Now the next contender. This guy was the Crazy Redhead who used to call me Mrs. Tits (he is also the only living witness on this earth of my Smoking Vagina). Ah, yes, I think we were sitting on the couch, maybe one or two months into dating, and he’d already said the whole “I love you” bullshit—by the way, what the fuck is up with guys saying “I love you” so fast? I mean, I can know in two months in that I really, really like you, I love having sex with you, etc., but I’m not about to launch the Big Three. Anyway, we’re sitting there and Crazy Redhead says, “I know that I’m gonna marry you. We’re totally going to get married.”
Ok…I still hadn’t decided if I was going to make him The Boyfriend yet.
So, fast-forward a few months and Crazy Redhead has moved into my apartment, a decision based much more on economic factors than emotional ones, which is a big fat fucking mistake—“nothing but the cold, hard rent check to keep us together” is no reason to live with someone.
Now, Crazy Redhead was actually not that bad a guy. He was generous. He was an awesome cook and loved to make dinner. He liked people and was genuinely a nice, pleasant guy to be around. He was pretty smart and amusing. But I made the mistake of taking him with me when I moved cross-country, when I should’ve left him behind and for that I felt—and still feed—bad. So bad, in fact, that I supported his ass for months—buying him cigarettes, booze, even lap dances (hey, it’s Vegas)—while he looked for a job.
Well, when he finally did get a job, it didn’t get much better. He worked in the bar/restaurant industry—and there tends to be a lot of drinking/drugging going on there. I worked during the day, he worked at night, so our hours were completely incompatible. When he’d get home, he’d sit there, already drunk, and drink a bottle of Captain Morgan’s, then get into a magnum of cheap wine and chain-smoke at our computer playing video games all night. Meanwhile, he could barely pay his bills when he owed me thousands of bucks and refused to help me out with any of the “adult” things a couple has to do, like, oh, say pay bills or clean the house. Then he’d allude to us getting hitched or cementing our relationship further.
“Why don’t we buy a house together?” he said one day.
“Buy a house?” I said. “We can’t afford that.”
“Of course we can,” he said. “So-and-so Jackass I Work With said they bought one that’d been foreclosed on and it was real cheap.”
“You owe me five grand,” I said. “You can barely pay your half of the rent on this cheapass place, and you think we’re gonna buy a house together? You mean I’m going to buy this house and you’re going to live there rent-free.”
But what I was really thinking was that there was no way I was going to embed myself in real estate with this mofo.
So when he compared me to his mother one day—“Hehe, I used to ignore my mom all the time, and she’d just do it for me,” he said when I asked him to wipe the Captain Morgan’s off my computer keypad so I could work—his fate was sealed. I was kicking his ass out.
He had no money, of course, and the cash cow that had been me on my meager, pathetic journalist’s salary was shut down, so he had to Greyhound-it all the way home. I drove him to the station at midnight in downtown Vegas to catch his bus—and man, is that a fucking scene, homeless folks storing empty cans and half-eaten chicken wings in lockers, prostitutes working the room, the lowest-of-the-low in Vegas trying to scrape up enough cash to make their getaway—and watched him get on it with his bag. Then I hauled ass back through the parking lot to my car so I wouldn’t get mugged.
Now, kicking Crazy Redhead out wasn’t an easy choice—one that wasn’t just decided on a whim, but with months of agony. At 26, I couldn’t deal with playing nursemaid to a 29-year-old alcoholic Man Baby, and there was no way I was marrying him. So, off he had to go. But it certainly wasn’t anything I was particularly proud of or happy about—and, in fact, he was probably one of my only friends in Vegas at that point, so it was downright lonely for a while.
Months later, he e-mailed me that a woman showed up on his doorstep with a 5-year-old kid, claiming it was his: “I am indisposed right now as there may be a possibility that I have a child in this world.”
I called him immediately.
“What the fuck?”
“Yeah,” he said, filling me on the details. “From a coke bender years back, a one-night stand. I don’t even remember her.”
“So, is it yours?” I asked.
“It looks just like me,” he sighed.
I never heard from him again, but, in spite of it all, I still hope it worked out OK for that one, kid and all. I chalked up his outstanding $2,000 debt to me as a universe doing me a favor—I had officially dodged that bullet.