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Your things in my drawer
(Blakely)
My heart was racing and I kind of thought I might faint. Darren was scaring the hell out of me and I knew he had a gun, probably. I had one for ‘protection,’ it was in the closet upstairs, I didn’t even know if I remembered how to get into the gun safe, and what was I thinking about, escalating my drunk ex with a gun?
But he was scaring me, really bad.
I was worried a fight might break out, that this would get violent. I didn’t know what Liam would do, but he looked furious — then Darren shoved Liam, and Liam didn’t move.
His feet planted, his eyebrow twitched, he tightened his lips and looked stern — as stern as a bus-driver taking middle-school boys to camp two states over.
I warned, “Darren, I will call the police.”
He said, “Phweesh, you won’t — this is MY house. I want to go to bed in MY house. This asshole doesn’t get to stand in front of — blocking me from my house...”
He shoved on Liam’s chest again, Liam didn’t twitch a muscle.
Then Liam spoke. “This is no’ yer house, this is Blakely’s house, and she has invited me in.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t give her permission to—”
Liam said, “Ye daena live here, explain how that would work when I am here, invited by the woman with the key tae the lock? There is a beer bottle on the counter that I hae been drinking, my shorts are washin’ in the machine, and ye ken, Darren, can I call ye Darren?”
Darren looked confused. “No. You can’t—”
“Alright, Bawbags then, Bawbags, ye hae yer stuff moved out, yer dresser drawers were emptied, but now my clothes are in yer drawers. My great big socks are in the top drawer. M’toothbrush is in the cup beside the washroom sink, ye canna argue with it, Bawbags, yet here ye are on Blakely’s front stoop makin’ an arse of yerself.”
Darren wove dangerously, then said, “Yeah? Well...” He straightened his coat, turned, and stumbled down the steps. Then he turned back. “Fuck you Blakely, I never liked you, you are a bitch.”
“You’re a liar and a cheat and a drunk and an idiot, call me what you want, I’m happy to be rid of you.”
There was something about his gait, a purpose to his weaving stride, I yelled, “What are you doing, Darren?”
“...get my gun.” He was halfway to the car.
Liam yelled, “Shite mate, how come ye gonna cause trouble like that?” To me he asked, “He’s got a gun?”
I said, “In the glove compartment.”
“He won’t get that far. He can barely walk.” Liam called after him, “Seriously, mate, ye daena want tae get yer gun, I will kill ye with it. It will be embarrasin’ for ye, and ye canna drive. Ye will kill someone on the highway and how would I sleep on it?”
Darren made it to his car.
Liam said, “I do want tae sleep — I am so looking forward tae a proper good night’s sleep in m’new house, with yer wife and yer—”
Darren spun around and charged up the steps, swinging. Liam leapt to the side, causing Darren to pitch forward, grabbing the back of Darren’s shirt and flingin’ him face first down the hallway floor. Darren banged against the floorboard.
Liam stalked over where Darren sat, stunned, and dug through his pocket for the car’s key. He tossed it to me. “Go get his gun.”
I rushed out barefoot into a brisk Los Angeles November night, to scrounge through my ex’s glove compartment looking for his gun.
There it was, just like always.
I held it in my lap and took stock of the car. There was a bottle of bourbon on the front seat. He was lucky he hadn’t killed anyone.
I looked up at the house, Liam was dragging a sort of struggling Darren down the walk.
Darren was yelling, “Let go of me!”
