Page 14 of Hot Mess Express
I only get halfway there when the music suddenly cuts off and shifts to something else.
Guns N’ Roses’Back Off Bitch.
I close my eyes.
My body plays a game of tug-of-war with my heart.
Do I let this pettiness go? Do I stand my ground? At least it isn’tTake On Meagain. Wasn’t the point just to change the music? Who cares if it isn’t playing Pete’s favorite? He’s probably deep in conversation with his pal Cody anyway, laughing about whatever, drinking their beers, not caring about the music.
ButIcare about the music.
And I care about shitheads winning when they don’t deserve to. I care about standing up for myself. If I don’t stand up, I may as well lie down and let every prick who’s ever crossed me walk over me like a rug.
I’m no one’s rug.
After a breath, I finally look back over my shoulder. Anthony’s leaning against the jukebox, his arms crossed, with a shit-eating smirk on his smug face.
Then I experience another wave of doubt.Don’t do it, I tell myself, remembering the gas station and the moment at the bar just now.Don’t do it, it isn’t worth it, don’t engage, just go back to your table. My presence over there won’t make this better. When a kid slings mud in the playground, don’t sling it back. It solves nothing. You tell yourself to ignore it, sticks and stones and all that, and leave children to play with children. No one comes home clean from a mud fight.
But then Anthony zeroes his eyes onto me.
And I see his lips move, singing: “Back off, back off bitch,” at the chorus, with his bright blue eyes alight and triumphant.
It boggles me, that eyes like that, which effortlessly summon the mystique of bright blue oceans, of cloudless summer skies, of countless sparkling facets of pale sapphires, are wasted on a man so depressingly devoid of integrity and character.
And those pretty eyes are eating this up.
Delighting in my anger.
He fucking loves this.
And despite all my resolve. Despite sticks and stones. Despite every lick of my better judgment built on years and years dealing with tougher, harder, far more savage adversaries in the Army.
I turn and head right back up to that jukebox.
The young woman is still watching me like I’m a god stepped down from a heavenly throne when I approach. As Anthony stares me down with those undeserved gifts for eyes, I calmly tap a few buttons and switch it right back to Aerosmith, then saunter away without a word.
I barely make it three steps before the song cuts off yet again and switches to Britney Spears’Oops!... I Did It Again.
This motherfucker.
I’m not used to jukeboxes that don’t play through their queue, able to have one song cut off for the next. I guess it’s a trick of this particularly cruel jukebox, facilitating Anthony’s childish acts of retaliation against me, becoming something of a referee in this musical boxing match between us.
I’m right back at the jukebox, pressing the buttons with as much patience as I can muster, my steely eyes burning Anthony, as I switch it yet again back to Aerosmith.
This time, he doesn’t even wait for me to go before his fingers fumble over the buttons, his lips twisted up into a mocking smirk, his blue eyes watery with madness and alcohol.
And out of the speakers comesHit the Road Jack.
I grind my teeth as I switch to something else entirely: Three Days Grace’sI Hate Everything About You.
Anthony’s face tightens when he switches toCry Me a River.
The buttons creak when I switch toLoserby Beck.
He scowls as he puts onYou’re So Vain.
I playGo To Hell.
