An Honor

Our Dearest Brillig talked me into submitting my post "Hunted" to indiebloggers.org. Only NOW am I glad she did, as they featured it today!

I'm probably a giant geekler for announcing this, but the anxiety produced waiting was a terrible burden that I am happy to unload!



Leave me a bunch of comments so I look cool, okay? ;)

Hunted

“I still don’t see anyone out there.” Jenny said as she walked into the back room of the shoe store. “Are you ready to go yet?”

“Yeah, just – ah – just give me a second. And thanks for waiting for me.”

She didn’t see him, but I knew he was out there. He said he would be when he called the store earlier. I lied about what time we closed, but he knew I was lying. And he had no problem waiting. He did it all the time.

The rain was pouring down when we made our move to lock up the store and get to our cars.

“Good luck – is that him?” Jenny asked before she got in her car.

“Shit – yeah – I gotta go, thanks!!” I yelled as I jumped in my Celebrity and raced out of the parking lot. He saw me. He followed me. It was only a short drive to the apartment building, but how was I supposed to park and get in? I had to lose him.

With shaking hands, I reached for my seatbelt – doing 75 mph – it was raining so hard all I could see was his truck in my rear view. I lit a cigarette.

I ran a red light, cut off a couple cars and managed to catch a small break – so small he still saw me turn into the complex. I sped through the parking lot, praying to God nobody walked out in front of me.

I found a spot in the back, where it would be harder to find. I ran halfway to the door. There, I crouched down next to a truck, soaking wet, and waited for him to see my car. Once he noticed it and made his way to the back, I ran for the door. The security lock was broken – good for me, but good for him, too. I ran up the two flights of stairs as fast as I could. When I reached the top, I heard the main door open.

I ran down the long hallway and pounded on the apartment door. The Man opened it to find me drenched, shaking.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

I pushed my way into the apartment and quickly closed the door.

“He was waiting for me after work.” I answered.

He didn’t ask any more questions.

He just took me in his arms and held me as I started to sob.

The End.

I knew I had to make a decision on whether to be with The Punjabi or start hiding. But I feared going back to being broke. I didn’t want that life back. But I didn’t want this life either.

My decision came rather easily the day one of his store managers propositioned me.

“You do for me what you do for Punjabi,” he said.

“And what is that?” I shot back.

“You know.” He said, waiting for me to ‘catch on.’ “The money for the sex??”

My jaw dropped.

“Punjabi has gotten NO sex from me and neither will you. What the fuck is wrong with you people!?” I stormed out of the store.

Why would he tell people that? Why was he even telling people about me?

Because he needed to, in order to get information on me.

Suddenly, knew all the person details I’d gone to such great lengths to hide.

He would drive past the house I was staying at. He made no attempt to hide it. People started to wonder what was going on, but I just played dumb. Like we’d never even met.

He would show up at my job unannounced with random friends and family to introduce me to. He would show up alone with money and drugs and a plea for me to call. Or he would call me and ask, “Who is that you were talking to in the parking lot?” I started looking around the lots of surrounding stores as a precaution but never saw any of his vehicles. I figured he must have someone else watching me.

Then I started seeing his “friends” when I’d go out. At restaurants, bars, stores, parks – wherever I was – one of them was there, too.

One day when he called my work, I told him, “Don’t call me here anymore. This is my job and I don’t want to lose it because you keep calling me.”

“Why you care about that stupid job?” He said, “I take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself!” I said, “I don’t need you and I don’t want you to call me anymore!”

He stopped calling, but his friends didn’t. I got a call from a Pakistani girl telling me how stupid it was to blow him off. Then I started seeing his truck pointed directly at my work in a neighboring lot. I thought about calling the police, but he hadn’t really done anything wrong. I was just some hoodrat and he was a local businessman. My case didn’t seem viable enough to risk retaliation. So instead of fighting, I just took to hiding better.

While I didn’t quit my job, I changed up my schedule a bit. I read about stalking cases and adopted habits to help me get through.

I triple-checked every lock.
I screened my cell phone calls.
I always parked in well-lit areas.
I carried a knife.
My coworkers knew my schedule was never to be released and would give me rides when they could.
I was never “there” when I got a phone call.
I parked blocks away from where I really was.
I took roundabout ways and backstreets everywhere I went.
I watched my back every second of every day.
Even if I didn’t feel threatened, I was suspicious of everyone I met – wondering if they were a spy.

There were a few occasions that he’d see me driving down the road and he’d do whatever it took to follow me. Cutting people off, running red lights – whatever it took. Twice I lost him without any problems. Once he almost caught me.

After that chase, I concluded that he’d see me dead if he could. So I switched to a different store. I moved back in with my mom. I stayed far, FAR away from any store he might possibly own or have a connection to. I didn’t put anything in my name for a long time for fear that he would have a connection to find me.

Even after I’d settled down with The Man, I watched for him. When I was pregnant, I feared running into him even more, though it had been years since I had. He’d given me so many reasons to think he’d hurt me and very few to think he wouldn’t.

But I will always wonder in the back of my mind, Was he really a psycho – would he really have hurt me? Or was he just a sad old man, so infatuated that he didn’t know when to stop?

I’ll never know the answer to that, because he’ll never get close enough to tell me.

Better a thousand times careful than once dead. ~Proverb

Greed

Money can do funny things to a person. I’m not even talking Gold Fever here. Just a little bit can do a lot of damage.

I was so used to fending for myself and earning every cent I had. I was so used to being broke, it had become a way of life.

Suddenly, I was being paid solely for my presence. All I had to do was show up for a while and laugh at some jokes and I walked away with a handful of cash and a bag of coke. And I did that very often.

We’d go to the casino so he could play blackjack. There were the trips out of town for business meetings. Or he’d take me to MOA, where he’d buy me whatever I asked for.

I got to know The Punjabi a little more. He talked about my future and paying down my debt – I overheard a conversation with one of his friends about his plan to get my debt paid off so I could take out a large loan – I never quite figured out what that was supposed to be for. He also talked about me losing my “loser” friends. He said they were no good for me and they’d only bring me down. That pissed me off, but what really bothered me was when he’d talk about me meeting his family – that’s not why I was there.

I was there for the cherry flavored cigarettes that came in a tin. I was there for the unending drug supply. I was there for the money.

The thought did occur to me that I could probably marry him and live a plush life. I’d never have to work again. I’d have everything I wanted – but would I be happy? Could I bring myself to actually sleep with him?

No, I decided. But that didn’t deter me from continuing the strange relationship we’d established.

It wasn’t easy. I knew that someday, he would expect me to “pay” him back. But I always had a ready way out so I wouldn’t need to.

Then one day, he took me back to his brother’s house. “I need something.” He said.

I stood in the front room, assuming he would be ready to leave in a minute, but he coaxed me into sitting down. He sat very close to me and pushed his head up to mine to kiss me. I pulled away and tried to get up.

“Please!” He said as he grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me back. “Please, why?”

“I don’t want to do this here!” I loosened his grip and stood.

“Then where – we get hotel? My parents are at my home.” He looked anxious.

“No, I have to go. We just have to go.”

“Heartbreaker don’t want love.” He said sadly, “Heartbreaker just want money. How much money for you love me?”

“That’s not true, Punjabi! How could you think that about me!? You’re trying to get with me on your brother’s window seat! Aren’t I worth more than that? How could you insult me like that? I just want to go home – NOW!”

My attempt to turn the blame worked. Not only did he stop, he apologized profusely. “I sorry, please don’t be mad, I sorry, I am. I don’t think you like that”

But it also led him on. I let him believe there might be a chance for us. Now there was no going back to what we were. I had to follow through or get the hell away. I just wasn’t sure which way to turn.

The First Job

Wearing my tight Calvin Klein jeans and tall black boots with a low-cut white top, I pulled into the market’s parking lot.

The Punjabi swung in immediately after.

I climbed into his truck and he smiled at me.

“Very good,” he said, “look very good.”

The drive to Rochester, I tried to ignore him. He droned on about some crap going on with one of his stores. He always seemed to be talking, yet never revealed anything of importance. Like, where we were going.

We arrived at a building in a manufacturing district and parked in the dirt lot.

“Come with me.” He instructed.

His ‘business partners’ met us in the entrance and led us to a meeting room.

“This,” he laughed, “This is my driver!”

“Well, certainly is something to look at, isn’t she? Driving all she does?”

I smiled, but I wanted to punch him.

They got down to business and I spaced out, thinking of what I was going to do with the $250 he was paying me to sit through this. I was so used to being broke, the thought of having a little extra money excited me.

Before I knew it, the meeting was over and the men had invited us to get drinks at a bar just outside of town.

On the way there, I told The Punjabi, “I have to be home BY six. I have to meet my mom.”

“Oh, no problem, we be back early.” He promised.

Inside the dim smoky bar, people stared me down. I wondered what they were thinking as they silently watched us find a seat. The Punjabi’s associates pressed me to drink with them. I wasn’t about to tell them that I wasn’t 21 yet. I repeated, “I’m the driver,” to everyone that asked. But they kept pushing me until I ordered a beer.

I tried to be polite and witty and sweet. I played a game of pool and pretended to be interested in what they were talking about. I laughed at all their jokes and let them light my cigarettes for me. But soon it was nearing six o’clock.

I pulled The Punjabi aside, “You told me we’d be home by now!” I said.

“We go in a bit,” He replied.

“NO!” I got serious. “I have your keys and I’m leaving, whether you are in the truck or not.”

“Oh, settle down, Heartbreaker!” His attitude just pissed me off.

“Thirty minutes, Punjabi – then I’m gone.”

When his time was up, he was ready to go. I smiled and thanked everyone for the nice time and hurried to the truck.

Driving home, I literally had to push him off me. He was slobbering drunk, professing his love to me. “Why you no love me?” He asked. “I too old for you, Heartbreaker?”

“Go to sleep.” I said, the sickened tone in my voice was apparent. He did and thankfully slept the rest of the way.

When I reached my car, I asked him if he’d be okay to drive himself home.

“I be alright.” He said, and he apologized for acting like an ass.

“I just don’t need that in my life,” I replied.

“You need this though, don’t you?” He asked, handing me my pay.

The cash felt good in my hand. It was more than I made in a week, with a little “sugar” on top. And here, all it took was putting up with his shit for a little while.

“I see you later?” He asked.

He knew he would.

Laying Low?

After The Punjabi took me back to my car that morning, I decided to just stay away for a while. The last thing I needed was another guy “in love” with me.

I figured I could just stop in whenever his truck wasn’t there. But my first time back, he was there before I finished paying for my cigarettes. It was almost as if he’d been notified somehow.

Outside, he questioned why I never called him. “Then give me your number,” he said, “I won’t forget to call you.”

My lame excuses just weren’t enough to keep him away. He wanted to know where I lived, which store did I work at, what times did I work? I made my best attempt to dodge his questions.

He asked me to go for a ride, “We’ll talk business.” He said. I was starting to feel desperate. ’I’ll just go this one time and I’ll do better at dodging him the next time,’ I thought.

In the truck, he handed me a roll of bills and small bag of the white stuff. “For you, my Heartbreaker.”

He drove to a few different gas stations, each time bringing me inside and introducing me to the cashiers and showing me around. “This is The Heartbreaker,” he’d say, and go on to talk to the cashier in their language. Each time, he’d end up shouting at the guy about orders not coming in and the like.

When we left, he’d tell me all about how he acquired the store and I soon realized he owned several stores, not just the two I’d known about. I believe the total was in the 30’s somewhere, all throughout Minnesota and Wisconsin.

He told me about his long-time girlfriend who was in very poor health. They no longer had a working relationship. She was morbidly obese and couldn’t be with him intimately. But she was the first person in America to help him, to give him a chance. And for that, he promised to take care of her – and her parents and children – until she died. Something about that story made me think he might be a good guy.

Then he went on to tell me about others he’d helped out – and what happened to those who crossed him. The one that sticks out most in my mind was a guy fresh out of jail that needed a chance. The Punjabi gave him a job at one of his stores, but the guy was soon robbing him through a money order scheme. So The Punjabi’s men took him to the north woods, beat the shit out of him and left him there alone.

“I really better get back, I have commitments today.” I finally said.

“What you think,” he said as he pulled the truck alongside my car, “You want a job?”

“We’ve been through this.” My tongue was salty – I was fed up with him.

“No! Not that job,” he replied, “I need you to drive me.”

“Drive you??” I said, “You can drive.”

“I have big meeting in Rochester and boys, they like to drink. I need you drive so I don’t go to jail. I give you $250.”

“Fine.” I said, “When?”

“Friday, nine in the morning, I pick you up – not at my store, at the market.”

“Yep, Friday, okay. See you then.” I tried to hurry – my friends really were expecting me.

“Heartbreaker,” he called after me, “Look sexy, too.”

The Meeting

“You need work? I have work for you.” The Punjabi leered toward me as I pumped my gas. He was an older Pakistani man. Short, overweight and not very attractive, but clean and well dressed. He owned the gas station and convenience store that I frequented, but was rarely there.

“No thanks, I have a job.” I was short with him – it usually got the point across.

“Where you work?” He pressed.

“At a shoe store.”

He laughed and sneered “Shoe store? You a pretty girl, but you sell shoes.” He laughed again. “When you want a good job, you call me, I have good money for you. You dance, you make money – very easy.”

I looked at him with disbelief and restated, “No thanks.” Who the hell did he think he was? So, you own a couple gas stations and suddenly you’re better than me? You think you can insult my job, then offer to pay me to get naked – that’s the way to a girl’s heart for sure, call her a whore.

A couple weeks later, I happened to be alone on a Saturday night and stopped in at the store for some cigarettes. Out in the parking lot, he approached me again. “So, Heartbreaker, you think about my deal?”

As it turned out, I had. What’s the big deal anyway? So I’m hot. So people want to see me naked. So they’ll PAY me for it. I was young and I certainly wasn’t a prude, who was I to judge someone who does that for a living?

“A little.”

His eyes lit up, “Oh, yeah? Let’s go talk…get in.”

Against my better judgment, I got in the truck.

As he drove to an area I’d never been to, I started getting nervous. He pulled into the driveway of a big suburban-type home.

“This my brother’s home – his family is in vacation.” He saw the concern in my face and added, “It’s okay, we talk, that is all.”

Inside, I scoped out the house. It looked like you’d imagine a successful Pakistani family’s house to be. Modern American toys mixed in with religious candles and large portraits of Pakistani leaders. It eased my nerves a bit to know it was a family home.

He made me a drink and started talking money, “Other girl who does this, she not pretty as you. You will make much more. My American friends, they like the breasts. Other girl has too many drugs, she is too skinny. She like that crank – the meth? She gross, no breast. And still, she make a lot of money.”

He pulled out his big sack of coke and asked, “You do this?”

“Hell yeah,” I said and he cut my line.

He found a deck of cards and threw me a wad of cash. “Play blackjack.” He instructed. “You keep what you win, just don’t owe me or I’ll make you pay.”

“I’m not a gamblin’ kind of girl.” I said.

“You came here tonight.” He replied.

Touché.

I placed my bet.

We spent the rest of the night playing blackjack and talking. I tried to be interesting. I tried not to seem as green as I really was to his whole world. But no matter where I steered the conversation, he wouldn’t talk any more about the ‘deal.’

By the time the sun came up, I was burned out and ready to go home. I felt stale from all the alcohol and cocaine. I was embarrassed that I took him so seriously.

“That’s enough for me,” I said, “Should I call a cab or can you take me back to my car?”

It was then that he said, “Heartbreaker, I can’t let you dance for my men. I feel you here,” placing his hand on his heart.

“Oh, yeah?” I laughed, “You don’t even know me.”

He looked at me with a convicting glare. “I will,” he replied.

In my head I thought, ‘Great! I finally decide to do this and now he’s not even going to let me. Love. Blech! He’s probably going to get all obsessive now!’

Little did I know…


The Garden’s announcer says: Will Butrfly become a dancer? Will she tell The Punjabi to shove it? Tune in next week to find out.

Because I DO care what you think...

if i told you things i did before

told you how i used to be

would you go along with someone like me

if you knew my story word for word

had all of my history

would you go along with someone like me

Peter, Bjorn and John, "Young Folks"

Driving home from work Friday night, I had a revelation.

I’ve started a story here that NOBODY knows about. Remember, Kristina didn’t hear about it, The Man never asked any more questions?? I mean NOBODY.

It’s not so much that it’s bad, although it wasn’t a high point in my life. It’s just that I didn’t think anyone would understand. The few people who knew a little bit about my situation knew only that for a reason. They didn’t understand, they couldn’t understand, so I just kept it to myself. For years, I’ve had this chunk of my life where I kind of disappeared from “me” and nobody ever questioned it. Isn’t that strange?

What brought this on was seeing all the local hits I got that day. This disturbed me for two reasons: One, I’ve never actually told people in my family about my blog. I do talk about it occasionally, but I think they just think I’m talking about something else and I just let them think that. Seeing those hits made me wonder: Is that my mom? And: Would I want my mom to read this?

The second reason the ‘local attention’ bothered me was that The Punjabi is actually a little well-known in these here parts. Of course, that’s not his real name, but I’m not sure I’ve done much to cover his identity.

So I spent the weekend contemplating; Do I really want to finish the story? Do I want to put it out there the way I’ve written it? With all its insinuations and open-endedness? Do I really want to reveal this dark part of my life to the world?

Yes. Yes I do.

If I were to die tomorrow, there would be years missing out of my life that nobody ever knew. I’m not proud of everything I’ve done in life, but I did them. I can’t come off as pretending that my whole life I’ve been this Cheery Green Philanthropist. I made mistakes and I’m willing to own up to them. Those choices are what made me who I am today.

But as you’re reading, just do me a favor and remember that while I didn’t make great choices, I’m still a smart girl. That will be important. With that, the story will continue Wednesday.

**Also, WalkAmerica went great, except for the fact that my brand-new camera wouldn’t turn on. So I’m waiting for pictures from my mom before I post about that.**

Hunted

“I still don’t see anyone out there.” Jenny said as she walked into the back room of the shoe store. “Are you ready to go yet?”

“Yeah, just – ah – just give me a second. And thanks for waiting for me.”

She didn’t see him, but I knew he was out there. He said he would be when he called the store earlier. I lied about what time we closed, but he knew I was lying. And he had no problem waiting. He did it all the time.

The rain was pouring down when we made our move to lock up the store and get to our cars.

“Good luck – is that him?” Jenny asked before she got in her car.

“Shit – yeah – I gotta go, thanks!!” I yelled as I jumped in my Celebrity and raced out of the parking lot. He saw me. He followed me. It was only a short drive to the apartment building, but how was I supposed to park and get in? I had to lose him.

With shaking hands, I reached for my seatbelt – doing 75 mph – it was raining so hard all I could see was his truck in my rear view. I lit a cigarette.

I ran a red light, cut off a couple cars and managed to catch a small break – so small he still saw me turn into the complex. I sped through the parking lot, praying to God nobody walked out in front of me.

I found a spot in the back, where it would be harder to spot. I ran halfway to the door. There, I crouched down next to a truck, soaking wet, and waited for him to see my car. Once he spotted it and made his way to the back, I ran for the door. The security lock was broken – good for me, but good for him, too. I ran up the two flights of stairs as fast as I could. When I reached the top, I heard the main door open.

I ran down the long hallway and pounded on the apartment door. The Man opened it to find me drenched, shaking.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

I pushed my way into the apartment and quickly closed the door.

“He was waiting for me after work.” I answered.

He didn’t ask any more questions.

He just took me in his arms and held me as I started to sob.