Tin Can: The Slitting Edge

What should have been a beautiful Fall day in Boston, MA had turned into one of the darkest days of my life.  November 12, 1978 is a date of seared torture carved indelibly in my brain. It’s stenciled forever in the dark pupils of my eyes that repeat itself in detailed nightmares even when I’m wide awake.
“I hate you, you Black bastard!  I hate you!  I hate you!”  Pounding my fist on the glass pane, I wished I could have grown arms long enough to reach James and his whore in that car.  I’d show them what hurt really feels like. 
Through a painfully closing eye I peered out of the window into the overcast evening.  The tires screeched as that mad dog, James, floored the gas pedal. He was speeding to get away from me.  He had to hate me more than anything in the world to do what he did to me.  I felt the same way about him. I didn’t know whether to be happy that he was finally gone or sad at the decline of a doomed-from-the-start marriage. I’d sacrificed the best years of my life along with my self-respect, all to save something that never should have been, something that just wasn’t meant to be. I strongly despised James.  I hated him more at that moment than I’d ever detested anyone in the 27 years of my life. Trying to close my eyes tight, I whispered, “Car turn over, let that son of a bitch lose control. Let him and that home wrecker crash and die.  Since they want to be together so bad let them both go to hell right now.”
I couldn’t help myself.  I found myself thinking, even wishing, that in his rage he would slam into a tree and the car would burst into flames.  I wanted him and that witch to perish—eyes open.  Neither he nor his companion deserved another breath of life on this earth.  Fuming, I said, “In this world, there just ain’t enough room for the three of us.  Sobbing, I felt my anger mounting 
I envisioned memories of when he would often blow up, put his finger in my face and then say, “I’M A MAN.  I’M A REAL MAN WHO DON’T TAKE BACK TALK FROM NO WOMAN!”
Humph, a man? James was a 6 feet tall, 230 pound bully who got his rocks off on body slamming me, a helpless little skinny black woman who was all of 5 feet, 105 pounds.  That’s a man? 
Screaming I said, “You’re nothing but a coward!  An ass hole!  You’re a loudmouthed bully who will run if another man approaches you the way you come after me!.  You hear me motha fucka!”
I was trying to project my voice to pierce the darkening sky.  But he couldn’t hear me.  I shouted, I ranted and cried out loud.  I stomped and did all of the things I was afraid to do whenever he was near me.  If I did any of those things around him, his mind would become one with his anger and he would beat the hell out of me.
Men like James don’t deserve to live.  Bastards like that do not deserve a loving kind woman like me. 
Again, at the top of my voice I screamed, “You don’t deserve a second chance James Williams!!!”
If his car ran off a bridge and plunged into the Boston Harbor my soul would be relieved.  I would succumb to uncontrollable laughter at his untimely demise—I’d actually be happy.  I would know then, not another woman; nor would another human being have to endure what I did. He was vile and as disgusting as 2 day old fresh wino vomit.  He was a poor ass despicable excuse for a man.
With a man like that out of my life, with all the sadistic pain this man put me through; I should have been doing the electric slide.  Instead I was wallowing in my grief.
I was distracted only by three young boys chaotically kicking an empty can around. They were playing and booting the can in a game of foot tag amongst each other. A weather worn, ramshackle picket fence with the missing panels on the inside was used as their goal post. Beyond the make-shift goal was a vacant lot littered with trash and large metal containers in which the homeless, and some locals, would build fires to keep warm through the harsh New England winters. The smell of burning trash coupled with strong drink, urine and the rotting flesh of dead or dying animals filled the air.  That stench mixed with the aroma of grilled beef and onions wafted from the corner deli smelling like a well concocted brewed pot of rot gut.  However, it was a haven for those who frequented it.  It was a place I would often run to and hide when I could get away from the wrath of James. Even the winos and transients felt sorry for me and would remain silent if my husband yelled from the window, “Have any of you seen that worthless slut of mine?”
I refocused my attention on the boys--grateful for something to take my mind away from my misery. Back and forth they kicked the can from one foot to another.  As one of them grew tired of the game, he set the can upright on its bottom.  “Kick it man!,” said one.
“ Kick that can’s ass!” said the other.  His friends laughed out loud.
“Come on man!” They encouraged him. 
Pausing, eyeing his target, he stepped back like an NFL pro.  He began his run to gain momentum, then skipped and kicked the can as hard as he could. It went flying through the air only to land a few feet away. It rolled on its side along the uneven dips in the unpaved lot, only to roll back toward it’s abuser, slowing to a sluggish rock, then stopped.  Seeing this  I thought, it’s too easy to get used to being kicked around; after a while, you find yourself waiting—almost programmed, to be victimized again by the next abuser who comes along.
In this farce I had accepted my whole existence as being nothing more than a worthless shell--a has been--fit only to be hit and kicked around.  I was once a strong and exciting woman.  I took pride in being a loving, caring wife. But now, now I acknowledged, I am just a scared, empty beat up sight—a weekend bet for neighbors.
Listening until I could no longer hear the car, I thought, girl you ought to be falling out of this window rolling on the floor in laughter.  You should be shouting at the thought of no more chains—no more weeping and wailing.  In hindsight, I realized I was imaging an old slave leaving the plantation singing that Negro spiritual—a stolen smile crept across my face.  I defiantly said aloud through the broken tooth my husband left me with, “I’M GOIN’ HOME TO LIVE WITH GOD!”  As I  I quickly realized I was not ready to die, I sank back into my tiresome despair. 
Visions of my sacrificed teenage years, and the defiant rebellious stance to be grown against my parents for James, brought fresh tears to my eyes.  The fear and anguish began to layer itself, one disappointment on top of another.  I was becoming depressed as I came to grips with the depth of my abused life.  Death seemed like a just and easy escape from my despair.  I mopped at the streaming tears.  I was even to scared to do that.
The reality of James leaving me for someone else added to all the other disgust I’d experienced in my years with him.  All of the crap I’d took was for nothing. Like a bad play, these scenes, good and bad, continued to run through my mind.  He may have been gone, but the chains weren’t.  They were there sending images and voices reminding me of a man who I both loved and despised.
Often, I’d walk down the street and hear the neighbors whispering among themselves, “Well, Do you think he’ll beat her this weekend?”
Someone else would say, “I’ll bet he’ll blacken both eyes this time—poor child.” 
I could hear them, but I was silent, afraid that if I spoke out, or if I screamed at them--“HEY! STAY OUT OF MY BUSINESS! LEAVE ME ALONE!  ALL OF YOU!”
--somehow James would know and I would be punished for being bold enough to speak without his permission.
I am no more than the can those boys were playing with, I thought to myself.  What a mess my life has been.
My husband amused himself by beating me again and again until he grew tired.  Then, with a final punt, he too would kick and there I’d be, laying on my face again.
I was scared out of my mind to move without his hatred to shove me around until he was ready to resume his cruelty.
Boston’s November wind whistled outside. A numbing chill was in the air. A thin layer of condensation covered the pane from my breath.  Quiet sobs shook my body as I thought of the tyrant I had married. When we got married, I really thought the vows we took were beautiful and truthful.  There was some fear, but I’d started to imagine, even as he spoke, that a real transformation would take place—that somehow, after saying those words, sacred words in front of so many people, our lives would truly become like a fairytale.  The joke was that I’d even come to memorize the words, calling on them like a prayer every time things began to fall apart. 
“James Lee Williams, will you take this woman, Sharon Smith, as your lawful wedded wife, for better or for worse?”
Looking down at me with the biggest smile I’d ever seen, he answered,
“I will.”
… “For better or for worse? Or for worse? …
The words echoed in my mind as I wondered what happened to the better.
“Will you cherish her with all your heart? Will you love her James Williams?”
Words I remember so clearly, Holy vows that I thought would mean happiness for the rest of my life.  I was taught marriage was a set-in-stone pact.  It was an agreement between two people that was meant to bring peace, happiness, hope, and stability. For me it meant having everything I had ever wanted in a man.  I just knew I had an adoring, devoted lover and companion tied into a true friend forever. 
The sound of splashing water against the windowpane and a cracking streak of lightning that lit the darkened sky broke my concentration. There had been a cloudburst. The rain was heavily thundering down.  Scanning the length of the street visible from my window, I frantically looked for the can.  I could no longer see the boys.  More importantly, I didn’t see the can. I bolted from my window seat, grabbed my rain slick and ran out of the house
“Where is it? What happened to it?” I spoke out loud.  Frantic, I began to pray.  “God help me, please help me find it. Maybe I’m losing my mind, but right now, it’s the only thing I can really identify with.”
The water pounded my face, blending in, merging with the flow of salty tears stinging the open wounds.  Suddenly, to my relief there it was.  I spotted it still lying on its side, now floating helpless in a rushing overflow from the inundated street.  I had to keep up with it. You see, to keep up with the can was  to keep pace with what was happening with me.  I was walking blindly, stumbling, running into people that were no more than a blur to me in the rain.  The tears banked and rolled on my face like the ripples in the street.  Reaching up to wipe my face I brushed against the gaping cut above my eye.  I winced remembering the feel of his wedding band as it carved through my skin—most likely reopening an old wound from a previous fight. 
The water was like a cooling salve--it soothed and calmed.  It was good for me.  I held back my head to allow a thorough washing.  Absorbed in the sudden relief from pain, I again lost sight of my target.  I couldn’t see the can. I became uptight and frantic once again. The storm intensified as I wildly searched the sidewalks and gutters through the blinding rain. Then another bolt of lightning streaked across the dark grey sky.  There, a flash of something shiny .  It was the can.  It was being pulled toward the sidewalk drain, and was well on its way to being sucked in.
People who were clad in buttoned coats with hats and rain gear scurried to get out of the weather.  They were stepping over and almost crushing the object I’d affixed my eye on and was about to rescue.  I found myself screaming, “STOP!  GET AWAY!  THAT’S ME! DON’T YOU KNOW THAT’S ME? DON’T YOU KNOW THIS, THIS CAN REPRESENTS MY LIFE?  WHAT THE FUCK’S WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE???”
A couple, huddled beneath a red umbrella, stopped to stare as I made a mad dash for the shiny object. Even the winos in the empty lot huddled beneath a make-shift hut of thrown away plastic and boxes looked on.  They all said nothing.  Surely they thought I had finally lost my mind.  I didn’t care.  I bent over to pick up the can. I held it close to me.  I rubbed it and wept.
I reached inside my coat for a tissue finding only a waddled up paper towel I had used earlier to wipe blood away from my face.  The cold was getting to me.  Shivering I wrapped the can and quickly pushed it inside my slicker to keep it dry.  I needed to get it to my house--to safety.  I was embarrassed as I sensed others staring—whispering through hand-covered lips.  My neighbor, Mama Seeta, with telephone in hand, peeped from her barely opened door. I was fairly sure—no, I absolutely knew that she had heard the ruckus earlier. I quickly pulled myself together and headed back for my apartment. I didn’t want to cause a scene. I didn’t want to have to face the police, nor did I want those those other people in white lab coats to appear. I was sure somebody thought that I had truly gone insane.  My concern was,  if I remained outside crying while holding and rubbing an empty can, someone would undoubtedly call for the insane limo to come and pick me up.  I’d find myself being escorted to the nearest nut house facility.
I felt that not one person understood or knew what was going on. Not everyone knew the inside torment I experienced behind closed doors.  There’s no way they could comprehend how a dead object, such as a cold and empty can provide comfort for me.
         Inside, I felt relieved.  I stood with my back against the closed door. Removing my coat, I gently placed my new friend on the table. I trembled from the cold wetness, as well as the ever-present fear that engulfed my heart.  I needed something that would warm me and simultaneously calm my nerves.  I turned the faucet on to fill the coffee pot nearby. I opened the cabinet and began desperately searching for some instant coffee. Things were never in place, so I moved around some can goods hoping to find what I needed. 
“Hmm, there it is, at last right behind that, uh oh, I see you.  So that’s where your stash is.”  There sat a whole fifth of vodka; one he’d most likely put back for himself and forgot.  Pulling the bottle from the shelf, I momentarily forgot about the coffee. 
Should I or shouldn’t I?  It will certainly calm my nerves—may even give me some nerve.  Nope, I’d better not.  I’m not used to harsh drink, anyway.  This will only make me as ignorant as he is.  I’ll leave it alone.
Feeling like I’d made a wise decision; I opened the bottle of vodka.  Standing over the sink, I began pouring it down the drain.  I was shaking.  The strong smell reminded me of the stench of whisky and bad sex that permeated my husband’s skin and clothes before he savagely beat me this time. I turned on the faucet to finish washing down the thought of him and the liquor.  Halfway through I stopped pouring the bottle. 
“Maybe just a little bit won’t hurt me.  I’ll take just a little sip.  I reached for a shot glass in the cabinet.  I poured the vodka and brought it to my lips.  Closing all thought of reason, I dashed it in my mouth and swallowed hard.  I began coughing as the strong drink burned the inside of my throat.  Quickly I filled the empty glass with cool water and drank it.  It went down easily; diluting the taste of the hard liquor.  The drink was both warming and soothing.  I felt a surge of power. 
“I’ll teach him who to mistreat.  Always I can’t do this and I can’t do that.  Who the hell do he think he is?”
Feeling braver than I’d ever felt in my life, I poured another drink and sat down with the bottle.  I looked at the can and took another sip.
“I can talk to you.  After all, there’s no one else here.  Just you and me baby.  See this?  I could never drink or have any freedom to make me feel good when that dog was here—oops, I mean Mr. Dog.  Here, you want a little drink too, let me give you a little bit, after all, you’ve been kicked around today too.  Here’s a drink for you and a drink for me.”  I poured a little in the can then poured my glass full.  Again, I dashed it down.  Things began to look fuzzy.  My eyes began darting from one thing to another.  “This ain’t right.  This ain’t gon’ make things no better.  Plus I’m losing my mind, drinking with a can.  Talking with a can too.  I managed a slurred laugh at my own stupidity. My mood then changed as fast as my descent from sober to drunk. I looked at the bottle and in disgust slammed it against the porcelain sink sending shards of glass and liquor everywhere. 
“DAMN YOU JAMES WILLIAMS.  I refuse to let this liquor destroy me, like you have destroyed me.”    I sat down hard in the chair, torn between feeling sorry I’d broken the only thing that gave me power, and being encouraged that I’d been strong enough to push the drink away.”  Either way, I was drunk enough to take two steps forward and four back.  Staggering, I got the broom and dust pan to clean up my mess.
Throwing it in the trash, I quickly reached back for the coffee pot.  But it felt like the bottom of my stomach had lurched forward and I ran for bathroom.  Barely making it, I fell at the commode.  I think I was more drunk from the smell of puke than the actual drink.  Grabbing hold of the sink, I pulled myself up.  Peering in the mirror, I barely recognized the reflection staring back.  I pushed gingerly around my face, poking under the cheeks, wincing from the sharp burst of pain in the bruised areas around my mouth.  My tooth broken, eyes black, lips bruised and busted—I had no life, and I had no man. 
“Humph! Good riddance, you no good son of a bitch.  GOOD RIDDANCE PUNK!”
I made my way back to the kitchen, again to attempt a cup of coffee.  I told myself, “This is what I need. Finally, something good for me.”
I was a little wobbly from the drink, so it was still hard to get my thoughts together.
         Trembling I reached into the dish drain for a cup and saucer.  Filling the cup with water I put it in the microwave for a quick nuke since I’d never plugged in the coffee pot.  I picked up the instant and held on to the jar of coffee as if it would steady me.  I nervously spooned the ground java into hot water allowing the rising vapor to warm my face and hands.  I noticed the scratches on my arms and elbow—another token of James’ appreciation of me.  No doubt the abrasions were received from being dragged to the door.
“Sorry, hateful, black bastard. If I wasn’t so scared, I’d kick the split between his ass horizontal then he’d have to shit in slices.  That would fix him. How could he treat me so badly?  Listen to yourself Sharon, talking and cursing to yourself.  What would your Big Mama say about you now?”  God bless the dead, the poor lady must be twitching in her grave, truly, she did not raise me to turn out like this.
I laughed.  Tonight was an exception—after all I’d been through it was okay in my book to curse.  Nevertheless, I was proud of myself for not being a curser.  I was never comfortable using foul language.  The one time I became bold enough to curse James back, he filled my mouth with dish detergent, then beat me for throwing up—something I never forgot.  However, right now some of those use-to-be strong words were filling my vocabulary and my mouth. 
“OK, enough Sharon, no more cursing.  Saying bad things just puts you on his level and you’re better than that.  Shoot, while I’m talking to myself, I may as well admit it.  I AM BETTER THAN JAMES WILLIAMS!”  That revelation was the first thing I had to convince myself of. 
Well, I thought, if the neighbors are listening now, I know that they are calling the funny farm. The hot water darkened as the coffee crystals merged within the liquid. I sat and stared, allowing myself to be drawn into the downward pull created by the stirring metal spoon. All of my questioning of me and my sanity were caught up in the spiral twirl only to surface back to the top and down again. The quiet stillness in the house was welcomed. I wondered whether James was really gone, the thought of having but one moment’s peace was monumental to me. For a brief second, I dared to feel free of this disgusting man, this sham of a marriage.
I looked at the can and then up at the ceiling.  God, what am I doing? Is this what my life has come to? What is it about this empty, no label, beaten up piece of metal that has drawn me to it? It’s just something the kids were kicking around—I don’t understand.
Intently, I continued to stare at the can. This was a good-for-nothing impersonal item—just something in the way. I carefully sipped the hot liquid, dithering somewhere between being sober and drunk, while examining the lifeless object.  I wondered why I was so enamored by it.  It became clear to me that I was giving it life as it related to everything I was feeling—void, drained and unloved. The shiny alloy seemed to smile and thank me for saving it from a watery grave—I knew I was still drunk then.  Without thinking, I put my hand up to brush the hair back from my face only to grimace and be reminded of the pain left by the doubled up fist of James. 
         As the steam from the coffee mug continued to warm me I thought of how I used to joke when someone would say, “Sharon, how do you stay so slim girl?”
Playfully I’d smile and say, “Every time I gain a pound, James knocks it off, that’s how I stay so slim.”  They would smile back, but inside nobody was laughing because they knew. Just about everybody knew how mean he was to me.  They knew how controlling, manipulative and abusive he was. But they would smile and look away.