You Stole The Fucking Lightbulbs.

Here's another guest blog, from a lovely friend I've met through work. It recounts her experience leaving her addicted husband, with all the strength and endurance we have come to expect form those who've lived with an addict.

“You stole the fucking lightbulbs?!?” Dave was screaming. High. Drunk. Demonstrating to me just why I asked for the divorce in the first place. But it was the 11th hour- actually midnight- and I was moving out the next day. I was in no mood to have my decisions justified. Even though he was high and drunk and belligerent, I still loved him; I didn’t wanna go. So the packing had been uneasy: open a box, throw in some make-up, smoke a cigarette, hug the dog, cry, do a load of laundry, wander the house. The house that was our home.

Three weeks prior I had found what was going to become my home. My dad had pushed me to get out of the country and look into New Haven, a city where I would meet people. So, I got what I could afford and that would take Sam, my two-year old Boxer. It was in a three-family house in the Italian neighborhood. Safe. I had slowly started moving non-essentials, like pots and pans, sundresses, wedding gowns… But it was now October 3rd, and it was time to take that next-to-final step before our court date later in the month.

I like to think that Dave was accusing me of taking the lightbulbs because he didn’t want me to leave, either. That he was bellowing his sorrow at my imminent departure. With every door he kicked, I imagined that he was kicking himself for letting me go. And then, he locked himself in the bedroom and called the police, presumably because I was appropriating lightbulbs. He’s, as I mentioned, high and drunk. I’m, as I mentioned, a crying wreck. There are half-filled boxes scattered throughout the house. The dog is barking. It’s now an episode of COPS. While they are inside talking to Dave, I am outside (in my PICK-UP TRUCK) on the phone with my parents. Sobbing. I was handling the move, the break-up, the life-upheaval, pretty darn good up until now. Until the lightbulb-stealing allegation.

And the cops. Who now want to talk to the missus (that would be me in this domestic dispute). They are slowly starting to understand the situation as it is, and not what the delusional mister has told them. For starters, and what brought a BIG smile to my face, was the lightbulb check. I had not a one in any of my boxes. The lights that weren’t working? BURNT OUT. Ha!

Clearly the two of us cannot stay in the same abode another minute. It’s decided that, since I have an alternate place to spend the night, I should skedaddle. Which means that I need access to the bedroom. The State Troopers escort me and Sam, who won’t leave my side. That is, until he runs over the bed to go hide in the corner and leaves a full-bladder trail of urine across it. Gigantic smile number two.

“Who does the dog belong to?” asks one of the Mensa-officers.

“Who do you think?” Dave and I answer in unison. Finally, something we agree on.

It’s 1:00 a.m. by the time Sam and I roll into New Haven. We’d never been to the new ‘hood after dark, and quite frankly, it’s not looking as safe as I had remembered from lunchtime the day before. The crazy neighbor guy was out- something I hadn’t anticipated. Hell, I hadn’t planned on this being my first night in my new pad, period.

Due to this unforeseen change in sleep venue, I was hugely unprepared. No bed. No couch. Not even a fucking bath towel. I had a picnic blanket in the truck, so Sam and I found a corner of the least-scary room in the empty apartment, and settled in for a few hours.

Until the sirens started wailing. Who knew that New Haven’s main firehouse was located in Little Italy? At the end of my street. It must’ve been a full moon that night, because the drama that had unfolded earlier at my old home was nothing compared to the fatal fire that was consuming a local bar a few blocks away from my new home.

Between the hardwood floor and inferno, there was no rest for Sam and me. And we had an early and long day ahead of us. (OK, so he didn’t.) I had to pick up the U-Haul and get myself to the Hispanic Christian Radio Station to pick up my helpers. Hector. And Jesus. Hey- my friend Richard had arranged this for me. Since he was flat-out frightened of my soon-to-be-ex, he refused to accompany me to the old homestead. Instead, he hired these day-laborers to do his dirty work.

So off we go, over the river and through the dale, lined up on the bench-seat of the box truck. Hector. And Jesus. And me. Oh my. Evidently Dave called our pal Bernie after my decampment and they’d been up all night packing. All of my belongings were in the garage and spilling out onto the driveway, just waiting to be loaded.

When there’s one goal in sight, it’s amazing what competing forces can accomplish. It’s also surprising what linguistic barriers can be crossed, for my savior Jesus spoke not a drop of English. He did, however, understand when Dave offered him a cerveza. (Ah, the language of substance abuse.) In any event, we had that rig freighted up and were ready to push out by noon.

After a quick stop for fuel for my buggy and my peasants, we got on the slow road back to town. Everything I had was rolling a few square feet behind me. Everything I had was in the hands of two Christian Hispanics who were toiling for 35 bucks, a sandwich and a beer. Everything I had wasn’t much, but it was everything.

Richard and his wimpy Sportster were waiting at the curb when we arrived. In the light of day, my block looked much more inviting. Much less intimidating.

“OK, let’s do it!”

And with that, I started my chain gang. Off the truck. Through the gate. Up the stairs. Up more stairs. In addition to adding muscle, Richard played interpreter and director. “Por favor.” A box of dishes here, an armload of suits there. “El bañó. El bañó. Si, el bañó.” (I’m a girl with a slight addiction to beauty products.) “Por favor. Gracias.”

Pre-nightfall, and just in time for Pepe’s Apizza, I returned the moving van and Richard returned the movers. By now, my dog understands Spanish. (He’d better get used to it since he’d be hearing Latin Kings cruising down the street often enough.) Even though the plates weren’t yet in the cabinets, we dug into that cheesy pie with an abandon that only needed fistfuls of napkins. Not quite home, but it was getting there.

The next weekend my mom came down to help me fill my cupboards and empty out the boxes that I hadn’t touched yet. Good thing we were also planning to scope out the Laundromat: in one of the boxes we found the load of wash that I had been doing the previous Friday night before I had been so rudely interrupted by accusations of lightbulb plundering. The load that had been in the WASHING MACHINE. The load that never made it to the dryer, but had instead been used to cushion crystal. “Gracias, Dave. Maybe I should’ve taken your fucking lightbulbs…”