Milieus of Intrigue

It was 3 PM on a Sunday and the humidity was suffocating. To make matters worse, the trees weren't rustling, and the cloud weren't moving. It was a lingering heat, like a controlled fire pit except the fire was the sun and the pit was the entire city. Even the animals were scarcely coming out of the tree shadows, and at noon there was nowhere to hide. 

Still, I endured my daily walk because it helps me think. That is, if I focus on the right things. Sometimes my obsessive personality guides my journalistic pursuits into milieus of intrigue. Other times, I can be working tirelessly to conjure up a story, but all my brain can comprehend is the lousy things I've done. The lousy things I've said. We all have flaws, but mine are amplified by my relentless mind, and more so than anything do I wonder what others think of me. What women think of me. What a woman thinks of me...Does she still love me? Does she care for me at all? Did she ever? Will I ever feel that way again? Am I overreacting as I always do?-

"Hey, sir?"

It was truly a sweet voice. I can tell she was in need. But of what?

"Yeah?" I replied curiously.

    “Are you busy?”

    “In this humidity? I barely have the strength to walk.”

    “I find it oddly comforting.”

It took only that response for me to fall for her. She wasn’t going to say what she thought she was supposed to. My brain reminded me it was too early to make assumptions. 

    “Did you need something?” I asked. 

"Yes, we want alcohol, but we're all too drunk to get it ourselves."

'We?' I thought. When I looked up behind her, two men around my age were pacing their porch and clearly waiting for her to come back. They were both obvious southern white while she

seemed city girl. She was a person of color, and although I couldn't tell her true ethnicity, there was no doubt in my mind that she moved here at a later age for college.

"Please? It won't take long," she asked again. My mind usually goes for the worst. What would happen if this went wrong? At first, I thought maybe the worst-case scenario was a swinger routine where the couple tries to rope me in for sex. Why else would they send the girl? But then again, the third member was already

there. Why did they need me?

"Uh, sure." I responded before I finished thinking it through. I needed ideas and there wasn't a journalist on the planet who wouldn't help strangers for the chance at inspiration.

I realized the guys were belligerent within 2 seconds of our encounter. They were screaming everything they said and spewing out some awful breath in unison. Their sentences were strung out and their logic was nonexistent. Eventually, after at least 15 thank you’s and you're the man's, we figured out a plan.

"Okay! Guys, guys. Okay. We'll ride with you, you have money?"

"No."

"Well how do we buy it?"

"I have money dumbass for the millionth time."

"Okay, you stay here Mari!"

"But I wanna come-"

"No! You stay here. Let's go, we're taking my, wait, no we're taking your car. Alright let's go."

This conversation between the two boys, although aggressive, felt fun and lighthearted. Logan, the boyfriend, and Ethan, the lone friend, engaged in usual drunk frat banter. With Mari, the girlfriend, things were different. Logan yelled everything at her and criticized all her ideas. She was an obvious punching bag for the whole

group, but especially her boyfriend.

As soon as we got in the car and took off for the gas station, dude talk began again.

"She always talks long-term and I'm just like, she's not wifey material. My boys tell me to break up with her, but she fucks me like every morning, I can't turn that down, who turns that down? But she's not wifey material man. Look at the way she just walked up to you. Do you want a girl like that?" Logan was letting it all hang out, as if merely being a man made me trustworthy.

"It's tough out there," I said. Generic responses were a journalist’s best friend.

Once they learned I was a journalist the whole mood changed. They were strangely fascinated and started asking for my thoughts on life, the universe, and politics. There were only so many sweeping statements I could say to keep the conversation

going with two inebriated fools.

"You're the man Jacob. You chose an honest, selfless profession. We need more people like you," Ethan said. If only he knew that most of them were ignorant cowards.

After nearly 20 minutes of offering the gas station cashier shots of their newly acquired bottle of vodka we finally got out and back to their apartment.

"You want to come in?" Logan asked. At this point I felt like I knew these guys. I grew up with good ole boys just like them - they riddled my high school and neighborhood growing up. So, I said-

"Yeah. Let's do it."

Their apartment was empty and lifeless. There were no decorations except the fast-food bags and empty beer cans that cluttered the floor like booby traps.

Mari was sitting on an island bar stool when we walked in. Their pit bull was much happier to see us.

"Hey! Get down!" Logan screamed as he smacked the pit bull on his nose and threw him in his cage immediately. "Sorry about that. He's a little hyper."

"Oh, it's fine," I responded. Because it was. The pit bull was simply licking me and wagging its tail. Logan's outburst on the animal gave me new pause. My brain went back to worst case scenarios. Are these guys violent? Will they hurt me given the chance?

"This guy's a fucking journalist. Isn't that rad?" Ethan said to Mari, reminding me how much they liked me.

"Yeah, that's cool," She responded, unenthused.

"Let's take shots. Mari, grab the shot glasses," Logan said.

"Hell yeah! Jacob, get in on this," Ethan added.

"Nah I don't take shots,” I responded.

"Oh c'mon-"

"I'm sorry, I don't. Plus, I drank too much last night, it'll upset my stomach."

"Just take a little one-" Mari tried to say when Logan interrupted her.

"He said he doesn't want to take the shot Mari! You smoke?"

"I could go for some bud," I said.

"Grab him some weed from my room." At Logan's command, Mari grabbed the weed and shot glasses.

"Alright let's take them on 3. 1, 2, 3-" Everyone threw their shot back while I took a small inhale of their pipe.

"I'm kind of hungry," Ethan said once his face was done cringing at the taste of Tito’s.

"Yeah, me too, but somebody ate all the food I cooked," Logan said.

"Who ate it all?"

"Who you think?" Logan pointed at Mari and Ethan laughed like it was an inside joke.

"I did not eat all the food," Mari responded.

"I'm not trying to start something, but yes, you ate all the food."

"When did I eat all the food?"

"All those meals you were cooking during the week. You don't remember? She made like three fat ass meals with all the meat I cooked, I barely ate any." As if it was calling his name mid conversation, Logan walked over to the living room mirror

and began looking at himself.

"Whatever. Are we going to play pool?" Mari asked.

"No way," Ethan responded.

"What do you mean?"

"We've been trying to play pool for like 4 hours and we still never went."

"Well then let's go."

"I've been ready. It's you clowns taking forever."

"Taking forever doing what? I've been sitting here the whole time."

"Well then let's go." Ethan broke off the conversation with Mari and turned to me. "There's no way we actually go. I can't believe you're here dude. This is so dope, we got to hang out more."

As Ethan drunkenly droned on, I watched Mari approach Logan who had been distracted by the mirror for the duration of the previous conversation. She barely wrapped her arms around him

in a hug when Logan pushed her out of the mirror’s reflection. I couldn't make out the rest of their conversation over Ethan shouting in my ear, but it seemed like a fake apology followed by fake forgiveness.

Watching their relationship play out at now 4 PM on a Sunday made me wonder - what am I doing wrong? How does this narcissistic, abusive alcoholic keep a girl like her while I am consistently left by every girl I love? Is she stuck? Does she feel like

she has nowhere to turn to? Do I give the women in my life too much freedom, and therefore the ability to leave? The liberal writer inside of me had to shake that thought free immediately. Besides, maybe this was him at his lowest. Who was I to judge before I got the full story?

"Alright motherfuckers! Let's play pool." Logan's words were good news to me. I wanted to get out of the apartment from hell.

The pool game in the entertainment room of the complex was mostly fun. The boys hit the ball around in jest, not even sure if it was going in. I laughed at their trick shots and goofy nature. That is, until Mari started playing against Logan.

He was suddenly a fierce competitor, unable to live with himself if he lost. She was also fierce, but quiet, leaving the talking up to the boys. They competed until the last ball. That's when things went sideways.

"Aaaaaandd - she beat you," Ethan said as the 8-ball dropped in the pocket from Mari's shot. "You got beat by your girl dude."

Now Mari was speaking up.

"Hell yeah, boy. That's how it's done." Her trash talk was animated, but she was vivacious in her mannerisms. I almost chuckled at her cute, witty attitude when-

"Shut up!"

Logan shoved Mari to the floor.

I was speechless. This was first time I had seen such blatant domestic violence in my life. I was a sheltered kid with loving parents and a peaceful family. I always thought if you saw something like that you just called the cops. Plain and simple. But instead, nobody said anything. Mari stood up, we re-racked the pool balls, and left.

I came up with a weak excuse to go back home. Something about needing to finish an article before work the next day. I felt like they knew it was bullshit but couldn't deny it.

"Alright man, it was good hanging with you. Thanks for the ride again." Logan was now much more reserved in his speech. I was scared they would hold me hostage, but instead they sent me on my way with more praise. It reminded me of the many times I had met strangers in bars or parties, an environment where I couldn't

understand their true nature because of their good mood toward me. How many of them were also abusers? Rapists? Was I a haven for them because I was so passive? Had being a journalist made me more accepting, and therefore attracted stories like these? People like this?

As I said before, you can't truly evaluate a story until its conclusion. This story wasn't done until the next day when I heard a knock.

There was no question, in my mind, who the knock was. What racked my brain before I opened the door is why they were here. I grabbed my pocketknife and slowly approached the door before opening it.

To my surprise, it was-

"Hey, Jacob," Mari said softly. "What's up?"