After two years of domestic struggle, my girlfriend kicked me out. I was heartbroken, in the way that heartbreak makes me manic and irrational. I had also been without sex for four months, and was completely randy and on the rebound.

Sheila, the bass player from my old band, told me she was having a Thanksgiving party for all the girls from the Lusty Lady who didn’t have a place to go for the holidays. Say no more, I told her. I was sold.
I went there with the idea of a dinner, but when I got there it was a boozefest. Fine with me. I had brought a pint of Jim Beam with me. At one point the living room cleared out. I looked in to see what was the matter.

A totally bad-ass punk girl was dancing by herself. She wore a mohawk and fakey sideburns. The way she danced, I could tell she really didn’t give a fuck what people thought about her. She was also rapping along, word for word, with “Rapper’s Delight.”  I was smitten.

When the song was over, I went up to her. She smelled like a beer. Like a cheap beer. She didn’t smell like she had been drinking one, she smelled like she was one. That was fine by me. I smelled like a whiskey.

So I’m trying to talk to her, and it’s like she can’t see me or hear me, and I think she’s not interested. Then all of the sudden she says:

“Do you like Adam Sandler movies?”
“No,” I said.
“Have you seen ‘The Wedding Singer’?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, man, you have to see that one. I don’t care if you hate everything about him, this is the one for you to watch. It has Steve Buscemi and Drew Barrymore. Would you watch it with me?”
“Uh, sure,” I said. Was she asking me out?
“Awesome,” she said. She took me by the hand. “Come on, there’s a VCR in here.”
“You want to watch it now?” I asked.

She looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re funny,” she said, pulling me behind her.

We went into a bedroom. There were a lot of jackets on the bed, but no one else was in there. She pulled the tape out of a bike messenger bag and popped it in the player.

“Do you carry that movie around with you or something?” I asked, not that it was a dealbreaker, but I thought it was kind of weird.

“You crack me up,” she said. “You’re funny. I love funny guys.”

She sat down beside me on the bed. Right beside me. She put her right hand on the inside of my leg and drank a beer with her left hand. I would easily sit through an Adam Sandler movie for a girl like this, I thought.

So we’re watching the movie, and we’re getting closer, and snuggling, and then we’re kissing now and then, the kind of kissing where you’re like, oh yeah, it’s on, even if you’re a little clueless about such matters. The party noise dies down throughout the film, and right during the credits, when I’m thinking about second base, a drunk girl staggers in and passes out on the bed right behind us. Another dude comes in and passes out right next to her.

“C’mon,” she whispered, “let’s get our stuff and move into the living room.”

I was like, hell yeah, so I followed her in there. The place was deserted, so we did what young drunken party people do right there on the living room couch. You know that feeling when you stay at the bottom of the pool too long and you don’t think you have enough air to make it to the surface, but you do, and that first intake of air is the most amazing air you’ve ever breathed? That’s what that fuck was like.

In the morning, I left early, wrote her a note with my number, and put it in her jacket pocket while she slept.

Mohawk girl called me.

“Hey, there’s some bands playing at Mission Records. Do you want to go with me?” she asked.
“Hell yeah,” I told her.

Mission Records was easily the worst smelling record store in America. People always use the expression, it smells like something died in here. Well, that place, you thought maybe something really was dead in there, behind the wall, or underneath the floor. It had been a really bad-ass bar before that, someplace more people walked into than out of, so I always had this idea that someone had hidden a body in there. On the plus side, the rent was really cheap since it smelled so bad, rather than get the odor out, the landlord rented it out to people who didn’t give a fuck.

I met up with Mohawk Girl and we kissed hello. She had her friends and I had mine there, and we were fine talking on our own. But after a while, I saw who she was friends with: all the tweaker kids.
“Look,” I told her, pulling her aside. “I can tell by who you know, that you’re into speed. That’s fine. I don’t care what you do. But if you’re on a date with me, you can’t do that stuff. I can’t be comfortable around you if you’re tweaking.”

“Okay,” she said, “that’s fair.”

So we watch some bands, the show gets shut down, and we leave. Standard fare for a Mission Records show.

About an hour later, we were down at the Tip Top, and she comes out of the bathroom totally high.

“Did you do speed in there,” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I have some more if you want it.”
“No. Do you remember a little while ago, I asked you not to get tweaked on a date with me?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I only did a little; I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Okay,” I told her, “I’m going home.”

The next day after work, I came home. One of my roommates was in the kitchen.
“You, uh, have some messages?”

I hit play. He acted like he couldn’t hear the machine.

Mohawk Girl had called me every hour since 11 a.m., letting me know where she was, which bar she was at, and wanting to know if I’d come join her. I didn’t return any of them, but they kept coming, and coming, and coming.

Friday after work, Mohawk Girl was waiting for me in the park across the street from my house.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she yelled.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Just hanging out.”
“In the park, across the street from where I live?”
“Yeah. Hey, it’s cool that I ran into you because there’s this show I want to go see, these Scottish guys, well they’re not Scottish really, but that’s the theme of the band, they’re from Canada or Michigan or somewhere, really, I don’t know, but I thought we could go together, if you want, my friend is working the door, and he’ll let us in.”
“No, I don’t want to go.”
“Well, what do you want to do then?”
“With you?”
“Yeah, god, you are hilarious.”
“I don’t want to do anything with you. I told you on our first real date not to tweak on a date with me. That’s not a prudish rule. I don’t want to date a tweaker.”

Right as I said it, I knew it had come out harshly. They were my true feelings, but I wanted them back right after I spoke those words. I could see it behind her poker face that she was hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re honest.”
“No, really,” I told her. “That came out wrong.”
“You’re right,” she told me. “It’s perfectly fair. Do you think I can use your bathroom at least?”
“What?”
“I have to pee. I drank a forty in the park, and I have to go.”
“Sure, come on in.”

Mohawk Girl followed me into my house. I led her to the bathroom. I waited outside for a minute. She was taking a long time. I thought she might be crying or something. I went to my room and lay down on my futon.

Mohawk Girl came in the room and shut my door.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out with me?”
“Yeah,” I told her. “I’m sorry, I’m really attracted to you, but we’re not a good match for each other.”
“That’s okay,” she said, “but maybe I shouldn’t have gotten this.”

Mohawk Girl lifted her skit and pulled her tights down a bit. Right above her pube line was a “BUCKY” tattoo.

“Oh,” I said. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know,” she said. “I got it the day after I fucked you at the party. I just had this feeling about you, that you’d be different, you know?”

If I hadn’t felt like shit before, I did then. Yes, I was like “all the other guys.” I had fucked her once then didn’t want to go out with her. I felt like a total frat boy. Now she had gone and gotten the tattoo.

“Look, I’m really sorry about this whole thing,” I said.
“It’s no big deal,” she said.
“It’s a tattoo,” I said.

She busted up laughing.

“It’s eyeliner, you jackass,” she squealed. She came around to the side of the bed and shoved her crotch in my face. She pulled her tights lower, showing me the fake tattoo. She licked her thumb and rubbed it. It smeared. “I did it just now in the bathroom. God, I can’t believe you fell for this.”

As she rubbed the fake tat with her right thumb, I could see her fingers were on her clit, rubbing away. She stood there, staring at me, no longer laughing, rubbing away. She saw me shift in the way I was sitting.

“You’re turned on, aren’t you?” she asked.

I had a half hard-on that went full when she said it.

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” she asked.

Oh, yes, I wanted to fuck her. My body wanted me to fuck her and my brain wanted to kick her out of the house. My body won out.

She took her right hand out of her crotch and pulled a butterfly knife from her jacket. She flip-clacked it open in a well practiced move. Nightmarish images of Valerie Solanas flashed through my head. Mohawk Girl cut the crotch of her tights, and ripped a huge hole, until it looked like a garter belt and thigh highs. On either side of her pussy were twin portrait tattoos: one of Colonel Sanders and the other Charlie Manson.

I know I shouldn’t have had sex with her again. I knew it as I did it. It would’ve been better all the way around had I not. But there was no way I wasn’t going to, pardon the double negative.

Saturday night I was hanging out at Black-N-Strong Coffee with Michelle Tea. We were working on her submission for The Best Gaymerican Literature anthology and chain-smoking on the back porch. From the roof of the building next door, Mohawk Girl let loose.

“Bucky, I can see you, you’re totally busted, dude. And you, whoever you think you are, stay the fuck away from my man.”

“What the fuck is that about?” Michelle asked me. “Is she serious?”
“Delusional, but serious,” I said.

“I’d come down there,” she said, “but I have to go to the store for some tin foil. You get a pass this time.”

Sunday afternoon I went to the Fusebox to watch football and drink. It was open early on the weekends, full of alcoholic hipsters. The bartender made my cocktails in pint glasses. That’s the way I like them. They were more than doubles only barely, like two and a halfs. But I liked that look and feel of getting a whiskey and coke in a pint glass.

I was taking a piss when Mohawk Girl came out of the stall, walked behind me and stood between me and the locked door. I was too startled to know how to react.

“What are you doing here?”
“How was your date?”
“What? Are you serious? Michelle is a dyke.”
“This is no time for jokes.”
“I’m not joking.”
“We haven’t talked about things yet, but I thought you’re weren’t the type of guy to fuck around.”
“I’m not fucking around.”
“Don’t lie to me. Are you fucking around on me?”
“Look,” I said, shaking out and zipping up. “I am not fucking Michelle, or anyone else. You included.”
She stared at me for a while, then burst into laughter.
“God, you are hilarious. I can’t stay mad at you. You are like, the funniest guy I have ever met. You are like a real life Adam Sandler.”
“No, seriously. I am not fucking anyone. Not you, not anyone, and especially not dykes. We are not going out, so I can’t cheat on you. Get it? We are not going out.”
“So you’re breaking up with me?”
“No, because we were never going out. We are two people who fucked each other a couple of times. That’s it.”
“Okay, I need to give you some space. I’ll talk to you later.”
“No, you won’t. Don’t call me, don’t come by, don’t visit.”
“I don’t want to talk to you now. You’re angry. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She left. I thought I was done with her. I was far from right.

That night I went to They Be Sushi. Sheila was there. She motioned at me to sit down. She was with three other beautiful women, and I came over right away. They got out of the booth and motioned for me to take the inside spot. Then Sheila went off on me.

I quickly learned: Mohawk Girl did not live there, she was an uninvited party crasher.  She had traded some of her clothes, without permission, from a closet there, in some kind of tweaker-magpie type trade, and I was responsible for getting them back or buying her roommate a $300 gift certificate to the Piedmont Boutique. And, loudest of all, Sheila screamed that if I was going to fuck a complete stranger in her house, I should have the decency not to leave the condom under the couch.

Within a week, everyone had heard a version of the screaming fit Sheila had in the Sushi joint. By the time the story got around, we had done it while the party was in full swing, in front of everyone.
I started hearing stories about my “girlfriend.”

“Dude, I met your girlfriend the other night. We were upstairs at the Hillside Club, after some bands got done, and she busted out some of the gnarliest crank I’ve ever seen. I wasn’t about to do this shit, it was green, man. I’ve seen it yellow and pink, but I’ve never seen it green, and she said it was cool, but I was like no way. Well, she gave some to this band from Richmond, Virginia, and the drummer totally had a heart attack or OD’d or some shit, I don’t know. The minute I saw the foam hitting his mouth, I was out because I have warrants and shit, you know, from that time at the cemetery. Well anyway, congrats, dude, cuz she seems really into you.”

I wish I had some cool story about how I resolved the whole thing, how I fixed the situation by getting everyone together and talking about our feelings. The truth is I ducked Mohawk Girl’s phone calls and dodged her presence. I stopped going to punk shows. I didn’t go near Mission Records. After I got home from work every day, I bought a fifth of Evan Williams and three cans of Coke for dinner. I hid in my flat and swore my roommates to secrecy.

But Mohawk Girl knew where I lived, and it was only a matter of time before she showed up.
It was six-thirty in the morning when she caught me leaving my house, on the way to catch CalTrain to work.

“Hey, Bucky,” I heard. She was coming at me from the park.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I said, trying to sound like there was nothing unusual about her being outside my house at that hour.
“I have to talk to you,” she said. I looked around for a cop. Never one when you need one.
“I have to go to work,” I told her. “I don’t have time to talk. Can it wait until later?”
“No, it can’t,” she told me. “I’m going to roadie for The Scabby Kids. They’re this band, they’re crusties, and instead of using vans, they travel hopping boxcars. Their last roadie got his feet amputated because he was a diabetic junkie and used all his insulin needles to shoot dope and now he can’t run fast enough to trainhop. We’re leaving today.”
“Wow,” I said. “That sounds like a great idea.”
“Well, there’s a problem with it.”
“What?” I thought she was about to hit me up for money. I would’ve given it to her to send her on the road.
“It’s about us.”
“Hey, I told you, there…”
“No, let me talk. This can’t work out. I’ve tried the distance thing before and it never works. We’re going through Minneapolis and I have an old boyfriend there who just got back from Antarctica and he’s wanting to get back together. I know it sounds shitty, but I have to go my own way.”
She broke up with me.
“That’s okay,” I said. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, hugging me goodbye. “You’ll find someone. Women really like guys who are funny like you.”