I was playing solitaire and listening to Limp Bizkit. It was a nice pleasant evening, my kitten on my lap and my tummy full of chicken wings I'd had with Nathan and our friends.
I was chatting with Peter via AOL instant messanger, which I occasionally think is the most brilliant software ever created, and also the most evil.
Peter mentioned something about coming over to pick up his books, which have been in my possession since he moved out of my old apartment nine months ago. I was incredulous. He's still trying to get me to set up a time to let him in to get his things after I've waited NINE fucking months? After I've set up numerous times? After he's left this place empty-handed once, and forgotten at least half a dozen times he's promised to come get his stuff?
Most of his stuff got captured by the landlord. I managed to rescue most of the books, a few CD's, and some clothing. Now he's expecting me to keep it indefinitely until it's convenient for him to pick it up? What about me? What about the inconvenience of having six huge bags of books, piles of his dirty laundry, and freaking Barbra Streisand CD's all over my house? What about the fact that Peter's stuff has been living with me WELL after I decided that I wanted no part of Peter in my place of comfortable residence?
I lost a solitaire game. I put a Limp Bizkit song on repeat. I know, I know, Limp Bizkit sucks and solitaire rots your brain, but whatever.
I told Peter that if he happened to ring my doorbell and I happened to be home, he could come in and get his things, but that I wasn't going out of my way to wait for him, to make an appointment that he likely wouldn't show up for anyway.
Come on, I just want to win ONE game, and then I'll sign off and go to bed...
He got argumentative. He got defensive. He got mean.
"...but you don't understand when I'm attempting to explain, because you know it all and I guess things will never change..."
I repeated, if he wanted to come ring my doorbell, and I happened to be home, he could get his stuff. But his stuff has been sitting in my apartment, has been transported -- some of it ON MY BACK for six blocks -- to the new place, has been waiting for him, as I have been waiting for him, to find a good time... Who in the world doesn't have ONE free day in NINE months? Not even a whole day! A few hours! Even a few hours in the middle of the night, at six o'clock in the morning maybe! I was always willing to help him out. But no, I was left waiting. And so were the books and things. Well, to quote some flop musical or another, I gave up waiting.
"...I'd love to be the one to disappoint you when I don't fall down..."
He made a snide "you're-the-bad-guy" comment: mentioning that I'd left him homeless when I'd asked him to move out. The day Peter doesn't have half a dozen people begging him to live with them is the day I'm a star on Broadway. He moved in with Chad. After that, he moved in with Alan. After that, he moved back home with his mother and siblings. He had PLENTY of places to go. I never left him homeless. What the hell kind of sick, twisted, mind-fuck game was he playing? Trying to guilt-trip me over something I didn't DO? The sick part was, it almost worked. Peter's good at that.
But nevermind guilt. I'm done hating myself for Peter's mental problems and twisted bullshit. (WWDD?) So I told him to fuck off, told him good luck finding his books after I sold them or put them in the dumpster behind Java Joe's.
I won a solitaire game.
Deal again? Yes.
He said, "You don't want to do that."
I rolled my eyes, turned over a couple of aces in my virtual deck. Yeah, what are you going to do? Sue me? I kept your things safe for NINE months, whereas I was only obliged for thirty days -- you can't sue over that; there's no case. Besides owing me ridiculous amounts of rent money, phone bills, electric bills, etc., Peter's not the sort a small-claims court would take seriously. Besides THAT, I happen to be on pretty good terms with a lawyer or two. I mentioned all of this and went back to my solitaire game. I lost.
WHY did I ever LIKE this person? This person who is now threatening me over a few bags of books... This person who is demanding more of my time, more of my space, another appointment to pick his things up... This person who accused me of putting him on the streets... This person who once walked into Java Joe's and told my now-coworkers that I'd raped him in order to prove something to himself about his sexuality... This person who didn't see anything wrong with that and had NO idea why I asked him to move out in the first place... This person who once held my hand and skipped through the Ithaca Commons with me, who was now threatening me?
"...you're no good for me. Thank God it's over..."
"I wouldn't sue you."
Well then what the hell DO you plan on doing? You're no threat to me, you piece of trash! My life is balanced: I have an apartment in a secure building, a cat, a boyfriend, two secure jobs, and a jug of orange juice in the fridge. And my health, for the most part. What could you do to change that, the tiny Helena-empire I built from scratch after you were gone?
But if I got rid of his things, he told me, he had two things to say. One, he happens to know a small secret about me that could cause some drama. Nothing big, nothing horrendous, but complicating, which is why this tidbit of information isn't public. I was still unphased. Besides, who's going to believe Peter, anyway? After all, Peter told people I RAPED him, for gahd's sake.
I told him I didn't give a shit WHAT he knew about me. Helena Thomas does not give in to blackmail. Peter could have had a video camera on me for the past year, and I still wouldn't have cared. I have habits and behaviors and actions I'm not proud of, but nothing that could destroy my life.
I lost another game of solitaire. I never win.
Peter said he had another threat. He'd spoken to one of the other ex-housemates on the phone recently. Apparently, said ex-housemate had been sneaking through my room, and had found my password. My password for my online journal, my three email accounts, EVERYTHING. I was still skeptical. ("...lately, I've been skeptical...") My password was the title of a song Peter could not possibly know. It wasn't even a real word! "Yeah, I'm SO sure you have my password."
He spelled it out. There I sat, looking at my sacred password, letter after painful letter, exposed.
I signed off. I couldn't look at that combination of letters. WHAT had Peter done? With that password, he could have read emails going back THREE AND A HALF YEARS. He could have emailed them to other people! He could have emailed people from my accounts, fucked up my reputation pretty badly if he'd felt like it. He could have read old love letters, re-arranged them until they looked new, and emailed them to other people. He could have rearranged words in emails people have sent to me. He could have read PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE... Old letters from David, from Meg -- Meg's tend to be fairly incriminating -- from Brian and Aaron and EVERYONE. Obviously, he was certain that he had the correct and current password, or he wouldn't have threatened me with it. And THAT meant, he had tried it out. How recently? And what had he done?
...And... He could have deleted my online journal. Could have obliterated it, thereby losing not only a year and eleven months' worth of entries, but photos, quotes, the remnants of my play that Jo didn't steal, EVERYTHING. The archives of my life! The only place I have everything organized, put away neatly and obsessively. The only thing that proves I've ever been alive, other than a whole lot of clutter and some FBI files somewhere. The thing I'm most proud of. Peter held that power in his hands and THREATENED me with it. Peter could have CHANGED the password, and held my journal HOSTAGE, taken over as webmaster until I did whatever he wanted.
Immediately, of course, I changed my passwords. Everywhere. I left nothing unchanged. Obviously, it's a bad idea to TELL someone you have their password, because the first thing they're going to do is change it. I'm not stupid. I used the first word that came to mind. It's not a real word. It's not a word I've ever spoken out loud. I don't know how to pronounce it. Peter's not literate enough to figure it out. And from what I could tell, not devious enough to have tampered much with anything.
Peter wasn't angry at me until I told him I wasn't going to wait for him to pick up his things. He didn't threaten me until he'd made some shitty comments and I'd threatened not to give his books back at all. But yet, he's HAD my password -- for how long? What was he storing it up to do? Did he predict he was going to do want to do something shitty to me? Was he just waiting for the first moment I upset him? How long had he known my password? How long had he been circling me, like a shark, just waiting? WHY, for the love of gahd, didn't he just TELL me someone had given him my password? Is he THAT disloyal, that he'd let someone else have that kind of power over me? How could he have pretended to be my friend, called me to wish me a merry Christmas, when all the time, he'd been holding a nuclear missile, knowing he could throw it at me anytime he felt like it?
"...YOU RUIN EVERYTHING AND YOU KEPT FUCKIN' WITH ME UNTIL IT'S OVER AND I WON'T BE THE SAME..."
It should be noted that I've watched Peter go into other people's email accounts. I've watched him delete emails, send emails to other people... I've watched him -- not once, but TWICE -- destroy a website, leaving nothing in his wake but a small graphic of an Altoids container, a rude comment, and a nude picture. At the time, I was sort of amused. I'm no longer amused.
"You and me, we're through, and re-arranged..."
I lost another game.
THEN he had the nerve to email me, STILL insisting I make time to let him in to get his books. He said he would never destroy my website, because it's "special," because it's "sort of sacred." Because he knows how much it means to me. Whatever. He said he's sorry he scared me needlessly. To HELL with that! He VIOLATED me!
"...thank god it's over..."
It's really over. There is no forgiveness for this.
Peter's books will be disposed of in the nicest way possible. If I can't sell them, they'll go in the dumpster. The one near Java Joe's. Seems appropriate.
Helena doesn't stand for blackmail.
Helena is UNBREAKABLE, dammit. Not quite as destructable as you wish, Peter. Not fragile or susceptible or delicate. Helena is a damned cast-iron building, Peter, a big green one, and there's not a chance in hell you'll get away with demolishing her, particularly not over a few sacks of books you abandonned. Helena knows better than to trust you now. Helena knows what you are, and Helena's not going to give in and cry for the likes of a piece of disloyal garbage. Helena will NEVER succumb to your bullshit. And certainly, you're not getting any favors now. Or ever.
Unbreakable, dammit.
"...you're no good for me. Thank God it's over..."
I am a cast-iron building. I have a thousand people around me who respect me, my history, my present, my future, and would never let you touch me. I am standing high and mighty and WELL above your head. And my windows look right past you, not seeing you, and not giving a shit. Cast-iron.
I win this game and I'm done playing now.
~Helena*