Two more literary selections before I continue. The first is a poem I wrote on
Thanksgiving Day, when Nancy staggered in drunk at 10 AM. She was passed out on the
bed, and I had a weird feeling.  It’s called “Dusk”:

Like the hills under dusk you
fall away from the light;
You deepen; the green
Light darkens
And you are nearly lost;
Only so much light as
The stars keep
Manifests your face;
For the light upon your lips.

Finally, I quote a Dream Song written by the late John Berryman. I feel that it’s
about Nancy.

The tenor of the lines of your retreats,
Done in an instant, hurts me forever. Well,
I suffer that bad will
So long as I suffer. You would not have wanted this,
The chaining of your friend to your abyss
With one of the best seats.

With I overlook the hopeless spectacle
pity & love & almost perfect admiration,
I feel your terror.
I wish I didn’t. Go, but not to hell,
But you have disqualified yourself for this nation
Of attempts & trial & error.

You lowered a wall between us
Which was your privilege. Now you must not expect
Anything but suffering more,
Fearless and final. You became anonymous
And untruth after in your regard will be correct
Hung on the veil you tore.

[January 20, 2000]

 Nancy and I had such a wonderful sex life. The bedroom had a huge picture window
that looked out on the bay toward the west. Every night, we could watch the sun set
and the moon rise over the ocean. The bedroom had exposed beams; we rigged up
restraints to the beams. Nancy loved to be tied up to the restraints so that she
felt completely helpless, abused and disciplined. We used to go to a sex shop in
Bangor and buy sexy outfits, whips, etc. Nancy would dress up in sexy outfits; I’d
put her in the restraints hanging from the ceiling; I would whip her, spank her,
whatever, then we’d have amazingly intense sex in our king size bed with the moon
reflected off the ocean. It was amazing, beautiful, evil, and lovely. One night, I
tied Nancy up, dressed in a short red, velvet miniskirt. I went downstairs and got
a couple of eggs from the fridge. I inserted one into her panties, from the back,
and another into her cleavage, in the front. Then I smashed them both, so that the
yolks and whites dripped down her legs and abdomen. She loved it, as did I. I
seriously doubt that I’ll ever have such sex again ever in my life, which depressed
me horribly.

 It was Thanksgiving, 1996. I took her back after the rape thing. On thanksgiving
day, we’re cooking turkey. I come downstairs, and find a letter from Nancy to her
sister Janet, to whom she hasn’t written in many years. It’s on the kitchen table,
for me to read. It talks about how I’ve abused Nancy, hit her, punched her, etc.,
none of which is true. Right out of the blue. No reason, no cause. I feel awful,
and I tell her so. She serves up the turkey for me alone, and I sit there, bummed
out. Total mystery. Why would she tell her family rotten, nasty stories about the
man who loves her?

January 22, 2000

 Here I will describe two incidents that sort of epitomizes the recurring problems
that Nancy and I had throughout our six years together.

 Another Friday night; I picked up Nancy after work. She said, “Let’s go to
Tony’s,” which was the sleaziest bar in that sleazy little town of Ellsworth. I had
a bad feeling, and asked her why? She laughed and said, “Why? Cheapest drinks in
town.” I distinctly recall the nauseating feeling of doom I experienced as I turned
the car toward Water Street. Tony’s was the place where hard-core drinkers hung
out, led of course, by Tony himself, a bug-eyed, over the hill, obnoxious “tough
guy” from Boston who drank as he served drinks to other drunks. Nothing good ever
happened at Tony’s and I couldn’t help thinking that that was exactly why Nancy
chose Tony’s that night. There was something in her manner that suggested she
needed a good fight, yet I felt powerless to stop it, whether because of my
addiction to alcohol, or my addiction to Nancy. We walked in, and were bathed in a
reddish glow and the sound of lousy country music; I felt that we were in some
obscure vestibule of hell, and in a sense we were. Tony immediately began flirting
with Nancy and serving us free drinks, his method of pretending to be your friend
so as to position himself for whatever game he’d try to play on any given occasion.
After a few drinks, he began to bait me. I don’t remember the details, but it was
probably by implying that a fine woman like Nancy deserved a guy like Tony rather
than me. When he sensed I was becoming mad, he’d put another free drink in front of
me. I don’t remember a lot about the evening, but I do recall challenging Tony to
an arm-wrestling match. He accepted, and made another bartender, a young strong
guy, wrestle in his place. He beat me, bad, and Tony laughed. Nancy seemed to enjoy
it.
 At some point, we drove home and got into a violent, drunken argument. During
these arguments, Nancy knew exactly which buttons to push and she pushed
mercilessly. Her rage was truly scary, and it was impossible to compromise or
assuage her in any way. I really felt that she wanted me to hit her, but instead of
hitting her, I grabbed my CD player and threw it out the door onto the lawn. The
argument proceeded outside (I probably demanded that she leave.) Nancy stumbled and
fell, hitting her head on a rock. The next day, she left and moved in with a friend
of hers, Jackie. I didn’t see her for several weeks.

 She began to contact me, but I was not permitted to call Nancy at Jackie’s house.
When I did, Jackie would hang up on me. We began to “date;” I’d make dinner for
Nancy, and we’d have sex, and she’d leave the next day. During this period a second
incident occurred.

 I had arranged for Nancy and I to spend a weekend at my parents’ log cabin on the
shore. I wanted it to be romantic; making love in front of the woodstove, the moon
shining in through the windows. Nancy was supposed to come to the house at noon on
Saturday, and we’d leave. That morning, I went to a gourmet deli and bought some
fine wine, french bread, pate and cheese. I returned and waited her to arrive. She
didn’t arrive, and didn’t call. Nobody was home at Jackie’s house. Finally at about
5 PM, I received a call from a friend of Nancy’s named Gail. She sounded drunk, and
was obviously calling from a bar. She told me that Nancy had asked her to tell me
that the cabin weekend was off. I asked where they were, and Gail told me at the
Elk’s Club in Ellsworth. I demanded to speak with Nancy and asked her why. Why told
me that Gail had reported to her that Gail and I were having an affair.
WHAAAAAAT?????????? I hung up the phone, and drove to the Elk’s Club. I entered and
saw Nancy and Gail sitting at the bar, drunk. I grabbed Gail, took her aside and
asked her if she had told Nancy that she and I were having an affair. She denied
it. I took Nancy back to our rented house. She insisted that what she had said was
true. The subject was dropped.

 Not long after this incident, I called for Nancy at Jackie’s house; Jackie
answered, and for once was friendly. She expressed sorrow for my father’s death. We
had a long conversation. One night, Nancy, while tipsy, had told Jackie that my
father had died of cancer, and that she had attended the funeral. Nancy had
reported that she was very upset because my entire family, including me, had
somehow blamed Nancy for my father’s death. I told Jackie that that was absurd, and
we went on to talk for another hour or so. Jackie told me that Nancy had told
horror stories about me beating and abusing her. I was known around the house as
“The Abuser.” Several male acquaintances were ready to kill me, but Nancy had
talked them out of it. Jackie also told me that Nancy was a horrible roommate, that
she routinely went into Jackie’s closet and wore her clothes, was constantly drunk,
etc., etc. She told me that she intended to ask Nancy to leave, and she did. Nancy
moved back in with me.  We didn’t discuss the “father story;” I knew better.

 By this time, it’s nearing the end of Spring, and we had to leave the wonderful
shore home because the owners would be using the house for the summer. Nancy was
now working in a real estate office, and she found us a relatively large house in
downtown Ellsworth.  I still had no job leads, and was very frustrated. I hated the
small town litigation practice, and was making very little money. Nancy, however,
seemed to be doing rather well. At my urging, she was in therapy; the liked her
therapist, who had put her on antidepressant medication. She had quit drinking. She
was dealing with issues like self-mutilation and her eating disorder. The only
problem with Nancy’s therapy was that her female therapist refused to delve into
Nancy’s sexuality, and Nancy knew that that was fundamental to her personality.
Nancy is capable of great insight at moments; she was making progress.

 I, on the other hand, was drinking heavily. One afternoon, after work, I stopped
in at a local tavern on my way home. At that point, I was drinking martinis, a sure
sign of serious alcoholism. In walked Bob, a casual friend of Nancy’s and mine. Bob
was a bit of a computer nerd, and published a monthly newsletter from his home on
the subject of computers. I had offered, at some point if he wanted, to write an
article on the subject of legal research via the internet. On this day, he was
angry. Bob asked me, “So Carl, where are the articles you promised?” I asked him
what he was talking about, and he told me that he had run into Nancy, and that she
had told him that I was writing two articles for his newsletter, and had promised
to deliver them during the preceding week. I hadn’t followed through, and
therefore, he couldn’t publish the August edition. I told him that I had made no
such promise, and had no idea what he was talking about. He shrugged. I left and
drove home, enraged. I confronted Nancy in the kitchen and she denied saying any
such thing to Bob, that it must be some kind of misunderstanding. There was no
misunderstanding; Bob had been very detailed with me, describing his conversation
with Nancy in a way that left no room for ambiguity. I felt that Nancy was trying ­
for some incomprehensible reason ­ to subvert my friendship with Bob. But why? I
demanded to know; I shouted and yelled. No answer; I went out on the porch to calm
down, and the police arrived. They talked to Nancy separately, then they came out
and talked to me. A neighbor had called the police and told them that there was
“domestic violence” in our home. We all gathered in the kitchen, and the police
officer, looking directly at me, said, “If we have to come back here this evening,
someone is going to jail.” They left, and Nancy immediately glared at me and told
me to “Get out!” I said, “What do you mean, ‘get out?’ I live here, I pay the rent,
and if you can’t co-exist, you can leave.” She opened the door, stepped outside and
turned back to me, saying, “If you don’t leave, I’ll scream.” I said, “Fine, I’ll
go to my office.” I called my dog, got into the car and pulled out to the main
road, where I noticed the police car just across the street. They immediately
arrested me for DWI and took me to the station, where I was booked and charged. At
one point, an officer asked me, “So, Carl, why did you hit her?” I said, “I didn’t
hit her.” When I left, they told me that I would be arrested if I returned to our
house. I had nowhere to go, so I walked home. Nancy was in the living room, and
still completely hostile. She tried to throw me out again; I pleaded with her; I
had two court hearings the next day, nowhere to sleep. I began to cry; it seemed
that my life was over, and for the first time ever, trying to fall asleep on the
couch ­ rejected by my family, friends, and my lover ­ I seriously contemplated
suicide. I awoke at about 7 am, and went to court; that afternoon, I checked into
an out patient alcohol treatment center, and that’s how the only real period of
happiness in our relationship began. It was to last about 1.5 years. How I wish we
could try it one more time, in sobriety; but it’s too late now. She’s gone, and I’m
alone.
 We attended daily AA meetings. Nancy was making wonderful progress in therapy. She
loved it, and we talked; no more rages, no more irrational actions. We walked the
dog for miles in the woods; I taught Nancy to fly-fish and to tie flies; we read
books and discussed them; we cooked fabulous meals and had fabulous sex, two or
three times a day. I had found the real Nancy, and although we had almost no money,
we were in love, and the future looked bright. I had decided that I wanted to do
environmental law, preferably for a non-profit organization. I wrote to Nick Lyons,
who publishes books on fly-fishing. He referred me to a man named Bob Boyle, a
renaissance man and former writer for Sports Illustrated, who had founded an
organization in New York called “Riverkeepers.” That group did environmental
litigation, and conducted a law clinic at a law school near the City. I formed a
friendship over the telephone with Boyle, and he told me that he’d try to get me a
job.

 Meanwhile, my parents were urging me to leave Nancy. My Dad even converted his
garage into an apartment, especially for me; he invited me to live there,
rent-free, until I could find a job. My brother Mark, an M.D., had convinced my
family that Nancy was mentally ill, and would destroy me.  Well, one day, my best
friend Ian, a fishing guide in northern Maine, invited me to fish with him for a
week or so. I wanted to include Nancy, who was learning the skill and loved it. Ian
said fine, you and I will go for three days by ourselves, and Nancy can join us for
the weekend. We agreed.  Nancy was very excited; I told her that I would call her
at a certain time on a certain day to give her directions to our camp, and Ian and
I left in his truck. When the time for my call to Nancy arrived, I asked Ian if I
could use his cell phone to call Nancy. He had worked all day long, and was in a
really weird mood. He said that he’d have to drive me to a hill for his cell phone,
and he resented my neediness. We got into the truck and as we drove to the hill,
Ian became increasingly belligerent. I tried to call Nancy, but the battery in his
cell phone was dead. On the way back to camp, Ian had worked himself into a frenzy;
halfway back, he stopped the truck and tried to start a fight with me. I refused.
Ian was trying to knock some sense into me regarding Nancy, but he went about it in
the wrong way.

 Next day, all I wanted was to contact Nancy, because I knew that my failure to
call her would be disastrous. I hitchhiked over 20 miles of dirt roads to get to
Millanocket, where there was a pay phone. I called; no answer. Next day, I left and
hitchhiked all the way back to Ellsworth, about 150 miles away. I  entered the
house, but Nancy was not there. She returned the next day, and accused me of
“chasing women” up north. She said that her therapist had told her that I was
obviously being unfaithful, and that she should leave me. I called Ian, and asked
him to write a letter to Nancy telling her what had happened. He never did. Once
again, there was coldness in my relationship with Nancy. I had done everything I
could, yet my lover and my best friend both blamed me.

 Not long after that another incident occurred. Nancy was supposed to pick me up at
work. (At this time, I had rented a small office and spent my days looking for jobs
on the internet, and writing a paper about the poet A. R. Ammons, hoping to publish
it in a literary journal.) She never came, so I walked to the grocery store and
then home. When I arrived home, I shouted, “Hi, Nancy,” and sat down at the dining
room table to relax. I was tired from walking and carrying groceries over several
miles on a cold evening.  Eventually, she came downstairs, in a rage. It was
impossible to communicate with her. She asked me why I hadn’t come upstairs to see
her; I said that I had shouted ‘hello’ and that I was tired and needed to catch my
breath. She exploded; she went to the sink to wash some dishes and broke them. She
threw an ashtray at me. She called me names, said I was an ugly, bug-eyed, dickless
faggot, etc., and then left. I called my father and said that I would move into his
new apartment the next day. Nancy never returned that night, or the next night, so
I packed my stuff and moved to my parents’ place. After a couple of days, Nancy
returned and called me. She said that she hated me, and was moving back to
Portland, to live with her best friend Barbara.

 Living with my parents turned out to be a special kind of hell that I won’t bother
to describe. But after several weeks, Nancy called me and said that she would drive
up to Surry to see me. I met her at the end of the driveway, and we drove to a
graveyard to talk. She seemed loving, forgiving and hopeful. We agreed to remain in
contact; I told her that I would get a great job, and we’d get back together at
that point. We agreed to stay in communication. Meanwhile, she had taken with her
my entire collection of CDs and many of my favorite books.

 She came back the next weekend; we drove to the beach to talk. Nancy said that she
was pregnant, and needed $600 for an abortion. She was very hostile, defensive, and
she accused me of being cold to her during her last abortion. (In fact, I was very
understanding during her last abortion, had given her cash, but she refused to let
me accompany her to the hospital. I don’t think she had an abortion at all.) I told
her that if she gave me proof that she was pregnant with my child, I’d pay for the
abortion. She became enraged, and drove me back to my parents’ house. She came
inside, and told my parents that I had impregnated her and refused to finance her
abortion; she called me names, and told my parents that she’d sue them if they
didn’t give her the money. My Dad threw her out, and was extremely angry with me.

 I called Barbara’s house the next day, but the phone had been disconnected.  I
went into a severe depression. At this time, I was invited to an interview in NYC
with Riverkeepers. My Dad financed my trip. As soon as I got down there, I sensed
that there was something wrong. No one was paying any attention to me. I returned
to Maine. Weeks past, I didn’t hear from Riverkeepers, and my Dad started to bug me
for reimbursement. I wrote to Riverkeepers asking for reimbursement, as they had
promised. I received a check without even a note. Something had happened, but I had
no idea what, and to this day I don’t. I suspect that Nancy did something to
subvert my job prospect. I even wrote to Bob Boyle asking him what had happened and
he never wrote back. I wrote several letters to Nancy at Barbara’s house, and
received no replies. One day she called me, and told the following story:

 While living with her best friend Barbara in Portland, Nancy had stolen Barbara’s
boyfriend, and left to live with him near Rockland, Maine. Barbara said that “Nancy
isn’t the person I thought she was, and I never want to hear from her again.” She
said that her ex-boyfriend had no phone, but she gave me his last name and an
address. In a deep state of depression, I wrote to Nancy at this address; I wrote
several love letters. One day, she called me, and said that she was back in the
area, and wanted to see me. I took her to a motel outside of Bar Harbor. I knew the
owner, a total drunk, and he let us have a room for free. I knew that somehow the
job with Riverkeepers had fizzled, but I had no idea why or how. Now, I suspect
that Nancy made a call to Bob Boyle and ruined it for me. Maybe one day I’ll try to
find out what happened. Whatever happened, it must have been pretty awful if a nice
guy like Boyle won’t even call or write to explain it. In any event, both Nancy and
I both began to drink again. It was a truly awful time of my life.

 At this point, the six months I had projected for my job search had turned into
three years. The dream job I have almost been guaranteed (Riverkeepers) had
fizzled, and I had written to every non-profit environmental and civil rights
organization in existence, without result. I started to apply for government jobs.
I split my time between the motel and Nancy, and my parents home, where I could use
my computer and continue my job search.


January 22 (later)

 On July 4, we got together with another couple from Cherryfield, Maine.
Cherryfield was where we went to fish for atlantic salmon on a fly. As I mentioned
earlier, I had taught Nancy to fly-fish, tie flies, and she loved it. We met this
couple, Cherry and Don, both welders, who lived in a shack in Cherryfield. We’d
visit them and shoot Don’s guns off the back porch. Cherry was an expert fly-tyer.
They were fun. (Actually, July 4 is before the August arrest, so we were still
drinking. I apologize for the disorder in this narrative. Memories come back
sporadically, if at all, but this is worth describing.)

 We got Cherry and Don a room at the motel, and they arrived. We went into downtown
Bar Harbor, to watch the fireworks. There was a bar there called the Thirsty Whale.
Nancy and I were frequent visitors there. The bartender was a huge biker guy named
Phil. One evening, several weeks prior to July 4, Nancy and I had been at the
Thirsty Whale, following a very nice drive around Acadia National Park. On the way
home, Nancy told me that Phil had asked her to join him and his wife in a
threesome. We had an argument at home over this. I called Phil and asked him if it
was true. He denied it. Well, on July 4, we were having a good time with Cherry and
Don. After the fireworks, we were headed to a place that offered music. When we
were almost there, Nancy grabbed me and said that she wanted to go to the Thirsty
Whale. She was adamant. So we all changed direction and walked into the Thirsty
Whale. We ordered drinks, and within a few minutes, Phil grabbed me, took me
outside, and said, “Look, Carl, I’m a nice guy, but I don’t take any bullshit.
Don’t ever accuse me of things I haven’t done, get it? Cause I’ll fuck you up.” We
shook hands and I went back inside. Once again, Nancy had done something weird;
telling me a lie about Phil designed to get me into trouble. This sort of thing
happened continuously, for absolutely no reason at all. Why would Nancy make up
lies for the sole purpose of getting me upset? I had no idea, but I loved her
beyond belief. Anyway, we sent to the motel on July 4 and had incredible sex.
Subject was dropped.

 Same thing, once again: why in God’s name would Nancy make up a lie like this? She
must have known that I’d call Phil, and that Phil would get angry. Why did she lead
us back to the Thirsty Whale on July 4? ­So that she could watch Phil and me have a
confrontation; there is no other answer, but why? Why, when things are difficult
enough, but there is hope, create problems that aren’t there? Why not work together
to achieve the future that was just around the corner? Why subvert something good?
I have no answers, nor did I then. I am frustrated, disappointed, confused, sad,
and hurt. And it was all the more incomprehensible because between these weird
episodes, we’d have wonderful, loving time together, walking in nature, having sex,
talking about books, and so on. None of the awful moments ever made sense to me; I
saw no real issues in our relationship; she was faithful to me, I was faithful to
her, we loved each other’s company, we were compatible. Life was hard, but we got
along, but for these totally inexplicable episodes. And because they were
inexplicable, I never lost hope. If there were a reason that I could identify, as I
had with my former wife, why we shouldn’t be together, I would have dumped Nancy;
but I could see none; I knew she loved me, and that I loved her, yet these stupid,
horrible painful issues kept popping up, and I couldn’t figure out why. So I
persisted, and invited yet more abuse. Because none of the “issues” made any sense,
I felt that the issues could be resolved, with just a little more love, a little
more patience, a little more hope. I could not accept the fact that the only
“issue” was Nancy herself, and that resolving the ‘issue’ meant getting rid of
Nancy, whom I loved profoundly.

 About this time, I was thrown out of my parents house because I stole a bottle of
wine. I moved in with Nancy into the motel. What a fucked up, horrible existence
that was. The drunk guy who owned the place attacked us one night, smashing his
fist through the glass door while we were fucking. He was out of his mind, accusing
me of stealing his dog. We moved in with a drug addict welfare woman who sold drugs
to Paul, the owner of the motel. Unbelievable. I remember walking home one night
with Nancy, through the playground of the grade school I had attended as a child.
We were crying; I embraced her, and told her that I would get us out of this mess,
somehow.

 One day, at my parents house, the FCC called me, and said they wanted to interview
me. That worked perfectly, because in desparation, Nancy and I had decided to move
to DC and take our chances. I made a down payment on a red Thunderbird, in Nancy’s
name. We packed our things and drove to DC. It was wonderful, sublime. We rented an
apartment in Rockville, Maryland. I interviewed at the FCC, and it went very well.

January 23 2000

 Life was very difficult when we arrived. I took a temporary job through an agency,
waiting for the results of my interview. Nancy got a job as a waitress in a
restaurant on the Rockville Pike, but there was a three week training period during
which she didn’t get paid. We had to pawn a lot of things, including my stereo and
camera, and some of Nancy’s jewelry in order to make ends meet.  But we had hope.
We formulated a plan. I would work for two years at the FCC in order to gain
expertise in telecommunications law, then we’d move to the west coast, San
Francisco or Seattle. Everything seemed to be fine.

 I got the job, and had been working there for about one week. But I wouldn’t get
paid for another month, so we had to pawn some more things. There was a friendly
neighborhood bar down the street. One Friday, we stopped in after work. We were
talking to a guy from Ghana, who happened to live in the same apartment complex as
we did. He was telling me about a local custom in his part of the country. He said
that if a single man wanted a certain single woman, he would knock on the door of
her hut, and she was expected to return with him to his hut. Joking, I said, “Hey,
sounds good to me; next time you visit home, take me with you.”  Next thing I knew,
Nancy was punching my face. The bartender called the police; Nancy ran out the door
and tried to get into the car, but the police stopped her. I went outside and tried
to calm her, but she couldn’t be calmed. She was totally enraged. The police took
her home, and I returned to the bar for an hour or so, to give her time to cool
off. A guy I had met, who had witnessed the entire incident gave me a ride home.
When I walked in the door, Nancy was just as hostile. She began punching me again.
I told her, “Nancy, I won’t hit you back, but if you keep this up, I’ll call the
police.” She was in a blind fury, she kept punching me, so I dialed ‘911.’ The
police came and talked to us. They warned Nancy and she said, “I”ll kick his ass.”
They left, and she attacked me again. I literally held my face out for her to
punch, and she did. I was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and I dialed ‘911’
again. She wanted me to hit her back, but I wouldn’t. This time, the police
arrested her on an assault charge. I went to bed.

 She returned the next morning, saying that our relationship was over. She had no
idea why she’d attacked me, and begged me to forgive her. We went to a park and
talked. I told her that I loved her, that alcohol was destroying us, and that I
wanted us to continue our relationship. But ­ having just started my new job, and
being subject to an FBI background check ­ I needed some time alone. I told Nancy
that she could stay with me until the two of us could save some money, but that I
wanted her to move out temporarily while I got myself established on the new job. I
felt overwhelmed; I knew that the job was crucial, and I couldn’t focus on fixing
our relationship at the same time. I was sincere. Nancy agreed.

 We co-existed in the apartment for several weeks. I still had not received a
paycheck, and had no money at all. Nancy was earning some money, but not much. Her
trial was on Friday, and I had agreed not to testify against her. On Tuesday night,
she invited me out to eat. At the restaurant, she asked me about my plans, and I
repeated my resolve to help her find a place, on a temporary basis. She called for
the waiter, and said, “I’d like to pay my bill. He’s on his own.” She knew I had no
money. I got up and left. I walked home, several miles. When I arrived, Nancy was
there, and totally hostile. I felt trouble brewing, so I called the police, again.
They took her away, sobbing and crying.

 This time, she didn’t return. On Thursday night, on the eve of Nancy’s trial, I
was sleeping, and was awoken at 3 AM by two State Police officers. They gave me a
copy of Nancy’s “Protection from Abuse” order and gave me 10 minutes to gather my
things and leave my apartment. I called a lawyer, who told me that there was
literally nothing for me to do, but leave. I gave my dog Calypso some food and
water, and went outside. I called a cab, and had him take me to the cheapest motel
he knew of, because I had about $30 and nothing more. He took me a roach-infested
fleabag motel in Gaithersberg. I went to sleep and got up the next morning and went
to work. At noon, I left work, went to the motel, gathered my things in a laundry
basket and went to the courthouse. Her trial was at 3 pm. I met with Nancy on the
courthouse steps. She said that our relationship was over. She said that she was
sorry she had me thrown out of my apartment, but that she was staying in a home for
abused women, and they had told her to get an order, or leave. She gave me a note
that said that she did not wish to enforce the order, and that she wasn’t living in
Rockville anyway.  We went to court. Nancy was given probation, and the judge asked
me if I had anything to say. I said that my dog was at my home, and that I would
like the protection order rescinded. The judge asked Nancy why she had gotten this
civil order. She said that I was better able to afford a new apartment, that she
had no money, and that’s why she did it. The judge ordered her to go to the civil
office immediately and have the order rescinded. She agreed.

 I waited on the courthouse steps with my laundry basket. Nancy didn’t show. I went
back inside and looked for her, but she was gone. I had her note, and I called a
cab and went home. Poor Calypso was frantic; she had pooped and peed inside, and
was starving. I took her out and comforted her. I ordered a pizza, and was sleeping
by 10:30 pm. A knock on the door. The same two State Police officers, with guns
drawn. I showed them Nancy’s note, and they ignored it. The cuffed me and took me
to jail. They put me in a small holding cell with a junkie who was withdrawing;
after about four hours, I was permitted to talk to the bail commissioner. I told
him my story and showed him the note; he refused to let me go. I was shocked. They
took me inside the jail, and while awaiting a medical exam, I saw Mike Tyson walk
down the hallway. When filling out some forms, a guard asked me if I was suicidal.
I joked and said that if I didn’t get out by Monday, I’d lose my job, and commit
suicide. They put me in “suicide watch,” meaning solitary confinement, in a cell
with glass on the door. In the next cell, the junkie was withdrawing, bigtime. He
was screaming and yelling and suffering. I had no sheets, no shoes, nothing. And I
was locked in, 24 hours a day. The guards were huge, muscle-building black dudes. I
tried to show one of them a sheet of paper that said that I had a right to three
phone calls within one hour of entering jail. He laughed and gave me the finger. DO
YOU BELIEVE THIS? IT’S TRUE, EVERY FUCKING WORD!

as of April 22, 2000

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