Gary, The Convict

Let me set the scene...

Two nights ago, my roommate's friend from jail, Gary, stopped staying over. (He'd been here for a three-night stretch, which for him, is a LONG time out of the slammer). Because I am a rational human being with a healthy fear of death and/or mutilation, I was relieved. Because my roommate is not, I tried to feign casual curiosity about his absence.

"Is Gary gone?" I asked innocently. Melissa assured me that, yes, he's gone and out of her life forever because he pissed her off by displaying unforgivable behavior (which I can only assume was an unprovoked display of normalcy and/or kindness.)

Bear in mind, this kid has been to jail twice since our introduction a month ago. To be honest, I liked the guy at first. I've only seen him sober, a state which reveals him to be bright, charismatic, and well-spoken. But the second time he went to jail was for domestic abuse. That's when I became sure I didn't care what my impression of him was. I'm not interested in witnessing the Dr. Jeckyl/Mr. Hyde moment. Several times now,  Melissa has come home claiming she'll never see him again.

Of course, just a day or two later he's be back in her bed.

I've been getting pretty used to this cycle. (Translation: I've taken to sleeping with a knife under my pillow. My dates find it quite disconcerting). This morning, I woke up and heard a man's voice in Melissa's room that, most definitely, wasn't there last night. In the bathroom the toilet seat was up. Could it be Gary? No way. Two days ago Melissa said he's on PCP and has become violent, & crazy. Right? RIGHT?

Around noon, she stumbles into the kitchen and I whisper, "is that Gary in there?" She just sighs.

Oh shit, here we go, I think to myself.

And this is what happens next, I swear to God. Melissa tells me Gary got kicked out of his place at 3AM. Gary interrupts with a yell from her bedroom, presumably to defend himself. "I did NOT get kicked out, I f-cking left," he corrects. "I stabbed that big black guy, and then I left that f-cking place!"

Oh.

Okay.

You stabbed someone. Quite right. Did that myself just the other day, and damn if I'm not all tuckered out, so if you'll excuse me I'll just be going out this front door right here...

But now, unfortunately, I'm a hostage in this conversation with Gary, who wants to tell me the whole sordid story. "Come in here!" he shouts from Melissa's bed. Oh hell. I'm f-cking in a spot now, aren't I?

In Melissa's room, Gary recounts how he called the big guy "bro" and can't understand why the guy was annoyed. He confesses that he "hates all black people anyway," which I can't imagine worked in his favor. Apparently, Gary asked the guy to "shut up and go buy me some beer," (I like to picture this scene with Gary in a wife-beater, sitting on an old, Southern, wrap-around porch...feel free to do the same). I can tell by the way Gary stops abruptly and darts a glance at Melissa before the word "beer" that the sentence used to be, "shut up and go by me some crack." Anyway, the big man voiced some kind of dissent. Gary (who is 5' 11", but is certainly not someone I'd want to brawl with) decides he should "take it outside" with this 6' 4" tattooed guy. Not a choice I'd have made, but what I don't know is that Gary has a pen...and a plan.

In that order.

According to Gary, they fought, broke some furniture, and then Gary punched him in the face with a pen protruding from his knuckles. Point one: Gary. The big guy raged out and threw a chair that collided with Gary's face. Point Two: Large, Angry Black Man. Gary holds tight to his pen and cranks it into the guy's left side, just beneath the rib cage. Where the pen gets stuck and breaks. HOLY SHIT. Game, set, match: Crazy Gary.

I can't believe I'm I really hearing this...in my own apartment, no less. Melissa is laughing. I look at her, unable to speak words remotely resembling English. I decide I must be having a nightmare and need to wake up and reach under the pillow for my knife.

"Look, here's the ink still all over my hand," Gary boasts.

"Ballpoint?" I ask cordially.

Melissa smiles at me and shakes her head like you'd see a housewife in the mid 50's do when the puppy messes on the floor. “What, oh what, are we going to do with this little rascal?" she asks affectionately. Oh, I don’t know. Can we start by locking his crazy, motherf-cking ass out?!

Gary concludes his story with, "so then I left to go get a beer or something, to calm down. 7-Eleven didn't sell beer that late, so I grabbed a Mountain Dew. Drank it. Came here."

Wow. This guy's thought pattern is amazing. He assured me there's no need to worry, because the police weren't called. Oh, fantastic. Good to know my only hope for rescue has been evaded. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go load my glock.