My Imaginary Abusive Boyfriend

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• October 14, 2014

I can feel the eyes looking at my face.  When my gaze meets theirs, I can see the fear and worry in their eyes.  They are wondering if someone hit me.  They are wondering if I have an abusive boyfriend.  I would think the same, if I saw a woman with a shiner on her face.  With cuts on my knuckles and fingers, at least I look like I fought back to my imaginary abusive boyfriend.

Two people actually asked if someone hit me.  One them offered to beat the shit out of the man who did, which was kind, considering I don’t even really know him.  But no, I was not hit.  I flew over the handle bars of my bike, working as background for a television show.  For those who don’t know me, they seem suspicious of the truth.  But I don’t bother to further explain.  The more you explain, the more you look like you’re covering up for someone.  And for those who know me, the thought of a dude hitting me is hilarious.  I’m the abuser in relationships.  I firmly believe that hitting should be reserved for the bedroom.  And if any man dared to hit me, I have a brother, a father, uncles, and cousins, who make his world a living hell.  But the only person I’ve been in an abusive relationship with is myself.  Fight Club style.  The first rule of Fight Club…

I refused to go to the hospital.  “I’m fine,” I insisted.  I wasn’t hurting too bad.  Adrenaline was still running through my body.  A scrape on my face, a busted left knee, and a possible broken finger… that wasn’t cause to go to the hospital.  Not in my book.  You have to be almost dying to go to the hospital, like lost too much blood to function.  Been there, done that.  This is nothing.

Set was on the upper west side, 125th and Rivington Street.  I live in Astoria.  I rode my bike there.  They asked me if I’d be okay getting home.  I insisted I’d be fine, not really thinking it through.  I couldn’t ride my bike.  I knew that much.  But what I didn’t consider with taking the subways back were how many stairs I would have to carry my bike up and down.  This was the worst part.  Worse than the fall.  Worse than the suspicious looks.  Two people offered to help.  The first, I refused.  The second time, at my stop at Ditmars Blvd. I accepted.  I felt so weak by that point.  It’s a long subway ride.  I stood with my bike.  But every time the subway car stopped, pain shot from my knee.

I had to go to CVS.  I don’t have any first aide supplies in my apartment.  I picked up some neosporin, bandages, and peroxide.

“How are you today?”  The cashier asked, mid-question, realizing the condition of my face.

“I’m great,” I replied with a big plastic smile.

Then, I carefully got on my bike.  It’s mostly a downhill ride to my apartment.  And I rode home.  When I got home, I dressed my wounds.  It was about 4pm.  I wanted to leave and go do a spot somewhere.  A mic.  I just wanted to go on stage.  Here I am, limping around my apartment, icing my face, wanting nothing more than a stage.  Comics really are crack heads.

“You should rest,” I told myself.  Yes, aloud.  I find talking to yourself aloud helps you comprehend things better.  Otherwise, my head is filled with many thoughts at the same time.  When I audibly speak to myself, I can focus on one thought at a time.  Taking care of yourself mentally and physically are the two most important things you can do.  Mentally, I’ve been great.  Physically, at present, I’ve been better.

Fine, I’ll stay in.  I’ll rest.  Geez… I hate resting.  I hate relaxing.  I hate those two words.  They haunt me.  People telling all the time to rest and/or relax.  I fucking loathe those words.  I realized I didn’t have any pain killers.  Vodka it is.  A joint.  Netflix.  My bed.  I passed out by 7pm.  I guess my body did need rest.

I had to be up early to go to work at my now part time office job.  Working part time is great, except for the fact that you don’t get sick pay.  You only get paid when you’re there.  I need money.  I was told my eye would swell up and be worse the next day, but I wasn’t fully prepared to see it myself.  “Oh God,” I said audibly looking at my face in the mirror.  I couldn’t even look at my own face.  “I am not an animal,” I joked to myself.  I had work 9-5, then I was headlining a gig in Connecticut I was really looking forward to.  But I was in bad shape.  Not only did the left side of my face hurt, my knee was shot, and my whole body was sore.

I drove into work.  I parked my car in the parking garage next door.  The guy working there looked at my face with horror.

“Does my face look bad?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said

“Be honest,” I was just being a dick now, “do you think anyone is going to notice?”

“Yes,” he said.  At least he was honest.

My job is mostly data entry.  Simple.  I put an empty box under my desk to elevate my leg, iced my eye, and entered data.  It’s just pain, I told myself, it’s not real (this is what I tell myself, pain is not real).  I was hurting, more than I showed.  I joked.  I laughed about it.  The only time I expressed that I was in pain was when I sneezed, “Fuck me that hurt.”

When 5pm came, it was time for me to drive to CT.  I prepared an ice pack to ice my face on the way up.  The swelling went down since the morning, but it still didn’t look great.  I got to the gig early, and iced my eye in the parking lot.  I could work Friday, but I decided it would be best to take off.  Rest, Lori, goddamnit.  Look at yourself.  Why was I the only one who I had to convince that I needed rest?

On stage, leaning my weight on my right knee because my left knee is busted, I joked, “No, I’m not dating an NFL player.  My whole face hurts.  The only reason I’m here is because you”re all middle class and I figure at least six people here have vicodin I’m hoping you’ll share.”  They laughed, and then I eased into my material.

Talk to any comic about the magical healing powers the stage has, and you’ll find this to be true:  The stage heals.  It’s weird.  You can feel like shit, sneezing, coughing, but when you’re on stage, you feel fine.  You even feel better after.  Like you just took antibiotics.  It’s amazing.  My face felt tight, and I couldn’t really lean on my left leg, but performing for that audience was the best I felt since I fell.  It was worth white knuckling through the pain at work all day.  It was worth the drive.  The audience was so good, and I was doing what I loved.  Even when I got off stage, I looked at my face in the mirror, and it appeared the swelling went down.  My face looked better.  Whatdoyaknow…

After, I hung with some friends from the area for a little.  But upon going to the bathroom, I realized the swelling was up again.  Time to go home.  Even during the drive home I still felt good.  Still feeling the benefits of the mystical healing powers of the stage.  I was listening to WFUV on the way home, which is, in my opinion, the only radio station worth listening to (honorable mention the shark 94.3, but we don’t get that in NYC).  They were doing their whole, “please send us money because we’re a listener supported station,” thing they do once a month, which kind of annoys me.  Yes, I listen to WFUV almost everyday.  Sorry, I can’t afford to donate.  I had peanut butter for dinner the other night.  No jelly, no bread.  Just peanut butter.  So, WFUV, you’ll have to wait for my donation when I’m comfortably eating three actual meals a day.  But they were talking about certain musicians who create music just for their love of doing it.  They simply cannot stop, because it’s a part of who they are.  What other people think, and the money that comes with it are second to the fact that they have to do this, because it’s their passion.  And they were saying that these are the artists that are generally the happiest people.  That’s exactly the type of comic I want to be.  I’m not always that comic, but as I held an ice pack to my swollen face, driving home to Queens at midnight, I was happy, and in this moment I was that kind of comic.  Because Comedy is my abusive boyfriend.