Crazy Conchita

Deep down every woman has a little Crazy in her. It’s like a repressed personality that transforms pleasant dispositions to nasty ones. Unfortunately, Crazy doesn’t have to wait long to invade our rational minds. All Crazy has to do is follow us to the next local bar on a not-so-good day.

That’s exactly what that bitch did to me. She used to follow me every Tuesday into Coogan’s Restaurant and Bar. Always find me though I would duck behind cars and hide inside building lobbies. At the bar, she would stand right behind me, blending in with the karaoke crooners and alcohol induced crowd, waiting for that fourth rum and coke to run through my blood stream. And then it was all over for the sane me. Crazy, who I eventually renamed Conchita, forced me into the dangers of Drinking and Dialing, and the emotional outbursts that streaked mascara and led bartenders to soothe me with glasses of ice water.

Elijah met Conchita the day before Thanksgiving. I planned to shower him with love and affection before I went home for the holiday, until he forgot about our plans and picked me up two hours late. It was unlike him. I sat in the passenger seat and greeted him with a quick kiss on the lips, then turned toward the window and watched the night spread across the sky as the beats of a 50 Cent song filled the silence. He turned to me and asked if I wanted something from the liquor store. Conchita immediately requested a bottle of Bacardi rum and a 2-liter bottle of Coca Cola.

Elijah and I arrived at his older brother’s home with three brown paper bags. The bottles clinked as he held the bags together in one hand and opened the door with the other. We walked into a spacious kitchen and Elijah set the packages on a glass table. I grabbed the rum and soda, leaving the six-pack of Yeanling and a bottle of vodka behind. I twisted the cap open and the potent smell of alcohol hit my nostrils. Elijah handed me a glass while the soda hissed and foamed. I began to fill the glass slowly, in an effort to measure my alcohol intake, and then Conchita tipped my elbow. The glass was half empty.

By my third drink, my legs felt like mush. By my fourth drink, the volume of my voice had elevated like that of an old, slobbering drunk. Elijah sat across from me, watched as I began to unravel with every sip and refill. But he just sat there with a cold beer, entertaining his brothers and cousin with a childhood story. I lifted myself from the stool and walked over to the table. It was time for another. Elijah looked at me and said:

“Babe, are you sure you should drink another one? You’re already getting pretty loud.”

My eyes narrowed and I poured the rum into my glass.

“I’m fine, and don’t tell me what to do.”

That was Conchita talking.

He turned away from my glare and took a swig of his beer. I stood there, sipping my rum and coke, watching his indifference. He was different. Something was different. Everything then began to blur. I walked toward the leather couch in the living room, leaving behind the voices and laughter. My body sank into the softness of the couch and I began to cry.

I don’t remember how long I was out, but I remember Elijah pulling me from the couch, handing me my coat, and my tripping on stairs after bidding everyone farewell. On the ride back to Elijah’s, there was that silence - that heavy, somber, frightening silence. And in his home, in his bed, there were more tears - apologetic and needy tears. I yearned to be rid of Conchita, but first I had to be rid of my doubts and fears. That’s where I had to begin and I hoped Elijah loved me enough to be patient. That night he was. Elijah held me in his arms and stroked my tear-stained cheeks. And Conchita was too. She took a break and let me be me.