I justified his behavior even further by convincing myself that, other than the violence, he was a good man-he kept a job, he drank, and he drugged-all I ever wanted in a man. I knew nothing about standards, principles, respect, or boundaries. I even began to accept as true his own reasoning: that I deserved to get hit because I insisted on hitting back. No one ever told me that no woman deserves to get hit, period.

The people at work either didn't see the signs of abuse, or ignored them; most likely because, like most people, they didn't want to get involved. Actually, though, making the decision to mind their own business was probably a good thing. Because if they had said something to me, I would have most certainly cussed them out for getting in my business. I absolutely hated folks in my business.

Still, no one said anything about the black eyes and busted lips. No one ever told me that I didn't have to live that way or take that shit. Even friends that knew about Tommy's behavior failed to school me about domestic violence. Some said nothing at all, others laughed and teased me about it. Take my two closest friends, Mona and Rose, for instance.

Although the three of us had been very close throughout elementary school, we'd all lost contact after graduating sixth grade: I was given to the sperm donor and shipped off to Lancaster; Rose's family moved to Chula Vista, the small town in southern San Diego County where I'd lived when I'd gotten emancipated; and Mona's mom placed her in a school in a distant district. But shortly after Tommy and I had gotten married, I ran into to Rose buying a dime bag. Although we'd both often copped at the same spot, we'd never before run into each other. So, when we first saw each other, we both stopped dead in our tracks, eyes wide as we stood staring, mouth open as if to speak, but unsure of what to say. I finally broke the ice.

"Hey, girl, what's up!"

"Vette?" she asked unbelievingly. "Is that you?" She paused, then said, "I heard you died."

Dead? Me? Who the fuck started that rumor? Then I remembered that in a drunken stupor I had. You see, I sometimes still used "La'Vette"-usually to disguise myself when engaging in illegal activity-like buying dope (didn't want the lowlifes to know who I really was). A few months before, I'd stolen some heroin from a dealer named Sly. Shit, it wasn't like it was my fault. He was the one who'd left several balloons out on the table in plain view as he went into the back to get change. Several days later I learned he'd put a five-hundred-dollar hit out on me. I was extremely flattered that someone thought my miserable life was actually worth five hundred dollars. Still, once I'd overheard enough people talking about collecting the money when they found this "Vette" chick, I took the hit seriously. In an effort to save my ass, I started the rumor that the chick named Vette had been killed by an L.A. dope dealer for stealing his shit. It never occurred to me that people would actually believe it. But listening to Rose, it seemed they had.

"Naw, girl, I ain't dead-'less you dead too!" We both started crackin' up laughing.

We shared a joint and a couple of 40s as we got caught up on each other. As Rose went through her history, it became apparent that, besides the tragic death of her father who'd been killed shortly before my mom died, she'd had a normal adolescence: boys, high-school dances, zits, etc. She now had a good job working in the plumbing business.

When it came time to catch up on my history, I had to make a quick decision as to which story to tell: the hellacious truth or the "Marcia Brady" version. It took only a second to decide which it would be because talking with Rose, reminiscing about the "good ol' days," brought up warm, happy feelings. Sitting there, gettin' high, turnin' up 40s, laughin', and kickin' it with an old friend-a friend who knew me before Lancaster-I didn't want to fuck up the moment, so I gave her the "Marcia Brady" tale. Like everyone else, she fell for it. I also told her about my decision to take back my original birth name.

Once we'd caught up with each other, she asked if I'd kept up with Mona. I told her I didn't know where Mona, or anybody else, was for that matter. Nor did I care.

"Cup!" she yelped, obviously stunned by my callousness. "How can you be so heartless?"

"Friends are like buses," I uncaringly replied as I took a hit off the joint, "if you miss one, sooner or later, another will come. The names of the routes change, but the destinations don't. It will always cost something to ride-nobody rides for free. And, they'll leave your ass if you don't get with the schedule."

Realizing I was telling the truth, or maybe it was the Old 8, Rose cracked up laughing. Her laughter was contagious, so I joined in. Soon, we were both laughing so hard, tears were streaming down our faces. We laughed loud and hard for what seemed like forever.

Once we were able to compose ourselves, she told me what she knew about Mona. She said Mona's mom still lived in the same house she did when we were in elementary school. We decided to roll by and see if Mona wanted to smoke a joint with us. We stopped and scooped up Tommy (who had been angrily sitting at home waiting for me to return with the weed) and drove to Mona's mom's house.

Mona's mom said that Mona had gotten married and moved to an apartment with her husband, James. She called Mona, who squealed when I got on the phone. She gave us directions and made us promise to come right over. We showed up at her apartment, where I, Rose, Tommy, Mona, and James all got acquainted and reacquainted while smoking blunts and drinking bourbon, vodka, and gin.

That night, while drinking and getting high, I looked around the room at my new crew. I decided that Mona, Rose, and James would be good friends for Tommy and me to have-especially since, like us, they all had jobs and so were also "responsible." I immediately cut loose all of my "loser," nonworking friends. I, Mona, and Rose became inseparable.

The new crew worked out great: we all worked, and got high regularly and constantly, though at first all they did was smoke weed and drink.

But even Rose and Mona, my two closest friends, failed to school me about domestic violence. I think partly because our constant boozing and doping caused them to not take my and Tommy's fighting seriously. On top of that, they never actually saw any physical abuse-at least, not at first. The only clue that I'd been in some kind of physical altercation was the fact that I sometimes walked very slowly, as if I were very sore or in great pain. I being the mean, fighting drunk that I was, Mona and Rose chalked it up to another ass-whuppin' I'd gotten from callin' out some big dude at a club, or to another one of my frequent drunken tumbles. They had no idea that Tommy was the big dude doing the ass-whuppin'.

I can't blame them for their navete because I never admitted to any abuse-at least, not at first-mostly because I was too embarrassed. I prided myself on being streetwise, for having raised myself from the age of eleven, and for successfully surviving the game. And being from one of the downest sets in South Central, L.A., there was no way I could admit to an ass-whuppin'. Besides Tommy wasn't always the one doing the hitting. Sometimes, he had to struggle to keep me from beating the shit out of him because there were plenty of times when I was drunk, angry, and in my renowned "fuck-the-world-and-you-too" mood. During those times, I was suicidal, in that I didn't care if I lived or died; as well as homicidal, in that I wanted to take someone with me. Unfortunately for Tommy, that "someone" was usually him. So he'd spend the night fighting me off and being afraid to go to sleep (I'd told him of my previous attempts to kill both Larry and Diane). Our relationship was so toxic and unhealthy that we took turns being the batterer. The fight's aggressor was determined by who was the highest, drunkest, most jealous, or angry. Although we took turns throwing blows, I usually got the worst of it. Still, we managed to keep the violence a secret for a while.

But it soon became impossible to hide the black eyes and bloody lips. When James figured out what was going on, he said that "grown men shouldn't get in other grown men's business." He never said another word to me or Tommy about our fighting, except to joke that Tommy shouldn't let me "whup on him like that."

When Rose learned what was going on, she kept quiet. She understood both my hitting Tommy and his hitting me. She'd watched family members endure physical abuse, and yet they had stayed in the relationships. Those experiences taught her to "shut her mouth and mind her own business." When Mona found out, she just teased me about it-trying to make me smile.

Problem was, I was usually in too much pain to smile. Despite the violence, I refused to leave Tommy-for good, anyway. In my mind, my hitting him wasn't a reason to leave. His hitting me was another story. Oh, don't get me wrong; I left his ass all right. In fact, I left him every time he hit me. I packed up all of my raggedy shit and took off for Mona's or Rose's, who would put me up for a few days. But I was always home by Thursday, because Tommy got paid on Thursdays and I knew we'd be getting high.

And get high I did. Shortly after establishing my new crew, I decided that my year hiatus from crack should be up. I hadn't stopped for a whole year; it was more like ten months. Still, I was proud of myself for having restrained from the drug for that long. So I began hitting the pipe again, it quickly got out of hand. I figured I just needed to try something different.

"Maybe we should switch between premos and the pipe," Tommy announced one day. (Premos are crack-laced blunts.) Shit, his idea made sense to me.

"Let's try it," I said firmly, mistakenly believing that altering how I did a drug would allow me to control using it.

What I hadn't yet realized, though, was the type of drug I used and how I used it didn't matter. Once I started getting high on anything, I could not stop. But I was determined to control it.

Within months, my crack use was right where it was when I'd stopped ten months before, and getting worse. It wasn't long until, just as before, every dime I had was going toward it-regardless of what form it was in-and all my time was spent smoking it, including time I was supposed to be spending at work. Jack finally became completely fed up with my absenteeism and tardiness; not to mention my frequent mistakes. It got so bad that he said I was no longer even worth the pennies he was paying me.

Infuriated that I'd missed six days in less than two weeks, Jack fired me, but not before angrily warning me that I had a "serious problem" and needed "serious help." However, he said he felt sorry for me, and since I'd worked for him so hard for almost a year, he wanted to help me out a little. So he decided to be nice and not fire me right away. Instead, he informed me that he was giving me two weeks' notice.

"What's that mean?" I snapped. I'd never before received a "notice" so I was unsure as to what that entailed. Jack gladly told me what it meant-I'd be fired in two weeks. I wasn't angry. In fact, I was grateful for the "help," especially since, in my mind, if I could find another job before the two weeks were up, I could quit! Keeping my vow to never again be fired, I immediately set out to find another job.

- Dave Curnow was a partner in a law firm located in the office building directly across the street from Jack's. Dave, in dire need of a secretary, placed a newspaper ad, which I came across while sitting at the corner bar checking the classifieds. So I doctored up my resume, extended the length of time I'd actually worked for Jack to three years, lied about the length of my stay at other jobs, and set up an interview.

Unlike Jack's office, which was only one of several small suites on the floor, Dave's firm took up four entire floors. And unlike at Jack's firm, where I worked in the dual capacities of receptionist and secretary, Dave's firm had a real receptionist-a pretty young white girl. All she did was sit behind a huge beautiful desk, answer the firm's numerous phone lines, and greet clients.

She looked at me nastily when I asked for the office manager. I don't know if it was my constant sniffing and wiping my nose (I'd tooted right before arriving) or my miniskirt that made her scrunch up her nose and look at me as if I'd pissed in her breakfast. Whatever the reason, I immediately got the message that she didn't like me.

"Does she know what this is concerning?" she snapped as she stood up from her seat to glare more closely at my miniskirt and wrinkled blouse.

"Does she know you got on all that damn makeup?" I snapped back as I leaned over the large desk to glare at her much-too-heavily-applied cosmetics.

She sucked her teeth and threw a finger at one of the big soft leather chairs that sat around the waiting area. I decided that I should probably wait till after I got the job to start a fight. I plopped down on one of the chairs and waited for the office manager. When she arrived, she seemed to be a bit taken aback by my attire, but she shook my hand and led me to Dave's office. As we walked through the hallway, I was impressed with the decor. This was a real law office. The corridors were lined with the large offices of the attorneys. Directly across from each office was a secretary's station.

She led me into a very nice office with a big desk, fancy chairs, and a large bookshelf that held lots of books. Behind the desk sat a handsome white man who looked to be in his early forties, gray strands streaking his thick black beard and thinning hair. But instead of appearing old, the gray actually made him look very distinguished. His nice physique was also immediately obvious. I figured he must regularly work out. Although he was noticeably well built, he didn't appear to be very tall. So when he stood to shake my hand, I was shocked at his height. He was at least six one.

Tall, built, and handsome! I shamelessly said to myself as he gave me a wide, warm smile and introduced himself as Dave Curnow.

Dave wasted no time jumping into the interview. He seemed absolutely thrilled with my resume-and the three letters of reference I'd created, but I got the feeling that he was not as impressed with my attire. In fact, I began to believe it made him a little uncomfortable because he kept shifting in his seat, clearing his throat, playing with the pens on his desk, and making an obvious effort not to look at my legs protruding out from under the miniskirt.

After going over my resume, there were a few moments of uncomfortable silence. Then he suddenly asked why I wanted to leave Jack's. I replied that I was looking for more of a challenge-and more money. I lied about the amount of money I'd earned at Jack's, raising my salary by five dollars an hour. I made it very clear that I wasn't willing to take less money than I was already making. Dave said he understood. After a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, he stated that he was also impressed with my communication skills and professional attitude. However, he said, he was still interviewing, so someone from the firm would get back to me within a couple of weeks.

I guessed that not a lot of people were busting down Dave's door for the position because three days later, the firm's office manager called and offered me the job. And the office manager had even more good news: to ensure I'd take the job, they offered me a dollar more an hour than what I'd told them I'd been making at Jack's. Hot damn! In less than two weeks, I'd gotten a position with a larger, more prestigious firm AND gotten myself a six-dollar-an-hour raise.

I immediately quit Jack's and started with Dave. Not being one for long good-byes or staying in touch with folks, I walked in, announced that I quit, turned on my heels, and walked out before anyone could respond.

I never saw Jack, Todd, or Gloria again.

Damn, gurl, you're good! I told myself that night while smoking premos and drinking bourbon. I'd lasted longer with Jack than I had with any other employer. I was definitely getting better; there was NO way I could have a drug or alcohol problem.

Little did I know, I was plummeting myself into an even deeper living hell.

38.

THE VIOLENCE BETWEEN me and Tommy was getting worse. So was our drinking and using. We were forced to move to different apartments almost every six to eight months. We were always late on bills. We never had any money. We never had any food. We never went anywhere. We never did anything except drink, use, party, and occasionally, work. We needed a plan. It wasn't long before one came to me.

I was talking to Daddy one day when he blurted out that he was sick of living with Lori. Kelly's son, Jason, was spoiled rotten; Lori gave him full rein and let him wreak havoc throughout the house. Kelly was still living with them for free, and refused to work or go to school. Daddy said that he was tired of taking care of grown folks. On top of that, he'd rekindled his relationships wit' ho's-though just for sexual relations this time around; he wasn't dealing or having "business arrangements." Still, he knew that to enjoy complete, continual fun, he needed to get out of his marriage. Being the fast thinker and opportunist that I was, I spoke up immediately.

"What about moving in with me and Tommy?" I asked. I didn't bother talking to Tommy about it. No need to. Since being married, we'd moved at least three times because we'd smoked up the rent money. And we were getting ready to be evicted yet again. So I knew Tommy would be down for any plan that reduced the amount of money we'd end up paying for rent. Daddy said he'd think about it and would get back to me.

The following month, we moved. Two weeks later, Daddy moved in with us. Daddy's moving in didn't require us to change our lifestyle at all. I never felt like I had to hide my drinking and using. I was grown and in my own home. Nobody told me what to do in my own home. Besides, it wasn't as though Daddy didn't know about my lifestyle. Anyway, he wasn't worried about us. He was dating hos again. So I stayed out of his business and he stayed out of mine-including my and Tommy's ferocious fights. Though Daddy never actually saw Tommy hit me, he heard the hollering, heard furniture breaking, and saw the police making their way up our walkway.

"You're [They're] grown and you're [they're] married," he would respond when I (or the police) would ask why he never intervened to stop us from fighting.

Daddy was smart to stay out of our fights. If he had interfered, I'd have cussed his ass out, just like I did the police when they showed up at my door, talking about "somebody's complaining about the noise and fighting." The police never did anything. Realizing we were both drunk and high, the police would just calm us down, admonish Tommy to "behave himself," then leave, warning us to "keep it quiet." And we would-for a while.

I liked the way the police handled our fights. I hated and distrusted cops, and didn't want them at my house for any reason. Even my "business partners" weren't allowed in my home. But it wouldn't be long before Tommy's violence would escalate to a point where I was no longer cussing out the police, I was calling them.

- Tommy and I were trying to live with some sort of normalcy. With Daddy's help on the rent, we weren't officially evicted anymore. Actually, we just made sure to move before getting the eviction notice. That way, Daddy never caught on to why we were moving. He just knew we sometimes moved quickly and quietly. He never questioned and we never volunteered anything. I'd just come home one day and say, "com' on, Daddy, we found something better." And we'd pack up our shit and move; though Daddy's helping with the rent allowed us to stay put a lot longer than usual.

Soon, all of the pretty new furniture Tommy and I had bought to celebrate our new jobs disappeared. In a crack-induced frenzy, we'd sold it for a third of what it was worth and used the money to buy more crack. Within two months of starting our new jobs, our house was completely empty-again.

Daddy often noticed that furniture and other items would be there one day and gone the next. But he never questioned us about it. "You guys were grown!" he told me years later when I asked him why he never said anything. He was right.

Besides, one time one of his hos stole our shit. It was a chick named Tina. Daddy really liked her and brought her home more than the others. Tina and I got along fabulously, so I didn't complain when she began to stay days at a time. I even began to consider her a friend-something you don't do with dope fiends. But I was high all the time and was slippin' on my street rules. One day we came home from work, and all our shit was gone-TV, stereo, even Daddy's gun. Now, I was known for selling my shit, but I knew I hadn't sold it this time. Come to find out, Tina had stolen it while we were at work. We knew it was she because a little neighbor kid saw her and identified her for the police. The police said Tina and her crew had hit three houses in the area in two weeks.

"I'll be damned!" I shouted when Daddy told me the kid had identified Tina. "How could the bitch rob ME? I shared my dope with her! I shared my Schlitz with her!"

But after thinking about it for a while, I realized that I'd actually been kind of lucky because, after all of the houses I'd robbed, this was the first time it'd ever happened to me. So actually, I couldn't really get mad. I guessed what they said was true-"What goes around comes around." But I vowed if I ever saw that bitch, I'd whup her ass. Fortunately for her, I never saw her again. Several days later Daddy and the cops set up a sting and Tina was arrested. She copped a plea bargain and pled guilty to that charge and the burglary of two other houses. In exchange, they dropped several warrants and failures to appear in court. Her plea got her a reduced sentence and she was shipped off to prison.

I think I was more pissed off by the fact that in stealing my shit, Tina was able to sell it for dope, robbing me of the "right" to do it instead. But something good came out of Tina's burglary. Unbeknownst to us, we had renter's insurance. Tommy was complaining to our agent that we didn't have the money for that month's car insurance because our apartment had been robbed. It was then that our agent stated that, just the previous month, we'd added a renter's insurance policy. Luckily for us, we hadn't had it long enough to lose it because of our failure to pay. The agent said that if there was a police report, the insurance would replace everything that was taken. Tina's robbery was perfect timing. Of course we claimed things that we never had and Tina never took: we claimed three TVs, VCRs, and stereos (one of each for the living room, our room, and Daddy's room), telephones, two microwaves, blenders, pictures, etc. Without question, the insurance replaced it all. So through Tina's robbery, we ended up with three times as much stuff. Of course, we sat looking at all our new stuff and swore that this time, we wouldn't sell any of it. And we didn't-for almost three months.

- I liked working for Dave. He was a litigator like Todd. But, unlike Todd, he was a partner, which meant he had more pull. Though I made a lot more money working for Dave than for Todd, I did a lot less work-for several reasons. First, he did most of his own work as did the female associate, Rhoda, who worked with him. Every now and then they'd ask me to file something with the court or finalize a letter, but they were pretty much self-sufficient-which meant we got along fabulously. And unlike at Jack's firm, where I had to answer all of the phones, with Dave's firm, the full-time receptionist did that. And the firm had a file clerk whose sole job was to update the files. They even had calendar clerks who kept up with essential deadlines and reminded attorneys of court appearances.

Still, some work from me was required. But, this wasn't a problem. Doing speed made working no problem. The only problem I had with working with Dave was that, sometimes, I had absolutely nothing to do; though no one ever knew it because of the way I scurried from here to there, moving fast, talking fast, and sweating a lot. In fact, I stayed "on the go" so much, everyone else really thought I was busy.

Though I was able to fool people about my workload, I wasn't able to fool them about my size. People soon began commenting on my astonishing thinness: I was 5 feet, 512 inches tall, weighed about 120 pounds, and wore a size 4. I started trying to disguise my size and weight by wearing two sets of pants or oversized dresses. But no matter what I tried, my thinness showed through. I was well aware that one of the side effects of speed was loss of appetite, but I was still convinced that, since I wasn't "hooked" on speed, it couldn't possibly have been the cause of my thinness. So whenever I was questioned about it, I'd shrug my shoulders and respond that I honestly didn't know why I was so thin. One day, Shirley, a coworker, told me she knew why.

I was standing in the kitchen washing coffee cups. It wasn't my job to clean the staff kitchen. The firm actually had a full-time person to do that. But I was bored and tweaking and needed something to do with my hands. I'd wandered into the kitchen, saw the dirty dishes, and thought, What the hell, washing can be fun!

Why I had no problem washing other people's dishes when I refused to wash my own, I'll never know.

Unbeknownst to me, Shirley had been standing in the doorway watching me for a while. She startled me by asking how I stayed so thin. When I shrugged and said I didn't know why, she responded that she knew why, all right.

Her comment startled me so bad that I had to stop washing dishes. I turned and stared at her.

Did she know about the crack, crank, and pills? I held my breath as I waited for her answer.

"It's your metabolism!" she exclaimed. "Of course, that's it! You have a high metabolism!"

Metabo-who? I was used to people making snide comments about my weight. I couldn't see anything wrong with my size-I thought "thin was in"-so I usually just ignored them or blew them off as being jealous.

"That and the way you run around!" She continued, excited that she'd solved the puzzle. "I've watched you move. You don't just stand up. You JUMP up!"

So that's it, I thought. Sure, it all makes sense now. That's why I'm so skinny. I've got a high metabo-something!

From that day forward, it was the answer I gave when questioned about my size. And it was an answer that everyone seemed to accept and no one ever questioned-including me.

- The best thing about working at a large firm was that I got more vacation and sick time. Instead of the one-week vacation I got at Jack's, I got two weeks at Dave's. And my sick days more than doubled, from five to twelve! Plus, I got three "personal days," which I could use for personal reasons, like doctor appointments or a sick spouse. I also got two floating holidays: my birthday and my annual anniversary date, which I could use any time I wanted. And on top of that, the office was closed for every state and federal holiday. All in all (not even counting bereavement leave and holidays), I could legally take off twenty-seven days a year! Of course, with my frequent need for time off that wasn't nearly enough time. Still, it was three times as many days as I'd gotten at any of my previous gigs. But, it wasn't just the fewer job tasks and additional days off that made me like my new job. I also liked Dave as a person. He was very easygoing and seemed to accept me just the way I was. He soon got used to my dressing style and once even stuck up for me when he'd heard that other staff and attorneys were complaining about my inappropriate attire, my extremely loud voice, and periodically foul attitude. So like everything else new in my life, things went well for a little while.

It wasn't long before the extra money at Dave's wasn't enough. I had to come up with another hustle. The one I found I wasn't even looking for; it came to me: credit cards.

Yes, credit cards! Somehow, credit card companies discovered that not only did I have a legitimate job that paid money, but that I didn't have any debt. They started sending me "pre-approved" credit card applications for every type of card-department store cards, gas cards, jewelry cards-all of which I gladly accepted. I fell in love with them. It was like getting stuff for free-you walked into a store, bought whatever you wanted, flashed your card, and walked out with the booty. Then, when the bill came, you didn't have to pay what the merchandise actually cost, you only had to make a minimum payment! What a concept!

Unfortunately, the gas and light and telephone company didn't take department store or gas credit cards. And my partying soon prevented me from paying those bills. One day, I came home and the lights wouldn't come on. At first, I thought the lamp just needed another light bulb.

"Cup, every bulb couldn't have blown out!" Tommy screamed, obviously blaming me for the complete darkness, "They've cut the fucking lights off!"

"Well, don't blame me!" I screamed. We started arguing over whose fault it was that the bill hadn't gotten paid. I stormed outside to get some air. Immediately next to our apartment was the building's laundry room. Since the apartment building only housed six apartments, the laundry room wasn't very big; it held one washer and one dryer. I hopped up on the washer and began to think. How the fuck were we going to get electricity with no money? As I pondered my dilemma, my eyes scanned the small room. That's when it came to me.

I rushed inside and began scrambling through the junk drawer in the kitchen. Luckily, it was still light enough outside to provide enough light for me to see.

"What are you doing?" Tommy snapped.

Ignoring him, I kept rummaging. Finally, I found what I was looking for-an extension cord. I hoped it was long enough for my purpose.

I ran back outside with the extension cord and plugged it into the outlet in the wash house and walked back into the house with the other end. It came to rest just inside the front door. But, there was still a problem: the cord was so thick, it prevented the door from closing all the way.

"Oh, great, genius!" Tommy sarcastically snapped, "We'll have electricity but get killed by the burglar who gets in through the open door!"

His sarcasm was pissing me off. Besides, I thought I'd come up with a great idea-free electricity.

"You got a better idea!" I screamed as I slammed the television plug into the extension cord. He paused for a second. We didn't have any money. It didn't take him long to admit that we had no other choice.

For the next couple of nights, we used the laundry room outlets for our source of electricity. Although we did pay the light bill when Tommy got paid, our drugging and boozing forced us to take advantage of laundry room electricity many more times. In fact, it became our fall back plan when we intentionally smoked and drank up all of the gas and light money. I went to the thrift shop and stocked up on extension cords so that whenever our lights got cut off, the house was full of cords. Each bedroom and bathroom had two extension cords into which all electrical items were plugged. The living room and kitchen each had three. The numerous cords sprawled all over the house looked like piles of lil brown spider webs that haphazardly coiled into one long one leading out to the wash house.

It took a while for the neighbors to catch on to what we were doing. Once they did, they kept quiet and like good neighbors minded their own business. No one ever complained to the owners and no one ever said a word to us about our "secondary" electricity source. And I, of course, thought I was a genius!

- My genius didn't last long. I thought I had all of my shit together, but my life was quickly spiraling down a slippery slide. The first push down the slide was bereavement leave, which I'd never heard of until I got to Dave's firm. I was walking the halls looking for something to do with my hands when I overheard two employees talking about another employee whose mother had died. It was during that discussion that I learned about bereavement leave-paid time off I could take whenever a relative died. The downside was that it only applied to close relatives: parents, grandparents, children, and siblings. The upside was there was no limit to the number of times an employee could take it. And if the deceased family member lived in another state, the employee was given even more time off for traveling. Of course, most people don't have such bad luck that they needed more than one stint of bereavement leave a year. But then again, I wasn't most people.

I immediately set a plan in motion to use my newly discovered information, though I promised myself to never kill off anyone I loved. So my mother, her mother, and Jr. were off-limits. As for "father," well, every birth certificate has a place for "father," never for "daddy." Since I loved my daddy, I couldn't kill him off, but my "father"-the sperm donor-was open game. I decided to kill him first.

Within the next ten months, I missed around fifty-five days of work due to several serious "illnesses" and a rash of out-of-state tragic deaths: I lost my father, his mother and father, and a brother-all of whom lived in the eastern portion of the country. Dave was always very understanding and compassionate. He even gave me money to help with traveling expenses when my father and each of my grandparents died. Others in the firm, however, weren't so sympathetic. The secretaries, who in my opinion paid entirely too much attention to my attendance, complained about my excessive absenteeism. The partners, always cognizant of employee time off, resented me for taking so much paid time off. But what could the firm do-tell my family not to die?

At first, Dave tried to stick up for me. Whenever they pressured him to get rid of me, he fought on my behalf by insisting that they were mistaken about me and that I was a good worker when I was there. Then, to console them, he'd call me into his office and give me a "straighten up and fly right" speech. He'd start out by saying how sorry he was for whatever tragedy I'd suffered that month. Then he'd go into a "pep" talk by telling me how much the firm depended on me, how much he needed me to be present, and how difficult it was for him when I wasn't. He always looked so sincere during those speeches that I'd resolve to do better. And I really meant it. And for a couple of weeks, sometimes even months, I would do better. But then the boozing and drugging would take over, and my behavior would slack off again-to the point where either I was late every day or not there at all. Sometimes I offered an excuse-sickness, death in the family, stalled car-most times I didn't.

Finally, though, the firm had had enough. None of Dave's backing or persuasion could change their minds. They were adamant that I be put on probation. Dave, being the kindhearted, compassionate soul that he was, insisted that he be the one to do it.

When he called me into his office to give me the news, he looked so bleak. He instructed me to sit down, shoved a document in front of me, and told me to read and sign it. I'd come to work exhausted from drinking and partying the night before. To "pep" me up, I'd popped some black beauties and tooted a lil meth at lunch. During the meeting with Dave, the speed kicked in. My mind was racing a mile a minute. My eyes kept darting from side to side, and sweat was streaming down my face. My heart was pounding so fast and so hard, I was afraid it would jump out of my chest. I usually loved these physical effects of speed, but Dave looked serious. I knew I really needed to concentrate but the speed wouldn't allow me to. My eyes began darting about even faster. I couldn't keep them still enough, or focused enough, to read anything.

"I can't read this!" I exclaimed as I realized Dave was watching me suspiciously. "I'm just too nervous!"

That explanation seemed acceptable to Dave. Always the understanding one, he took the paper from me and explained what it said. I was being put on a ninety-day probation. If I came in late for more than two consecutive days, and if I missed any days without a doctor's excuse, I'd be fired.

As serious as Dave looked and sounded when discussing the probation, I didn't take it seriously. He'd always protected me. I figured he'd continue to do the same. And I knew several crooked doctors. So getting a doctor's excuse would not be a problem. Still, I really liked Dave and didn't want to cause him any unnecessary pressure. So I promised him I would behave. And I really intended to try like hell to do so. There was no way I could have known of the horrible tragedy that lay ahead.