Blackbird

The only time I watch my back is when I hear the sound of a certain motorcycle.

They always tease me that I went out with an old Harley guy living in the valley.

But he rode a sport bike, The Blackbird, a massive machine of power and metal.

If I had not been killed by one of his punches, I might have been killed riding on the back of that machine.

He rode even more reckless on a bike than he even did driving a car.

Crossing over the double line, going down the middle on highways in rush hour traffic
~ weaving in and out, and speeding beyond speeding ~ nothing I had ever could have imagined.

I was not one to be impressed by motorcycles.  This was a whole other world to me.  It seemed like everyone in San Lorenzo Valley either had a motorcycle, or they were about to be convinced to buy one from him.

In the earlier years after our separation, I would turn my head 20 times a day when I heard the sound of a motorcycle.  Making sure it was not him.  Because sometimes it really was.

I remember he was waiting outside the Walnut Ave Women's Center after "The Ninth Day" when I cut my hair without his permission.  Yes, he was waiting on Walnut Ave just as I was trying to work up the courage to stop seeing him so early in our relationship.

He would ride The Blackbird up to the university and bring unwanted flowers and balloons to my office after times of abuse.  I would hide in the back office and send the gifts home with my student workers.

I tried so hard back then in our first year together to break up with him.  But The Blackbird was always there.

He even rode The Blackbird with another woman on the back ~ the one always kept on the side ~ the girlfriend before me who suddenly wanted him back once he was with someone else ~ Yes, they were on their way to come by my apartment on the Westside, so he could give me a hand-picked wildflower for Valentine's Day.

I could not believe my eyes as I turned onto Meder Street and saw that big black monster up ahead of me.  I began to edge closely, and he pulled over to explain about the flower.  I do not remember if I cried or screamed.  But I remember he was very hurt that I would not take the little white wildflower.  They sped off quickly, and I followed in hot pursuit ~ in some type of surreal way I can almost describe as an out-of-the-body experience.  So foolish was I to even play into their madness, that the next thing I know they were calling the cops to report I had tried to run them over.

I drove myself down to the police department rather than have them come knocking on my door and got to experience my one and only nightmare of Good Cop/Bad Cop.  Oh, The Bad Cop was all over me ~ grilling me of my intentions behind the wheel of Mom's Old Silver Mustang.  But The Good Cop knew this was some exaggerated love triangle ~ something out of a soap opera or really bad "B" movie ~ he knew this was not what I was all about ~ he knew I had class ~ and in the end, The Good Cop won out and believed me.

But the nightmare was an early wake up call of the power my abuser really had over me in trying to get me thrown into jail.

Crazy-making is what they called it when I told them the story at group the next week.

You think I could laugh about it now.  Well, maybe I can laugh a little about The Good Cop/Bad Cop part, being related to two former cops and wondering if they ever interrogated anyone in this fashion.  It was all out of an episode of "Law and Order" ~ and the interrogation actually lasted as long as one full episode.

Well, he finally went to jail for charges unrelated to domestic violence.  And I recently found out that The Blackbird is gone.  Sold for drugs last summer.  In fact, I heard he has absolutely no transporation at all waiting for him when he gets out of jail.

So maybe I won't get a crick in my neck ~ doing a double take on every sport bike I hear ~ maybe I can finally forget The Blackbird and the role it played in my own story of domestic violence. 

The Blackbird was almost human in its power to hurt me.  A massive machine of black and metal used to weave it's way back into my life each time I tried to dodge its force in my attempt to break free.