This is the day I should have left (Part 1 of ?)

We had only been dating for about three months, and a concert had been announced for December.  Winter in the Midwest means the weather is unpredictable.  Making plans that require long drives – or driving at all really – need to be taken seriously.  So, I asked you weeks in advance if it would be worth the price of concert tickets if it meant driving over an hour away in December.  You said it would be.  That any price, any drive, any location was worth me being able to see my favorite band.  I asked if maybe you could drive since I’d be swallowing the price of the tickets.  I asked if maybe we could get a hotel room; we’d go to the concert on Friday night, sleep over, and spend the next day exploring a city neither of us had spent much time in.  You agreed wholeheartedly that it sounded like a great time.

 I looked forward to that concert for weeks. I counted down the days, I was excited for a little getaway with you where we could unplug and focus on each other. I left work early to make sure we had time to grab food before starting our drive.  When I got home to pick you up, you said you didn’t trust your newly purchased $15,000.00 car to take us to the concert.  I didn’t see the point in putting up a fight, the tickets were bought, and the hotel room was paid for so regardless, we were going to this fucking concert.

 The weather was cooperating, traffic wasn’t terrible, and we were having a good time.  It got dark early, around 6, and as we entered the city limits your demeanor entirely changed.  “I hate fucking cities like this.  Traffic is bullshit, no one knows what the fuck they’re doing.  It’s just a waste of fucking life.”

 “I thought you were okay with coming to this concert with me.”

 “I’m fine with going to the concert, but I still hate cities like this, filled with people like this, that are congested like this.”  Your tone was enraged, it felt accusatory; as if I was somehow supposed to change the urban dynamic of this area, change the location of this concert.

 I parked in the lot of the hotel so I could check us in before the concert, “So are you still going to be willing to go do stuff in town tomorrow?”

 “I don’t know.  It depends on how retarded people act at this fucking show.”

 I took a deep breath and braced myself for the cold. I walked into the hotel, got our keycards, and left.  We didn’t even take bags up or see the room.

 We struggled to find street parking near the concert venue so we had to park in a structure a few blocks away.  The whole time I was trying to find a space, you were sitting in the passenger seat swearing, murmuring under your breath, and chain-smoking cigarettes out of the two packs you brought for the weekend.  As we start walking towards the venue you picked up your pace.  You were officially four strides ahead of me and I couldn’t keep up. I kept thinking about how I tried to dress cute so that when we got back to the hotel we could enjoy ourselves.  I keep thinking about how you didn’t comment on my outfit, or my makeup.

 We walked into the venue, which was part pinball arcade.  The stage doors hadn’t opened yet, but there was a bar, pinball and arcade machines around us.  “Do you want to play anything while we wait?”

 “No.  I’m too pissed off to play.  The doors should be fucking open by now.  I don’t wanna drink until the show starts.”

 “Part of what makes this venue cool is that there’s stuff to do before the show.”

 “Yeah, well fuck them and their money grab.”

 We stood in line not even touching each other.  It felt like everyone in the place was looking at us, at you for your shitty attitude and at me for cowering anytime you swore under your breath. You talked shit about the city, the traffic, the venue, the crowd, anything to remind me that you weren’t having a good time.

 “I’m going out to smoke.”  You said at a volume barely above a whisper as you stormed out of the front doors.  I could see you through the big window pacing on the sidewalk as you smoked.  I saw people come up you and watched you hand them cigarettes.  Like stray dogs, once they knew where the food was, one person quickly became three, then four.  You stormed back in shivering as if you just walked in from the tundra despite your layers and winter coat.  “Fucking bums asking for fucking cigarettes outside.”

 “You didn’t have to give them any.”

 “Oh yeah?  How the fuck am I supposed to stand out there with half a pack and act like I don’t have any to share?”

 “Well, you only have so many to last you, so you don’t really have enough to share.”

 “That just means we’re gonna have to buy another pack because they’re not going anywhere and I can’t just not smoke this entire fucking night.”  You said ‘we’re’ but the reality was it would be me buying your third pack of cigarettes for the weekend.  It was me who drove to this concert, paid for the tickets and for the hotel room, and it would be me buying your additional cigarettes.

The concert doors finally opened, and the previously crowded arcade disbursed into a not so crowded stage area.  It was a standing room only venue which pissed you off, but you said if you had a beer you’d be alright.  So we walked to the bar together.

“A bud,” you demanded without even making eye contact with the bartender.

“We don’t have that.”

“What?”

“We don’t have Budweiser.”  She rattled off a handful of names, some I recognized as generic beers, some hard ciders, and some beers I’d never heard of but made sense to be at a popular concert venue in a college town.

“Forget it.”  You stormed off, I followed behind.

“Why don’t you just get a Coors?”

“Piss water?  No fucking thanks.”

“All beer is piss water.”

“No, it’s not.  And all this place has is pansy ass, hipster ass fucking beers.  I’m fucking good, thanks.”

We found a place not quite front row but near enough to make solid eye contact with the band members.  You stood behind me with your hands heavy on my shoulders as you commented on the people you saw.

“Look at man bun over there.  Or hipster fedora dude.  Or slutty hipster.”  You gestured to people around the room and I just stayed silent.

When the band finally made it to the stage and started playing you left without saying a word to me.  You came back, bringing the cold and the stench of stale cigarettes back in with you.

“You can’t dance to this fucking music.”

“I know.  That’s why I had you listen to them before I asked you to come to this concert with me.”

“Well I figured they’d play differently at a show.  This is fucking boring.”  I didn’t defend them, my favorite band that I was getting to see for the first time.  I just bopped my head and moved my weight from foot to foot as I listened to some of my favorite songs.  You continued to stand behind me, sighing when people got too close, complaining about the instrumental songs, talking shit about the singer who just “up and left” in the middle of a set so the keyboard player could play his instrumental songs.  

I excused myself to the bathroom, I took a picture of the concert poster and a selfie in the bathroom.  I had hoped to take a picture of us together but you weren’t in the mood.  I came back and you immediately left again.

“I’ve only got one more fucking cigarette.  The other pack is in the car.”  You stated when you got back.

“So we’re going to have to leave early…?”  I said softly.

“No, it’s fine.”  You said in a tone that implied it was absolutely not fine.

They played my favorite song and I said, “Okay if you wanna go, let’s go.”

“No, baby, this is your favorite band, I don’t want you to have to miss your favorite band.”  I kissed you, and thanked you, and turned back to the stage.

You continued to sigh, and complain about having to stand, about your feet and back hurting, about being surrounded by hipsters, about being in this city, about how boring the band was, about how it was bullshit they only had hipster beers. I asked you after every song if you wanted to leave.  I kept count of the tracks they had played and tried to figure how many were left.

When the concert ended and we started walking back to the car, you once again got four strides ahead of me, almost far enough to make me an easy target for the beggars to bother me.  Fortunately, your sour look and pissed off demeanor seemed to tell them I had enough issues. You got mad that it took me too long to unlock the car, you got mad that it took so long to heat up, you got mad we had to park so far away.  I drove us back to the hotel and sat in the parking lot.

“Are you going to want to do anything tomorrow?”  I asked as I traced the outline of the Holiday Inn sign with my eyes.

“After tonight?  Absolutely fucking not.  I don’t know why you even got the fucking hotel, the concert ended early enough that we could be home by midnight.”

I glanced at the clock without moving my head and he was right.  It was only about 10:30pm and in perfect conditions that was early enough to get us home before we’d be in bed on a normal night.  “Okay.”  I walked into the hotel and saw the same girl who had checked me in.  “Hey, I have a question.  You checked me in a few hours ago, but we never went up to the room or anything.  Is there any chance you could refund the room if I return the keys right now?”

The receptionist looked sad and apologetic.  “It’s pretty late, I doubt I could do that, but it’s something my manager would handle and she’s not in until tomorrow morning.”

“It’s fine.” I said calmly as I handed over the key cards, “We won’t be staying regardless I was just hoping to get my money back.”  One hundred and fifty dollars down the drain because you didn’t see the point, but only after the damage was done.

I got back in the car and closed the door quietly.  “Did you get your money back?”

“I won’t know til tomorrow morning.”

“Well, they’re fucking assholes if they don’t give it back to you.”

“Why?  I cancelled a reservation the night of.  I’d be shocked if they did give me the money back.”

“That’s because the system is fucked.  Give me the opportunity to press the Big Red Button and I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.”

I maneuvered the car onto the freeway and it immediately started to snow. The further we got away from the hotel I had wanted to stay in the harder it became to see.  White out conditions and warnings to get off the freeway were all we could find on the radio to listen to.

“This is why you shouldn’t make plans in fucking December.”  I white knuckled the steering wheel, slowed myself down to 45 miles per hour and tried to keep my anxiety at a resting eight out of ten.  Eventually, the snow was so bad I had to pull off the freeway, I could barely see the edges of the off ramp but I needed to get gas, and an energy drink and something to keep my mind off of the road.

“Do you want me to drive?”  You asked me, calmly and collectedly.  I wanted you to drive, or at least I didn’t want to be driving.  But I knew I’d never forgive you if something happened. And your tendency to rage made me nervous to have you behind the wheel.  But I was so anxious and stressed I didn’t see another way out and we were still at least 45 minutes from home.  I went into the gas station and bought things for each of us and said,

“Yes, if you could please drive, I’d really appreciate it.”

So you got yourself situated in the car and we made our way slowly onto the freeway.  The only other people on the roads were the semi-truck drivers who never sleep.  Most of them were braver than we were and would pass us going at least 65 miles per hour, enveloping us in a tidal wave of snow and slush.  It took us almost three hours to get home, but we managed to make it unscathed.  We walked upstairs and took off our snow-covered clothes and changed into comfortable pajamas and sat on the couch, worked up from the trek.

You stood by the door, chain-smoking the pack of cigarettes you had left at home.

“I can’t wait to not drive anywhere tomorrow in this snow.”  I said, truly relived that we had all of Saturday and Sunday to just stay in instead of risking the snowy and icy roads.  You said nothing and just continued taking hits off of your cigarettes.  “Don’t go overboard, cuz I’m serious that I don’t wanna go anywhere for the rest of the weekend so if you run out of cigarettes, you’re just gonna be out.”

“Okay.”  You said, absentmindedly without really looking at me.

I wanted to tell you to go home, to leave, that I was so angry for you ruining a concert of my favorite band that I didn’t want to be stuck with you all weekend. But the snow hadn’t stopped even since we’d gotten home.  Looking out the window at the apartment complex parking lot I could see the foot or more of snow accumulating on the cars that had been parked all night.  But I was angry.  My stomach gurgled with my frustration, anxiety, and upset that I wasn’t having the weekend I had planned, that you weren’t as excited as you had promised to be, and that we could have gotten into a terrible car accident because you didn’t want to sleep over in a hotel.

When we eventually crashed into bed, I laid there thinking about how I would remember the tenseness you brought more than the show itself.  I’d remember that treacherous drive home in the middle of the night more than the band’s performance.  I was so relieved to be home, but I was still upset that our plans of walking through a college town with interesting stores and restaurants had fallen through.  Even in that moment I knew what had happened. You had gotten your way.

You hadn’t wanted to go to the concert, and you thought your refusal to drive would make me change my mind.  When we entered the city and you started bitching, you thought I’d just turn around and go home.  When I went back to the hotel you had finally worn me down, so we didn’t stay over, we didn’t have an adventure the next day, and instead I wound up stuck in my apartment for two days with only you to entertain me, when all I really wanted was for you to go home.

It was after this incident that you suddenly started staying more than just the weekend.  By Monday morning the snow hadn’t really melted or subsided so you asked to stay a few days more, but you’d need cigarettes, and energy drinks for the morning.  It felt mean to demand you leave and drive home on snowy, icy roads, so I bought the things you needed to be comfortable and let you stay.  I didn’t realize you’d barely leave until the ground thawed.