The Usual Suspect

I told her she could stay until my brother came from Miami, but I couldn’t take it anymore. After 5 days of tension I asked her to leave.

“This is not easy for me,” I said. “But tomorrow morning when I leave for work, I want you to leave with me and give me my keys.”

Needless to say, it was a rough night.

I had just kicked my homeless, penniless, unemployed friend to the curb knowing it was about 30 degrees outside. This was not what I had in mind when I told Jackie she could crash at my place for a while. Damn.

Jackie is (or was) my whimsical, unpredictable, “I’m up for anything, anytime” friend. She was the friend who lived with reckless abandon and gave me permission to do the same every once in a while. The one I couldn’t live with and… never should have tried to.

Don’t get me wrong, spending time with her was always fun. Jackie was the best person to go to a bar with hands down. On a good night she could walk into a place with 4 crinkled dollars and a crooked smile and leave with a major buzz and a few phone numbers. On a bad night she could nurse one beer for hours, a skill she perfected last winter.

She was also a great conversationalist. She could spend hours spinning stories about her photography projects, her wild sex life and her crazy, foster mother in Ohio.

She was passionate and noble. She had ideas and ideals that she loved to espouse at length while waving her hands around to show you she was searching for just the right words. She was upset about The Gates because the money should have been used for the poor, she said. “A big waste of money; completely disgusting."

And then there was the little move.

Every now and then she would spring into a little dance just to let you know she was thoroughly delighted with herself.

The last time I saw it was the day her landlord was going to throw her furniture out on the street. Even though she didn’t know what she was going to do, she was standing at my kitchen counter, doing a chalk drawing for class, sipping wine and doing the little move. It was her way of saying, I’m not worried about anything and I’m happy just the way I am so fuck you la la la.

That's when I started getting worried.

It was the little move and the Independent Film Channel. The calm way she watched indie film after indie film despite her situation was troubling.

On day 4 she was off shooting pictures for her latest class project, a modern take on biblical narratives. Was she worried that she hadn’t found anyone to move her furniture or found a new place to live? Nope. Was she looking for a job? Nope. Jackie was off in Brooklyn taking pictures of Ghetto Jesus and Hoochie Mary. She borrowed one of my kitchen knives for added effect. Don't ask...

Later that night she wanted to use my cell phone. I heard her convincing some guy to move 20 boxes for her the next morning. Apparently she had a network of helpers. Thin walls... I thought it was smart of her not to mention the boxes were in a 5 story walk up. Poor guy.

By day 5, I was simmering beneath the surface, but I thought we were in the clear. She found a cheap apartment in New Jersey.

Despite the hair in the drain, the parmesan cheese drippings in the fridge and the fact that I was now sneaking away to eat – maybe we would make it through the stay without a rift? Jackie had had a rough life and I wanted to help her out. I didn't particularly like the way she was doing things, but it was her life and - to each his own. We were definitely too different to live together, but maybe we could remain casual friends?

Then, that night it all came crashing down... over a buck fifty.

She wanted to see the apartment in Jersey and she was probably going to take it, but she didn’t have $1.50 for the PATH Train to go check it out the next morning.

I was still kind of pissy about the parmesan so I didn’t say a word or offer to give her a few bucks, like I had so many times before. Come to think of it, I had offered and paid quite a few times before...

Wait a minute, was I being punk'd?

I went to take a shower and the steam loosened my mind.

Was she lying to me? Was her tax return really on its way? Was her nutty mom who she hadn't seen in years really sending money? Was she spinning stories? Something didn't add up.

I came out with new resolve.

“If you don’t have $1.50 for the PATH, how are you going to get the apartment if you like it?” I said.

The question hung in the air. I could almost see the thought combinations racing through her mind.

“Well I do have money; I just didn’t want to use it for that,” she answered.

Huh? Do I even want to hear the explanation that goes with this, I thought. No, I don't.

Silence.

Was I accusing her of lying, she asked in disbelief. Did I think she was a user or something? How paranoid, please.

I didn't budge. More silence.

Next came tears.

It wasn't her fault she got fired, she said. What did I expect her to do?

It was a long, silent night.

No indie films for her.

No sleep for me.

The next morning I watched her rolling here suitcase down the street, doing the little move…