s window, a communication hijacked by the female driver stopped in the car next to mine who yelled out her own expletives. “Not you, dumbass,” I screamed back.  Before my husband’s affair, I thought cursing beneath me.  Now, I relished bad words—hissing, puncturing, and igniting my world with the same fire as my innards.

When I saw the exit to my husband’s office, I glanced in the rearview mirror: the roads were clear. Another sign! Only a refraction of light in both directions shimmered in a mirage of cars caught in waves of air and concrete pavement. I swerved hard to the right. My Toyota Corolla screeched.  I was the good cop on the heels of the bad guy in a high-speed chase across town.  Off State Road 826, The jail, hospital, stadium, rose to meet the highway extension. I knew the area but feared it--the heart of Miami, where immigrants started their lives in the lowest peninsula of the American south:  the neighborhoods of Little Haiti, Little Havana, Liberty City, crisscrossed downtown with bodegas, botanicas, dirt lawns, junk yards, torched cars, lost dogs, and two-story apartment buildings with black bars on doors and windows.

Here, rents were low, poverty was rampant, and crime was high. Everywhere else in the county was seemingly safe and pretty with manicured lawns, Mediterranean-styled homes, freshly painted exteriors, and well-dressed neighbors.  Miami was one of the few places in the world where you were either cool or not, in or out, rich, or poor, good, or bad--nothing in between; that is until things got complicated. Then you didn’t know how to handle it, so you lost your job, your money, your home, your relationships, your children, your mind, and/or your life.

When I realized I didn’t know where I was going, I got off the expressway, drove to the courthouse, and parked in the parking lot (I had been to the building on several occasions when I worked as a legal secretary for an attorney on the beach who occasionally asked that I hand-deliver pleadings to the court for fear of missing deadlines).  The early morning sun had overtaken last night’s ocean breezes, raising the temperature and humidity.  Beads of sweat on my forehead, neck, and chest were a discomfiting signal of the unbearable heat to come.

At the Cuban food truck, I ordered a cortadito, a delicious, dark roasted coffee brewed in an expresso machine with sugar and milk to reduce the bitterness of the beans. A few ounces of the drink kept me focused.  While I searched my phone for the address to my husband’s office, I glanced at attorneys, clients, bailiffs, security guards, homeless, gathered around the truck also drinking espressos and too animated in conversation for that hour in the morning.

When I saw my old boss, I lowered my head. I didn’t have time to chat when he walked over to say hello.  Ed was manly above all else.  He had a small mouth but a blazing smile. His dark eyes spoke emotions others dared not express.  He still wore the finest tailored suits and a touch of expensive cologne. Even the hems of his pants swayed around his Italian leather shoes as if thrilled to follow him around.  In the past, he had telephoned to ask if I could work as his secretary when he didn’t have one; those times also turned out to be the most confusing ones in my life (college graduation, birth of my children, hysterectomy), as if he knew I needed him. It had been three years since I last worked for him.   

“McDaniel, what are you doing here?” he asked.

“Hanging out,” I said. We kissed each other on the cheek.

“I want you to know, Ed, I once had a crush on you,” I said, matter-of-factly. My adrenaline rush made it important to speak only the truth.

“I know.  I found the online sign compatibility readings you did on the computer.”

“How embarrassing, I thought I cleared that,” I said.  He winked at me.

“I had a crush on you, too,” he said.

“I know, your mother told me.” I winked back.

“That bitch talks too much.” We both laughed even though the ridge of his eyebrows gathered like they did when he was peeved.  His mother had often stopped by the office to say hello; their interactions were as tumultuous as they were loving.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I got engaged last night, McDaniel.”

“Really?” I was shocked. He loved women as much as he loved good times. Before I left the office the last time, I recalled a rabbi stopping by often to do prayers for him to find a wife.

“She’s beautiful, classy, Jewish.” he beamed.

“We meet again on a momentous occasion: you’re getting married. I’m getting divorced.”   I had also been there for the important moments in his life--the opening of his solo practice after leaving the prosecutor’s office, the merging of his practice with another firm, his father’s death, and now, his engagement.

“I’m sorry to hear it, McDaniel.”

“It’s fine. It was meant to be. Now, I must go,” I said, reaching nervously for the car keys in my purse.

He grabbed both my arms, pulled me up to him, and gave me a warm, long kiss on the cheek.  I knew we would never see each other again.

“Take care of yourself,” he said as he walked away, smiling, and waving to clients who waited at the entrance to the courthouse.

My heart broke.  I had known Ed during my sixteen-years marriage. My husband had given me security, stability, and children. Ed had given me friendship, connection, understanding.  I never crossed the line, except in my heart and mind, but I was always tempted to do so.  Our unspoken, secret, soul contract to boost and support each other during the lowest or highest points in our lives had been paid for in full. My crush and marriage were over.  I wanted to cry, process what had just happened, but I needed to refocus, so I ordered another cortadito, chugged it down, and got back on the road.

I had the address to my husband’s office, but I got lost anyway, driving around neighborhoods with parked cars along every inch of road along the sidewalks; large government office buildings, circa 1970s, of thick concrete walls and small tiles (only large murals of faces of well-known community citizens adorned exteriors); and police stations.  There was always talk of modernizing the entire downtown with high-rises designed in glass and windows.

In Miami, power, money, and corruption did all the talking, to the consternation of conservationist who could do little to stop the destruction of historical buildings, dating as far back as the 1900s, and scheduled to be demolished, as if history mislead the future, as if the world only knew how to get taller and shinier.  Only the Miami River--running through the downtown and Miami before draining in the Everglades--with its mosquitoes, stench, lapping, brown, polluted waters, and parked tug and fishing boats gleamed bright at that time in the morning from the early morning sun and heat to come. Here was the sacred, secret keeper of Miami’s ancient history of Tequesta Indians, who once lived at the mouth of the River, Spanish conquistadors, American settlers….  

My mind wandered. I understood my husband’s attraction to Dawn.  Before their affair had started, she was his secretary and friend (they both worked at the government office where he was an attorney for children caught up in the limbo of social services). He told me she was raised in New York City’s Spanish Harlem, and that she once dated a famous boxer who made her push his broken-down Corvette on Las Vegas streets where his matches were held.  There was talk of her use of cocaine when she dated the boxer.  When she moved to Miami, she settled down, married a lawyer, and had two kids who she adored.

After her Marine husband was sent to fight in Afghanistan, my husband often invited her and the young children to come over to swim in our pool.  At the time, I didn’t know of their affair.  She was tall, dark, and Caribbean with enough physical assets to attract any man who paid attention. And, she had bedroom eyes; I’d heard of those eyes, but I’d never seen them in action.

Once, I asked Dawn if her kids needed towels, but she didn’t answer; instead, she took me in as if she didn’t dabble in plain talk or chit chat. Her brown eyes and long black lashes wandered around my nose, cheeks, and mouth. Her pouty lips smiled shyly. She liked what she saw. She always liked what she saw, in the mailman, bank teller, passing stranger…. I looked away before she reached my chest and went to grab the towels.

We all feared Dawn’s psychic undressing and call to frolic naked on a Caribbean-island beach. I felt sorry for my husband. I felt sorry for myself. We were in over our heads: Our marriage, which started with two hopeful nineteen-year-olds determined to keep the vows alive no matter what, had been battered by time and an expert vixen with enough heat of a sexual revolution to topple the status quo, especially in a relationship that had long been over. 

Even so, enough was enough. When I reached my husband’s office building, I parked the car along the sidewalk.  I remembered he had hearings in the morning, so he wouldn’t be at the office. No distractions. Yet another sign!  My heart was beating, hands sweating. For a moment, I panicked. I felt nauseous from drinking the second expresso and thought of turning around and driving to work. Didn’t I prove I could do it if I wanted? Still, my convictions pounded in my head and heart. There was no turning back.  I panicked again. I had never started a fight.  What did it mean to beat someone up? How could I start a fight with Dawn? Just as quickly, I thought of her head of soft, brown, curly hair.  “Grab her by the hair,” I chanted as I slammed the car door. “Grab her by the hair.” “Grab her by the hair,” I chanted as I walked towards the entrance. “Grab her by the hair,” I chanted as I opened the front door to my husband’s office building.