I am a woman of flaws great and sundry, some of which, I have no doubt, you are already perfectly aware. I smoke too much, I drink too much, I cuss too much, I have a bad attitude, yadda, yadda, yadda. I could go on, but I’m getting depressed just thinking about it. Besides, my scarlet letters aren't the point. The point is supposed to be, believe it or not, my one spot of shining purity. I’m trying to highlight something good about myself, here. Self Esteem Management for Assholes! –by Queenie MacFarland. I feel certain you’ve seen it at Borders.
No, really. I honestly believe there is only one place upon which it will be safe for the unfortunate deliverer of my eulogy to tread, and that is upon the bedrock of my loyalty. Queenie, ladies and gentlemen, is loyal to a fault, sometimes a bit too violently so. Those people that I love have a rabid defender, whether they like it or not. You can insult me all day long, call me a liar and a charlatan and a whore, and I will most likely shrug it off, like a dog dropping a turd. Plop. If, however, one is so foolish as to insult or impugn a friend of mine in my hearing, or, God help you, a member of my family, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. I go into some kind of neocortically pre-programmed Scots-Irish overdrive, a blinding lust for haggis made of the stomach-linings of my enemies. I can’t help it. If I love you, I love you. I’m sticking with you.
Now, all this is not to say that I have been in the habit of fighting. Oh, heavens, no. In the sphere in which I was reared, a woman seen to fight has just performed her own caste excommunication. Ladies do not fight. That is for Redneck Trash. You behave. If you want revenge, you must plan a social humiliation, as befits a young woman of your station. Along with this pap, though, I took an unavoidable infusion of the old punk-rock sensibility from the pop-culture in which I grew up. The two are incompatible, if you think about it, and some crucial piece of the lady-training just would not stick. The violence of our time stirs the chthonic soup within, making my guts boil and pucker ominously behind a camouflage of lipstick and pearls.
Just ask my mother. One Saturday afternoon when I was a junior in college, I’d driven to my parents’ house early in the morning, for brunch. After we ate (and after I made a discreet trip to the basement to fire up the Sneak-A-Toke and do a bump), mom and I decided to make a run on the mall, so we took her Audi downtown to shop. As we were leaving the mall, backing out of our parking space, a kid in a Honda came flying past - literally, driving about forty miles per hour through a mall parking lot on a crowded afternoon. Mom slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting the guy. Once he’d gone by, mom backed on out and we headed out of the lot. The little punk who had almost hit us was waiting for us, waiting with his window down. My window was down, too, and as we pulled level with him, he leaned his bullet-shaped head out of the window and spat, “you fucking cunt!” at my mother.
Before I knew what was happening, really, my body was contorting itself and I was out the window, like Dracula flowing through a crack in a castle wall. The guy backed up, but not before I landed a flying kick on the bastard’s driver’s side mirror, knocking it to the ground. In a flash, I'd picked it up, and hurled it into his windshield, the impact leaving a considerable crack. As the little fool hurriedly backed away, I found myself screaming at him, "she's not the fucking cunt, asshole, I am! Come back here, you pussy! Come back here and act like a man!"
Oh, the shame. I didn’t think about it, I didn’t even know what I was doing. He insulted my mother, for christ's sake, what was I supposed to do? The whole thing was over in seconds. Mother was mortified. I mean, head-hung, red-facedly mortified. Also, I broke two nails. A black day, indeed.
Violence is not my métier, however. I can only remember one time in my adult life when I was provoked to do violence upon a person, and that was a severe case with extenuating circumstances. It was again my pig-headed loyalty - and a liberal mix of narcotics - that drove me to act like an ass in a public place. Don’t tell mom, but I’d like to tell you the story – you Confessor, you - it happened about a year after I’d graduated from college, back in the heavy partying days that we’ve only begun to discuss here at Inblognito. That, however, is another post altogether.
Posted by Queenie at November 20, 2004 11:34 PM