Karm. . . . Stop crying, Karm, it’s okay. I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed. Just answer me this. . . . Why’d ya do it, Karm? Why’d ya do it?”
I was playing that conversation out in my head as I drove over to 662 Maryland Drive, got out of the car, and entered the gated property. But while I was in the backyard, peering into the window of a sitting room completely abandoned save for a cardboard box (a light rain drizzling on my head), it dawned on me: Maybe I was taking this a bit far. Maybe there is no “why.” Maybe some people are just assholes. And maybe I was turning nutty once again.
Growing up, at least once every year, I’d just snap. I’d hold shit together all year long, then something would set me off and I’d get arrested or fight the police or fight my principal, or get expelled or have some nervous breakdown.
And as I was losing it, I’d know in my head I was doing something extremely dumb. But I’d just keep going, because I had to. I couldn’t help myself. I had to see it through.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned coping mechanisms to deal with stress, like jogging and breathing and doing drugs and shit like that, and these episodes have since waned.
Standing there in this stranger’s backyard, on that fresh-laid sod, peeping into a window that wasn’t mine, it hit me. I was a cunt hair away from one of these episodes. I stopped. I looked around the backyard at the half-dug pool, at the shovels lying in the mud, at the rain-soaked plywood on the ground next to it.
I stopped and said out loud, “Jude, you’ve lost it again.”
I then walked away from that house, from out their backyard, out the gate, got in my car, and drove to the V Cut cigar lounge for a cup of tea. I blocked all her calls and never attempted to contact her again. I was back to normal.
Later that week, Ross told me he saw on Facebook that she died of brain cancer. I guess the emergency brain surgery couldn’t save her.
Rest in peace.
We didn’t really speak on her till months later, at the Tar Pit over whiskey.
Ross is smiling. He’s like, “Judo, I gotta tell you something.”
“Yeah? What?”
He goes into this whole story about Karma and how she got busted lying by some Canadian rapper; she pulled the same shit on him and he got a private investigator and Ross reached out to the dude. “. . . and then, they tracked her down to her house in Maine or Vermont somewhere. Peep this: turns out, she was just some little teenage girl named Lauren getting over on all these rappers. Case closed.”
I’m shaking my head. I say, “Hell naw. She was a teenager? That British accent had her sounding old as hell. She sounded like the BBC and shit.”
Ross is like, “Young as hell, Judo. A teen. A baby.”
I say, “I was on the phone with her a bunch. I phone-sexed her. I phone-sexed a fucking fifteen-year-old? Goddamn.”
He says, “Yup, probably, I don’t know how old she was. She was a teenager, that’s all I know.”
“Where she from again?”
“I don’t know, Vermont or something.”
I say, “A motherfuckin’ teenager.”
Ross is like, “Yeah . . . you phone-sexed a child, Judo.”
He’s laughin’.
I’m still shaking my head. “Goddamn. Now that I think of it, she did cuss a lot for going to Harvard.”
“You ain’t bust, though, did you?”
“Huh?”
“With the phone sex, you ain’t cum right?”
“Naw, naw, I faked that shit. I ain’t cum. I acted like I did; just trying to get her to bust so I could go to bed.”
He’s like, “You’re good then.”
We’re quiet for a second. I say, “I wonder if she faked cumming, too. She lied about everything else.” I look at Ross; he takes a drink. “She prolly faked that shit. That little lying motherfucker.” I take a drink. I say, “Ross if I couldn’t even get a fifteen-year-old off with my phone sex game, I just don’t know what I would do.”
I crack a smile. I’m just kidding . . . kind
I was playing that conversation out in my head as I drove over to 662 Maryland Drive, got out of the car, and entered the gated property. But while I was in the backyard, peering into the window of a sitting room completely abandoned save for a cardboard box (a light rain drizzling on my head), it dawned on me: Maybe I was taking this a bit far. Maybe there is no “why.” Maybe some people are just assholes. And maybe I was turning nutty once again.
Growing up, at least once every year, I’d just snap. I’d hold shit together all year long, then something would set me off and I’d get arrested or fight the police or fight my principal, or get expelled or have some nervous breakdown.
And as I was losing it, I’d know in my head I was doing something extremely dumb. But I’d just keep going, because I had to. I couldn’t help myself. I had to see it through.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned coping mechanisms to deal with stress, like jogging and breathing and doing drugs and shit like that, and these episodes have since waned.
Standing there in this stranger’s backyard, on that fresh-laid sod, peeping into a window that wasn’t mine, it hit me. I was a cunt hair away from one of these episodes. I stopped. I looked around the backyard at the half-dug pool, at the shovels lying in the mud, at the rain-soaked plywood on the ground next to it.
I stopped and said out loud, “Jude, you’ve lost it again.”
I then walked away from that house, from out their backyard, out the gate, got in my car, and drove to the V Cut cigar lounge for a cup of tea. I blocked all her calls and never attempted to contact her again. I was back to normal.
Later that week, Ross told me he saw on Facebook that she died of brain cancer. I guess the emergency brain surgery couldn’t save her.
Rest in peace.
We didn’t really speak on her till months later, at the Tar Pit over whiskey.
Ross is smiling. He’s like, “Judo, I gotta tell you something.”
“Yeah? What?”
He goes into this whole story about Karma and how she got busted lying by some Canadian rapper; she pulled the same shit on him and he got a private investigator and Ross reached out to the dude. “. . . and then, they tracked her down to her house in Maine or Vermont somewhere. Peep this: turns out, she was just some little teenage girl named Lauren getting over on all these rappers. Case closed.”
I’m shaking my head. I say, “Hell naw. She was a teenager? That British accent had her sounding old as hell. She sounded like the BBC and shit.”
Ross is like, “Young as hell, Judo. A teen. A baby.”
I say, “I was on the phone with her a bunch. I phone-sexed her. I phone-sexed a fucking fifteen-year-old? Goddamn.”
He says, “Yup, probably, I don’t know how old she was. She was a teenager, that’s all I know.”
“Where she from again?”
“I don’t know, Vermont or something.”
I say, “A motherfuckin’ teenager.”
Ross is like, “Yeah . . . you phone-sexed a child, Judo.”
He’s laughin’.
I’m still shaking my head. “Goddamn. Now that I think of it, she did cuss a lot for going to Harvard.”
“You ain’t bust, though, did you?”
“Huh?”
“With the phone sex, you ain’t cum right?”
“Naw, naw, I faked that shit. I ain’t cum. I acted like I did; just trying to get her to bust so I could go to bed.”
He’s like, “You’re good then.”
We’re quiet for a second. I say, “I wonder if she faked cumming, too. She lied about everything else.” I look at Ross; he takes a drink. “She prolly faked that shit. That little lying motherfucker.” I take a drink. I say, “Ross if I couldn’t even get a fifteen-year-old off with my phone sex game, I just don’t know what I would do.”
I crack a smile. I’m just kidding . . . kind
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