And that does it. Like a guitar string being twisted tighter and tighter until eventually the tension tears it apart, something in me snaps. In a sudden moment of clarity, I think back on all the years I just accepted whatever abuse he sent my way, especially when I was a child and unable to defend myself.
Enough.
I think about how I’ve allowed this sad excuse for a man and no excuse for a father to control so much of my mind.
“I washed the floors yesterday. They’re clean,” I tell him through my teeth, my blood now fully erupted. He turns back and looks at me, raising an eyebrow. Stomping his feet on the floor, little specks of dirt sprinkle around from the bottom of his shoe.
My breath picks up, and I watch as he removes the cigarette from his mouth and flicks the ashes onto the floor, eyeing me with a sardonic grin the entire time.
Michael Nasaro is the poster boy for an abusive, alcoholic waste of space. A devil who walks among us.
Ironically, he’s wearing nothing but a wife-beater tank that has seen better days and dirt-stained jeans. It’s still hot out this time of the year, so it’s not a shock that one would walk around in a muscle tee. But there is nothing “muscle” about this tee on him. He looks like a typical run down, nasty, dirty drunk.
The only thing I have in common with this man is his blood type and eye color. At least my mother had her looks going for her, but that’s about it because her IQ matched the room temperature.
”If you don’t like how the job is done, pick up the mop YOURSELF!” Standing up, I practically screech, “Put those chubby arms you use as beer holders to work and clean your own goddamn self!”
Shocked at my outburst, I stand tall, my fingers shaky. Before I lose my nerve or he reacts, I make a rash decision. My eyes dart side to side, and I take my coffee mug, still half-filled with coffee, and send it crashing to the floor.
Take. That.
The schoolgirl in me is probably sticking her tongue out at him right now.
An immense amount of shock flies through me. Shock that I just stood my ground, and shock that I had a voice. Feeling unsettled, I storm past him, throw on my boots, and grab my Jansport before I change my mind. To my surprise, he’s silent and staring at me in his own shock.
After coming face to face with a monster for so long, you learn to survive among it. Eventually, you find the monster’s face was just a mask, and only cowards wear masks for fear of being seen.
And a coward will always believe they’re the most intimidating man in the room...until they aren’t.
Still holding onto my defiance towards him, I twist the doorknob and pull it open before eyeing the floor where my mug is shattered, the coffee bleeding out around it. Then I look right at him and shrug, “Now you don’t have a choice but to clean it yourself. You want a maid? Check Angie’s List. Otherwise, fuck off.”
And I slam the door shut.
Two
Cameron
As I walk around Coney Island Avenue, the streets are packed with families, restaurants, delivery trucks, and the obnoxious sound of car horns.
Behind me, I hear two people arguing over a parking space. The sound of one of them slamming their car door makes my heart skip a nervous beat. I look down at my boots and notice one of them is untied again, so I step to the side and bend down to fix it.
Standing up, I hear a man’s gravely and deep voice right behind my ear.
“You have some change for the bus?”
I jump and turn around, instinctively shielding myself from whoever is behind me. A man, maybe early fifties, with brown, greasy hair that hangs past his ears, yellow teeth, and filthy clothes, stands before me.
He has a short beard, which seems to have some salt to it, unlike his head, and wrinkles lining his brown eyes.
I step back as much as I can to add space between us and bump into a traffic pole. My breathing is heavy and erratic due to our close proximity. I reach shaky fingers into my pocket to search for anything I can give him. I feel the coarse paper between my fingers and pull out a five-dollar bill.
“Here you go,” I choke out as I reach my hand towards him.
His eyes light up, and he retrieves the money while smiling at me kindly. I cringe in response to his facial expression. He gives me a sad look, almost offended by my reaction to him. I immediately feel guilty and attempt a smile, but I can’t control how my body responds to men. I don’t trust them.
“Thank you. God bless you.” Still keeping a smile, he turns and walks away with his earnings.
I continue forward, approaching a bus stop. On the side facing me, I spot an advertisement for our local college. I stare at the four smiling students holding their books as they stand in front of a large, glass-windowed building. The bottom of the picture says, ‘Kingsborough Community College... “Where the rest of your life begins.”
I let that stew for a minute in my head before an idea hits me. Where the rest of my life begins? I know exactly where I want to go now. Without giving myself time to think, I cross the street and head towards a place that I only dared to add to my list of things I wished I could do. Knowing this is probably all the confidence I’ll be able to muster for a while, I figure now is the best time to do this.
I refuse to stop my journey until I can see the community college.
The bright September sun is shining, and the leaves are changing
