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12. frazer and the cops
I had called the cops on Frazer again. It was a little game we played. Frazer would act up until I finally called them. I usually only called them after he had lost it, which caused me to lose it. It was usually after we had both become irresponsible towards ourselves and each other. One night he blew smoke into my face when he was drunk. Then he threatened to kill me with a knife in his hand so I called them. Another time I parked my car in front of the station and asked five police to come out. They watched as I yanked Frazer's black vinyl shoe off, whilst trying to pull him out of the car. Then I called over to the police, 'Don't bring your guns'. I said this because there was no need for them to bring them this time. Sometimes there was a need for them to bring them and sometimes there wasn't. I was actually helping the police, because I know that they like everything straightforward and simple. The police, who had been standing on the opposite side of the road, casually finished eating their sandwiches, came over and told Frazer to get out of the car. He told them what a fucking evil bitch I was, and how I was trying to destroy him. But, liking straightforward things, they were not interested. The burly red-faced one, who would be nice at first and nasty next said, 'Sorry mate, it's her car. You have to get out'. So far as I could see, Frazer's complex expression wasn't worth a crock of shit to them. So he got out and I drove home along the freeway towards the city by myself. My satisfaction was in imagining his bony arse inside his suit pants, jigging all the way back to the city, through the mountains on the country train. It had been a bad thing to do, because Frazer was never at ease outside the city environment. He would also obsess over the incident. One day he would take revenge. But the relief of having his hatred away from me was too great. The freeway wind was shooting around the car like crazy. My hair was wrapping itself around my laughter. For awhile I was deliriously happy. That is until I began to miss him again. He usually rang me after four days. But he never let go of the negative stuff. It all just served to feed the hatred that was already inside him. The hate that greased up his insides like chimney smoke would stain a stack, or tannin from tea would stain a stomach. It was a monster hate that ate him up. |
