The Ties That Bind Us: (The Ties Duet Part One)

by Danda K.

  I’m alone.

  My mother’s been gone for two years now. I guess she finally realized she could take off without having to come back and make excuses for why she had to work so much.

  Her need to “work” was her need to do what she pleased, or should I say who she pleased. With her gone, it’s just my father and me. Things aren’t peachy between us, but we coexist.

  And by coexist, I mean we pass by each other, vaguely acknowledging the other still breathes.

  I quickly grab my laptop and log into my work station to clock in. U-Haul is a very low maintenance company to keep happy. I usually work a full day on Wednesdays since I don’t have any online classes to distract me.

  Working from home has its perks. It saves me from interacting with the world outside these walls, and my hours are flexible. I open the schedule for pick-ups and drop-offs today, then place my laptop down on the bed and jump up to get some much-needed caffeine.

  I add my K-cup to the machine and wait for the hiss of the coffee being brewed. After a couple minutes, the scent of coffee in the air has my mind immediately relaxing. When the machine lights up green, I grab my mug and add some sugar. I stare down into it, gently swirling the brown liquid around, inhaling its scent, and relishing the feeling of steam on my face. When my glasses begin to fog, I pull my head back and blow some air into my coffee to cool it.

  I take a look around the small house.

  The open concept of the kitchen and living room makes it easy to get a full view of every corner that’s haunted with memories of my childhood. The back of our old, worn brown couch that was the foundation for most of my beatings has rips along the seam at the top, exposing the wood underneath. The cherry wood end table finally has a lamp that my father stole from our neighbors’ yard sale last week. I walk over and turn it on.

  Back in the kitchen, I sit down at the small island that faces the sink and tiny window.

  Whoever designed this kitchen was either blind or held at gunpoint. Why would anyone think salmon-colored cabinets and off-white laminate countertops go well together?

  I’d consider paying half towards a remodel since that’d be the fair thing to do between a father and his adult daughter who live together, but he’s a shit father and person. Honestly, other than his DNA, he’s never offered any kind of fatherly contribution to my life.

  In fact, it was the opposite. My father stole things from me as a child that I’ll never be able to get back as an adult…like my spirit.

  But leaving has never been an option for me, no matter how toxic he is. Somehow I’ve convinced myself I’m safer here than out in the world.

  Just as I finish that thought, the front door swings open, and he strolls in, smoking a cigarette with a twelve-pack in hand. I take a deep breath and sip my coffee. I stare out the kitchen window and watch as a small squirrel holding a bunch of leaves in its mouth climbs up the tree out front.

  I ignore my dad, as usual, never expecting a conversation. Except this time, he speaks.

  “You know these floors won’t clean themselves.” He bends down and runs a finger across the wood to prove a point, then stands back up. I side-eye him as he examines his finger, and a hint of agitation spreads across his face. There’s nothing there but the off-colored calluses that riddle his fingers and hands.

  I look forward again and bring the mug to my lips, smirking as I take a sip and bask in the glory of the backfire.

  I sense him staring for a minute, so I look over at him while he sucks some air through his teeth, stained yellow from years of smoking.

  “If you intend to take up space in my house, you’re gonna make sure these floors shine like fucking glass when I tell you.” He walks past me, placing his beers in the refrigerator and slamming the door shut. He stands across from me now, blocking my view of the kitchen window.

  “When I come home from the store, I don’t wanna feel like I’m walking into a dump,” he emphasizes the last word. I still don’t respond to him, and he grows more irritated. “It’s bad enough I gotta look at your face every day in my house. I don’t need it looking like a pigsty, too.”

  I cleaned the damn floors yesterday.

  I know his tactics, so I continue to ignore him and save my sanity. He walks over to the living room, stops at the end table, and stares at the light.

  Turning around, he points to the tall, black lamp. “And this is mine. Got it? Don’t touch it. You think I don’t know what you did after I brought it home?” He awaits my response, but I just roll my eyes instead and continue to look out the window.

  He walks back over to me and slams his dirty hand on the island, causing me to flinch, but I recover quickly to hide the lingering fear I still harbor for him. His threats and aggressive behavior don’t pack the same punch as they used to.

  My heart rate picks up, but I try my hardest to keep myself collected.

  “You think you’re so much better than me, huh? Going next door and leaving that ten bucks in their mailbox?” I adjust myself in my seat and take another sip of my coffee, which is now room temperature. “You’re useless, y’know?” He points to the living room behind him. “Other than cleaning this house, you ain’t worth more than a fucking wet mop.”

  I take a deep breath, feeling the first signs of my blood heating up. It feels like the small air bubbles that form before a full-on boil of water. And it’s not because he’s on another one of his rants. I’m used to his bullshit by now.

  What he’s spewing is the truth about me that I’ve come to accept; the insecurities I try to bury. He always finds a way to bring them to the surface. My jaw tightens from the anger I’m trying to contain, and I know he notices because he lets out a knowing chuckle.

  “That’s what I thought...the door may look different, but still the same doormat. Now get these floors cleaned. They’re disgusting.” He turns and walks away, the stench of his cigarette lingering in the kitchen.

  And that does it. Like a guitar string being twisted tighter and tighter until eventually the tension tears it apart, something in me snaps. In a sudden moment of clarity, I think back on all the years I just accepted whatever abuse he sent my way, especially when I was a child and unable to defend myself.

  Enough.

  I think about how I’ve allowed this sad excuse for a man and no excuse for a father to control so much of my mind.

  “I washed the floors yesterday. They’re clean,” I tell him through my teeth, my blood now fully erupted. He turns back and looks at me, raising an eyebrow. Stomping his feet on the floor, little specks of dirt sprinkle around from the bottom of his shoe.

  My breath picks up, and I watch as he removes the cigarette from his mouth and flicks the ashes onto the floor, eyeing me with a sardonic grin the entire time.

  Michael Nasaro is the poster boy for an abusive, alcoholic waste of space. A devil who walks among us.

  Ironically, he’s wearing nothing but a wife-beater tank that has seen better days and dirt-stained jeans. It’s still hot out this time of the year, so it’s not a shock that one would walk around in a muscle tee. But there is nothing “muscle” about this tee on him. He looks like a typical run down, nasty, dirty drunk.

  The only thing I have in common with this man is his blood type and eye color. At least my mother had her looks going for her, but that’s about it because her IQ matched the room temperature.

  ”If you don’t like how the job is done, pick up the mop YOURSELF!” Standing up, I practically screech, “Put those chubby arms you use as beer holders to work and clean your own goddamn self!”

  Shocked at my outburst, I stand tall, my fingers shaky. Before I lose my nerve or he reacts, I make a rash decision. My eyes dart side to side, and I take my coffee mug, still half-filled with coffee, and send it crashing to the floor.

  Take. That.

  The schoolgirl in me is probably sticking her tongue out at him right now.

  An immense amount of shock flies through me. Shock that I just stood my ground, a
nd shock that I had a voice. Feeling unsettled, I storm past him, throw on my boots, and grab my Jansport before I change my mind. To my surprise, he’s silent and staring at me in his own shock.

  After coming face to face with a monster for so long, you learn to survive among it. Eventually, you find the monster’s face was just a mask, and only cowards wear masks for fear of being seen.

  And a coward will always believe they’re the most intimidating man in the room...until they aren’t.

  Still holding onto my defiance towards him, I twist the doorknob and pull it open before eyeing the floor where my mug is shattered, the coffee bleeding out around it. Then I look right at him and shrug, “Now you don’t have a choice but to clean it yourself. You want a maid? Check Angie’s List. Otherwise, fuck off.”

  And I slam the door shut.

  Two

  Cameron

  As I walk around Coney Island Avenue, the streets are packed with families, restaurants, delivery trucks, and the obnoxious sound of car horns.

  Behind me, I hear two people arguing over a parking space. The sound of one of them slamming their car door makes my heart skip a nervous beat. I look down at my boots and notice one of them is untied again, so I step to the side and bend down to fix it.

  Standing up, I hear a man’s gravely and deep voice right behind my ear.

  “You have some change for the bus?”

  I jump and turn around, instinctively shielding myself from whoever is behind me. A man, maybe early fifties, with brown, greasy hair that hangs past his ears, yellow teeth, and filthy clothes, stands before me.

  He has a short beard, which seems to have some salt to it, unlike his head, and wrinkles lining his brown eyes.

  I step back as much as I can to add space between us and bump into a traffic pole. My breathing is heavy and erratic due to our close proximity. I reach shaky fingers into my pocket to search for anything I can give him. I feel the coarse paper between my fingers and pull out a five-dollar bill.

  “Here you go,” I choke out as I reach my hand towards him.

  His eyes light up, and he retrieves the money while smiling at me kindly. I cringe in response to his facial expression. He gives me a sad look, almost offended by my reaction to him. I immediately feel guilty and attempt a smile, but I can’t control how my body responds to men. I don’t trust them.

  “Thank you. God bless you.” Still keeping a smile, he turns and walks away with his earnings.

  I continue forward, approaching a bus stop. On the side facing me, I spot an advertisement for our local college. I stare at the four smiling students holding their books as they stand in front of a large, glass-windowed building. The bottom of the picture says, ‘Kingsborough Community College... “Where the rest of your life begins.”

  I let that stew for a minute in my head before an idea hits me. Where the rest of my life begins? I know exactly where I want to go now. Without giving myself time to think, I cross the street and head towards a place that I only dared to add to my list of things I wished I could do. Knowing this is probably all the confidence I’ll be able to muster for a while, I figure now is the best time to do this.

  I refuse to stop my journey until I can see the community college.

  The bright September sun is shining, and the leaves are changing color to prepare for fall.

  I walk past a small convenience store, the door wide open, mops, small children’s toys, and slippers arranged outside for purchase.

  The bus stop is still about half a block away when I feel the whoosh of wind from the B1 passing me. I pick up my speed, feeling relieved for once at the line of people crowding around to get on. Just as the last person heads inside, I step onto the bus and insert my MetroCard into the slot. The small card is pulled from my hand, sucked into the machine, then quickly reappears so I can remove it.

  I walk down the aisle, my head down, and head to an empty back corner of the bus. I sit in the seat right above the wheel that every MTA traveler hates because the bumps are more intense.

  Kingsborough Community College is around twenty minutes from the stop where I got on, and it’s the last stop for this route. Most of the passengers have already gotten off, and all that’s left are what I assume to be students making their way to classes.

  The bus driver announces it’s the last stop, and I don’t move until every person has exited the bus. I step out into the warm air, where a huge stone arch is in front of me with Kingsborough Community College carved into the concrete.

  Trees line the entrance as you pass through the arch, with little benches scattered along the grass. Further ahead are brick buildings spread out to make up the different parts of the campus.

  From here, I can spot the enormous library that sits at the center of the campus. Tall steps lead up to the huge doors. Some buildings on this campus seem to connect through glass hallways, but not the library. That stands alone. Just like I am right now.

  Standing. Alone.

  I park my behind on a bench not too far from the campus entrance-- easier escape route--and watch all of the students laugh and smile and just… live. I’m sitting here, minding my own business... breathing the same air as these complete strangers, imagining what my life would be like if I was them.

  My original reason for coming here goes out the window as I begin to play games on my phone. Before I know it, I look at the time and realize I’ve been sitting here for two hours. Two hours just sitting on this bench, staring at what college life could look like for me. The bench was mostly secluded in a low traffic area, but some people did walk by.

  One person even sat next to me for a bit. I was so engrossed in my phone that I didn’t notice a woman having lunch right next to me. It wasn’t until she got up to leave that I lifted my head and realized she was there.

  I decide to explore a bit, so I head towards the center of the campus.

  Walking past a large water fountain, I notice a paved walkway. It’s uphill, so there are flat, wide steps leading up. I approach the hill and take the steps all the way up until large glass doors and windows come into view. As I walk closer, I see signs of life behind the barrier.

  Students walk past each other, and there’s lines of people all over holding trays both empty and with food on them. I step to the window and shield my eyes from the sun to press close to the glass and peek inside at the cafeteria.

  Suddenly, the door next to me swings open, startling me. I immediately stand at attention, trying to play it cool. Two guys with trays of food make their way behind the building, talking and laughing.

  I follow behind them, curious as to where they’re going.

  As I turn the building’s corner, two girls walk by, talking about what they’re wearing to a party on Friday. I scan the outdoor dining area and think about what my life would have been like if I had just accepted Milla’s invitation to a party at least once.

  Maybe I could have met a cute boy. Maybe I could have made another friend.

  I notice a couple sitting on a bench directly across from me, testing each other with index cards. The girl screams in delight as she clearly gets the correct answer. The guy cheers and leans over, grabbing her cheeks and giving her a proud kiss on the forehead.

  That sweet exchange is all it takes for me to fall back into my doubt and hightail my ass out of there.

  Their smiles were a brutal reminder of how my life was void of anything so genuine. No one has ever looked at me like I held up the sun and brightened their whole day. And I knew, even more clearly in that moment, that no one ever will.

  ◆◆◆

  I aimlessly walk around the streets, moving away from the campus. A couple passes me in the street, holding hands. The girlfriend is much shorter than her partner, and she reaches up to pop the large bubble her boyfriend formed with his gum. They laugh, and he tickles her sides.

  This playful encounter has me thinking about Camilla and Shane.

  They’re the only two people I want to maintain a friendship wi
th. Shane began to look out for me at the end of high school after he saw first-hand how his idiot group of jock friends and female groupies were actually treating me.

  After he put them in their place, he told Camilla. And believe it or not, their friends left me alone for the most part. They took off after graduation, but we’ve kept in touch through texts and video calls. I even see them during the holidays.

  After about twenty minutes, my phone rings. It’s obviously my best friend since nobody else calls me. I pick up and prepare myself for the whirlwind that is Camilla Santiago.

  “Hi, bitch! What level of ‘fuck off’ did you reach today?!” Milla is well-versed in all my levels of ‘fuck off.’

  I chuckle because, boy, if she only knew.

  “Well, for starters, I told my dad off after one of his rants and I threw a mug on the floor and told him to clean it up, all while accusing him of having beer holders for arms.” I take a deep breath from the run-on sentence I just spit out. “Then I decided to check out a college campus.”

  “Well, good for you, babe! I’m proud of you for sticking up for yourself! And I think it’s awesome you ventured onto a campus! Even if it was just to get a feel for it. That is such a huge step, Cam! And don’t let that low-life waste of space on your birth certificate make you feel otherwise. I wish I could have been there when you went full Dark Phoenix on his ass.”

  Within the last year, I came clean with Camilla. I shared every gory and brutal detail.

  I thought it would be better to open up when she was already settled at Harvard with Shane, because, knowing her, she would want to come back and get an apartment with me. I couldn’t have that.

  “Well, you’re coming back to visit for the holidays, right? I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other then.”

  “Uh, duh. I can’t go through Christmas without seeing my bestie, and giving her a present!” I roll my eyes because she really is such a sap—the complete opposite of me.