Mickey - The View From Here PART TWO - Gallavich

Why Is Everybody Running?

Agitated, I left Ian in the rental unit and headed down to the stores lining the street. I felt like a caged animal being shocked into the corner. I knew Ian had a point about this place. It really was nice and very cheap. But that didn’t ease my discomfort.

In an attempt to soothe my nerves so I wouldn’t snap on Ian during our next conversation, I walked into the first liquor store I found and asked the clerk inside, “where are your beers?”

“What are you lookin’ for?” the clerk inquired. “IPAs, porters, sours, hefeweizens?”

“American,” I asserted with irritation.

He motioned to the wall. “To the right.”

When I looked over, I saw that only one refrigerator was labeled Domestic, noting that the majority of the display fridges were filled with craft brew bullshit. “Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed in frustration, adding this to the list of reasons I wouldn’t live here. I liked things simple. I hated change. I just wanted to ask for a beer without diving into every type of beer that ever was. Just give me an Old Style and I’ll be on my way.

I opened the domestic beer fridge and picked up an unfamiliar bottle. I'd never even heard of this brand, let alone seen it on the shelves back home. With disgust, I put the can back and grabbed an Old Style. As I walked up to the cash register, I wondered, “how much for this?”

“Four bucks,” the clerk replied.

That couldn’t be right. Glaring at him, I probed, “for the can?”

The clerk nodded.

My anxiety driven frustration began to escalate. “Should be, like, three bucks a fuckin’ six-pack, man. What kind of West Side bullshit is this, asshole?” I ranted before I slapped four dollars onto the counter. Walking off, I continued to rant to myself. “Gotta sell a kidney just to afford a beer.” I pushed through the exit, emerging on the other side to have the sun shine right in my eyes.

Teetering between irritation and rage, I grumbled as I descended the concrete steps leading from the store to the sidewalk, “four-dollar can, my ass.”

From behind me came a young woman's voice, which I did not register as being directed at me. “On your left!” she chimed happily before colliding with the back of my left shoulder.

“Oof!” I grunted upon impact. “Jesus, fuck!”

The thin jogger that had crashed into me cast me a glare before she scolded, “I said on your left!”

“It’s confusing!” I shouted back as she gained her bearings and resumed her jog. “My left or yours?”

Before I could take another few steps, I was startled with an, “on your right!”

I tried to lean away, but it was the wrong direction and I stepped in the new jogger's path. “Jesus Chr--" I cursed as we bumped into one another. My agitation mounting, I questioned no one in particular, “why the fuck is everybody runnin'? No one’s chasing you fuckers!”

I gripped my can of beer and started back to the condo, ready to leave Ian behind if he loved the West Side so much. “West Side bullshit.” When I got to the ambulance, I popped open the back doors, took a seat, and opened my too expensive can of beer.

Soon, Ian came strolling out of the condominium with a few sheets of paper in his hand. “Where the hell’d you go?”

I held up the can as an answer.

Proudly, Ian drew attention to the papers he was carrying. “Signed the lease.”

“You did what?” I questioned, less surprised than disappointed. At the back of my mind, I'd known he would do this from the moment he had suggested it.

“It’ll be good for us, Mick,” he reasoned gently. “We can start a life here. Without your family or my family—just us.”

What happened to making these decisions together?

What could I do? Ian had made this choice for both of us, and I was being forced to go along with it. This was the first time Ian had ever made me feel trapped.

In reminiscence, I said, “you know I grew up dreamin' about being king of the South Side? Makin’ deals, shootin' people, not being married to some f** who wants to sleep on a cloud bed on the fuckin' West Side.”

Ignoring my slur, Ian almost smiled to himself. “It is a nice bed.”

He wasn’t getting it. “And what’s so bad about bein' from the South Side?” I snapped, panic taking hold at the absence of control.

“Nothing. We'll always be from the South Side, but…” he paused, a playful glint in his eye, “now we have a heated pool.”

“Fuckin' great,” I said, resigned to go against my own wishes and move here. If Ian wanted it that badly, what choice did I really have? “Whatever.”

On the drive back to our real home in South Side, Ian did his best to bridge the gap forming between us. He tried to make me laugh, tried to commiserate about the challenges of being an ex-con, tried to flirt. I wasn’t biting, too overwhelmed by emotion to even speak.

How could he do this to me? Just decide to uproot our lives to Hipsterville when he knew it was the last thing I wanted? I told him no on the bed, and he went on to sign a lease without me. His message, whether intentional or not, was that it didn’t matter what the fuck I wanted or what I was comfortable with. My husband was going to do whatever the fuck he set his mind to, whether I was by his side or not. I knew without a doubt that if I refused, Ian would still move. Without me nearby, I feared he would forget me again.

So, two shitty choices; move to the West Side or possibly lose my husband. Of course, I still loved him with all of my being, but I hated him for putting me in this position. Fuckin' West Side.