Limiting Perspectives
I first met Bianca in junior high. We were friendly but not friends.
Even then I found her attractive, but felt like she was unapproachable in that regard. Our interactions in high school were pretty much the same, common friends, occasional chats, nothing more.
Our friendship would begin years after high school ended.
I was sitting outside of a local East Hollywood coffee shop known as Psychobabble on the Vermont strip. I was there often, playing chess, connecting with friends, or working at the neighboring video store, as many of my friends did at the time.
When Bianca appeared that day, it was very much a surprise, even more so was the fact that we ended talking until dawn. Before leaving she gave me her number, something she claimed she rarely did, and with that our interactions began.
I liked Bianca a lot. She was fun, funny, and different. I genuinely enjoyed spending time with her, which we did quite a bit early on, either at her apartment, at the coffee shop, and at bars.
Nearly everyone I knew had told me Bianca was problematic. Many of them knew her from high school or before, and they all had opinions. I was blind to it though. At least at first. I tried to keep my mind open, we were adults now, high school was more than half a decade behind us.
Regardless, I was warned and therefore should not have been surprised that things would go bad. There were many reasons for this. Some due to her. Some due to me. But it took time, a slow burn that took its time flaming out.
The signs were there, I had not yet learned how to read them.
On our first date was a movie and dinner. We went to watch Fahrenheit 911, during which I fell asleep. As I slept, she brought my head to her shoulder to rest, and when I awoke she caught me up on what I had missed.
But the dates became fewer. The excuses became more common. Her weed smoking became more prominent. Things she said became more ludicrous. Then, eventually, silence.
On one occasion, she cancelled due to illness, and upon a subsequent visit, informed me that her ailment was due to demon possession, and required a visit from her father to vomit the demon out and cure her.
Another time, we we planned for a dinner date. I drove out to her place to pick her up at the agreed upon time, knocking on the door, and standing in the hallway feeling foolish as no one answered.
This being the days before cell phones, I walked down to the corner strip mall, made change at the liquor store and called her using the change via payphone. The phone rang longer that I would normally wait, but she answered, the ringing rousing her from a marijuana induced nap. We agreed to meet at the movie theater later for a midnight screening.
We had not seen each other in a while and I was looking forward to spending time together. She never arrived. I went in alone, falling asleep midway through The Triplets of Belleville, waking up at 2:30 AM, long after the film had ended and the theater had emptied.
I got up and walked into the lobby. The ushers, cleaning up, were shocked. I asked where I could validate my parking. They pointed to the machine behind me. I punched my ticket as angrily as possible and left.
That was the beginning of the end.
Two weeks prior to moving to Armenia I called Bianca. I had not seen Bianca in nearly a year and wished to say goodbye..
She invited me to visit the next day. I arrived around sunset and knocked on the door. The door opened meekly, and the apartment was dark. Bianca stood in the shadows, barely lit by the fading light entering her large paneled windows in the living room, one of which letting in a breeze do to the lack of glass.
Bianca looked gaunt. Her voice was hoarse, and the apartment was in disarray. Clearly something had happened, which she confirmed as she gave me a tour of the previous night's destruction.
It began with a cocaine binge in her bedroom by the man she was dating, snorted quickly, deeply, and without her knowledge, soon blossoming into a rampage.
It started with yelling, and evolved in smashing objects in the bedroom. Bianca entered the room, trying to get him to leave, but he ran down the hallway instead, then veered into the kitchen, where he wedged a frying pan into the wall behind the stove.
Bianca chased back out into living room, but the destructive behavior continued. The boyfriend, in what may have been attempted suicide, leapt through the windows that overlooked the courtyard from the second floor.
The windows were small panels placed together, and so only his arm managed to punch through the glass, causing it to shatter, and leave behind bits in the frame.
The boyfriend was as inattentive as the glass was sharp, and pulling his arm back quickly resulted in his underarm getting snagged on the remaining glass, opening a deep wound which began to spray blood on the couch and walls.
Bianca, attempting to calm him down, took her roommate's guitar and hit him with it repeatedly. This did not produce her desired effect, instead allowing him to take the instrument from her and smash it.
This did not stop Bianca’s assault. She ripped out the phone line from the wall and used it to whip his open wound and face, causing more blood to spray and for him to run out the front door screaming, leaving the damage and destruction behind.
She said she needed medication. She felt bruised, sore, and weak. Events from the previous night had overwhelmed her. I took it all in as I lowered myself on a seat near the couch.
Bianca called her neighbor for assistance.
Bianca’s neighbor walked into the apartment wearing dirty, beige underwear several sizes too small and nothing else. From out of nowhere, she produced a baggy of various pills and began to sort through them on the table.
Bianca looked at the time then immediately turned on the television. She cycled through the channels looking for the one she wanted. Soon an evangelist was on, speaking en masse to a crowd giving a sermon about recognizing signs.
Signs of Jesus’ love for man.
Signs that only by faith and repentance can one enter the kingdom of God.
Signs that the apocalypse was upon us.
I watched silently as the two discussed the end of days, arguing which seal, the second or third, had most recently been broken. The discussion continued as the neighbor pulled out a small knife kept in the rear band of her panties and cut a pill in half.
“Remember to only take half this time, last time you threw up taking a whole one,” the neighbor remarked.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Methadone. Synthetic heroin,” Bianca replied, taking half a pill and swallowing it.
The neighbor left, leaving us alone.
Bianca’s speech began to slow and eyes resisted her attempts to keep them open. She laid down on the blood stained couch covered and curled into a ball, falling asleep.
I took one last look at Bianca as I walked out the door. I never did get to say goodbye.
Even then I found her attractive, but felt like she was unapproachable in that regard. Our interactions in high school were pretty much the same, common friends, occasional chats, nothing more.
Our friendship would begin years after high school ended.
When Bianca appeared that day, it was very much a surprise, even more so was the fact that we ended talking until dawn. Before leaving she gave me her number, something she claimed she rarely did, and with that our interactions began.
I liked Bianca a lot. She was fun, funny, and different. I genuinely enjoyed spending time with her, which we did quite a bit early on, either at her apartment, at the coffee shop, and at bars.
Nearly everyone I knew had told me Bianca was problematic. Many of them knew her from high school or before, and they all had opinions. I was blind to it though. At least at first. I tried to keep my mind open, we were adults now, high school was more than half a decade behind us.
Regardless, I was warned and therefore should not have been surprised that things would go bad. There were many reasons for this. Some due to her. Some due to me. But it took time, a slow burn that took its time flaming out.
The signs were there, I had not yet learned how to read them.
On our first date was a movie and dinner. We went to watch Fahrenheit 911, during which I fell asleep. As I slept, she brought my head to her shoulder to rest, and when I awoke she caught me up on what I had missed.
But the dates became fewer. The excuses became more common. Her weed smoking became more prominent. Things she said became more ludicrous. Then, eventually, silence.
On one occasion, she cancelled due to illness, and upon a subsequent visit, informed me that her ailment was due to demon possession, and required a visit from her father to vomit the demon out and cure her.
Another time, we we planned for a dinner date. I drove out to her place to pick her up at the agreed upon time, knocking on the door, and standing in the hallway feeling foolish as no one answered.
This being the days before cell phones, I walked down to the corner strip mall, made change at the liquor store and called her using the change via payphone. The phone rang longer that I would normally wait, but she answered, the ringing rousing her from a marijuana induced nap. We agreed to meet at the movie theater later for a midnight screening.
We had not seen each other in a while and I was looking forward to spending time together. She never arrived. I went in alone, falling asleep midway through The Triplets of Belleville, waking up at 2:30 AM, long after the film had ended and the theater had emptied.
I got up and walked into the lobby. The ushers, cleaning up, were shocked. I asked where I could validate my parking. They pointed to the machine behind me. I punched my ticket as angrily as possible and left.
That was the beginning of the end.
Two weeks prior to moving to Armenia I called Bianca. I had not seen Bianca in nearly a year and wished to say goodbye..
She invited me to visit the next day. I arrived around sunset and knocked on the door. The door opened meekly, and the apartment was dark. Bianca stood in the shadows, barely lit by the fading light entering her large paneled windows in the living room, one of which letting in a breeze do to the lack of glass.
Bianca looked gaunt. Her voice was hoarse, and the apartment was in disarray. Clearly something had happened, which she confirmed as she gave me a tour of the previous night's destruction.
It began with a cocaine binge in her bedroom by the man she was dating, snorted quickly, deeply, and without her knowledge, soon blossoming into a rampage.
It started with yelling, and evolved in smashing objects in the bedroom. Bianca entered the room, trying to get him to leave, but he ran down the hallway instead, then veered into the kitchen, where he wedged a frying pan into the wall behind the stove.
Bianca chased back out into living room, but the destructive behavior continued. The boyfriend, in what may have been attempted suicide, leapt through the windows that overlooked the courtyard from the second floor.
The windows were small panels placed together, and so only his arm managed to punch through the glass, causing it to shatter, and leave behind bits in the frame.
The boyfriend was as inattentive as the glass was sharp, and pulling his arm back quickly resulted in his underarm getting snagged on the remaining glass, opening a deep wound which began to spray blood on the couch and walls.
Bianca, attempting to calm him down, took her roommate's guitar and hit him with it repeatedly. This did not produce her desired effect, instead allowing him to take the instrument from her and smash it.
This did not stop Bianca’s assault. She ripped out the phone line from the wall and used it to whip his open wound and face, causing more blood to spray and for him to run out the front door screaming, leaving the damage and destruction behind.
She said she needed medication. She felt bruised, sore, and weak. Events from the previous night had overwhelmed her. I took it all in as I lowered myself on a seat near the couch.
Bianca called her neighbor for assistance.
Bianca’s neighbor walked into the apartment wearing dirty, beige underwear several sizes too small and nothing else. From out of nowhere, she produced a baggy of various pills and began to sort through them on the table.
Bianca looked at the time then immediately turned on the television. She cycled through the channels looking for the one she wanted. Soon an evangelist was on, speaking en masse to a crowd giving a sermon about recognizing signs.
Signs of Jesus’ love for man.
Signs that only by faith and repentance can one enter the kingdom of God.
Signs that the apocalypse was upon us.
I watched silently as the two discussed the end of days, arguing which seal, the second or third, had most recently been broken. The discussion continued as the neighbor pulled out a small knife kept in the rear band of her panties and cut a pill in half.
“Remember to only take half this time, last time you threw up taking a whole one,” the neighbor remarked.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Methadone. Synthetic heroin,” Bianca replied, taking half a pill and swallowing it.
The neighbor left, leaving us alone.
Bianca’s speech began to slow and eyes resisted her attempts to keep them open. She laid down on the blood stained couch covered and curled into a ball, falling asleep.
I took one last look at Bianca as I walked out the door. I never did get to say goodbye.
I thought back to an encounter a month or so back. A friend of mine, Peter, whom I had not seen in years surprised me in my car as I left a doctor's office in Hollywood. We got coffee and caught up.
Peter told me about his heroin addiction, how it resulted in visits in and out of jail and rehab and his plan to become a male prostitute, men and women, as long as they paid. Peter then took an interest in what I had been up to for the last few years. I told him about Bianca.
“Bianca?” Peter laughed. “She’s crazy. You know she believes her dad is a prophet of God right?”
I did know, it just never occurred to me that that was a sign.
Peter told me about his heroin addiction, how it resulted in visits in and out of jail and rehab and his plan to become a male prostitute, men and women, as long as they paid. Peter then took an interest in what I had been up to for the last few years. I told him about Bianca.
“Bianca?” Peter laughed. “She’s crazy. You know she believes her dad is a prophet of God right?”
I did know, it just never occurred to me that that was a sign.
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