The Naked Truth

The miner says: “Why would a pretty girl like you want to look such a fucking mess?” and “You think you’re really tough, don’t you?” and “Buy the lady a fucking drink when she asks you to”, though he doesn’t say that to me, but to the man I used to live with, who thinks he should pay me the money he owes me in drinks, but only when he’s good and ready. The man I used to live with slams my drinks in front of me, and tries to elbow me in the ribs, and hisses in my ear that he’s sick of me getting people to threaten him, even though I didn’t. I think some of them have just been waiting for an excuse, and I’m gratified and grateful that they’re taking it.

Last time I gave in to the urge to punch a man I got a black eye in return, so I smile nicely, and tell the miner I’m not so pretty when I’m not a fucking mess, and yes, I do think I’m really tough - though I don’t tell him the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when I see the man I used to live with sometimes makes me doubt it. I thank the miner for the drinks, even the ones he didn’t pay for, and we find common ground in hating the government and the country where I grew up and he once worked.

We end up outside before closing time when the pub is raided by the police. The miner asks where I live, and says he’ll walk me home. Two of his friends move closer and I see people watching me. The miners come to town once a month when they get paid, and drink their wages in a weekend, before they rape and pillage, and leave the burning ruins of the town behind them when they return to the mines on Monday. Or something along those lines, at least. Tonight we thrill with dread, because those of us not convinced we’re really tough dearly love our heroes and villains, and to be terrified with the excitement of incipient violence.

The man I used to live with is yelling at me from the doorway of the pub now that the police have left, but I’m telling the miner I can make my own way home, and stepping back from the looming presence of the others, moving closer. I look at the miner, and he tells them he’ll take me home, and the landlord of the pub shouts my name, in a voice that makes me start instinctively towards them, even though I should know better.

The door slams behind me as soon as I’m in, and he’s yelling at me, about what a fool I am, how I could have been raped, how lucky I am to have him looking out for me. But he’s yelling it in my face with his hand twisted in my hair, and I’d rather be outside, taking my chances with the devil I don’t know. The landlord tells him to let go of me, and me that he’s right, but he opens the door when I start yelling back.

Outside the pub further down the road, where neither the police nor the miners like to venture, my ex-boyfriend’s psychotic brother, is sitting outside. I get inside before the man I used to live with catches up with me, but as soon as he does he has me by the wrist, pulling me back into the wood partition. He’ll take me home, he’ll take care of me. It’s obvious I can’t take of myself. The partition thumps on either side of me as my ex boyfriend and his best friend flank us. How am I? Where have I been? Am I OK? Am I sure about that? They address me and look at him, and he releases the hold he has on my arm twisted behind my back. They move away when he leaves, and I stand where I am and think about the miner. I doubt he’d have wanted to rape me. He probably would have wanted to fuck me. I didn’t want to fuck him, but I wouldn’t have put up much of a fight. If you can’t take care of yourself, the best you can do is cause yourself the least damage possible.

Apparently I put that thought out of my mind when I decide that if I need protection I’ll choose my own. I walk out of the pub and stand in front of my ex-boyfriend’s brother until he raises his mad eyes to mine. I think I think, in my own mad way, that the best way to prove myself is to pit myself against the scariest fucker any of us know. “Take me home,” I tell him, and I tell myself I know what I’m doing.