Phil’s sister, Mink, lived in a trailer home just a few miles North of the city. Mink was quite beautiful; of Native American descent – with black hair, olive skin and the most beautiful crystal blue eyes I’d ever seen. Once she opened her mouth, however, her beauty crashed hard, through the trailer floor, landing on the littered pavement of her parked mobile home. Her voice was rough and gravelly – and I picked up many new kinds of swear words, just by observing her interact with the many boyfriends that buzzed about. Mink was exactly who I did not want to turn into. But I learned to be quiet about it. There were several times when my opinion, either directed toward her or Phil, resulted in a bash fest that, most of the time, could only be described as comical. There was one time, however, when I was close to the end of my rope with Phil, that our bash fest turned life threatening.
We’d gone to Mink’s to party. Smoke a little weed, drink a little vodka, and listen to music. Phil must have been affected – even though he didn’t drink or “inhale” – some line was crossed. Phil paced the trailer back and forth, the tension between he and Mink was palpable. I couldn’t tell what they were arguing about, money or booze or the vultures – but the jealousy was evident.
We left sometime before midnight. I can’t remember if it was warm or cold outside, but I remember what I was wearing. I polo t-shirt, and a pair of jeans. I was quite heavy back then, and always seem to increase bra sizes when I gain weight. He didn’t speak for several moments, and I could tell he was brewing for a fight – so I prepared myself. This time, I had had enough.
“So do you get off on that?” he asked.
“Get off on what?”
“Get off on having guys stare at your cleavage.”
“What cleavage, Phil? I’m wearing a t-shirt.”
“Well, the way you were bending over toward (so and so), it looked like you wanted to show off your shit.”
And so it went like this, for several moments. Until he reached across the cab of the truck and ripped my shirt off, exclaiming “Why don’t you just show the whole world your tits.” To wit, I responded.
I reared up against the passenger side door, grasping my shirt together, and unlocking the door. We were driving at or above the speed limit, on a major interstate –
“Oh so you think you’re getting out?” And he reached for me again.
“Pull over, Phil. I’ve had enough.”
“Fuck you. We’re going to discuss this.”
And so I proceeded to kick him in the face, then the chest. Several times until he cried out. He swerved and had to dodge traffic to pull over to the side before he quit trying to reach for me, before he slumped over the wheel. I'll never forget the power I felt. It was the first time. Ever. That he’d given in. And he had to be beaten, physically, in order for it to happen.