When I was in college I lived in the ghetto for four years in an area of Philadelphia where hearing gunshots became as normal as getting all liquored up on a Thursday night. As both of these details have lead many a naïve student down “shit’s creek,” I never ran into any problems.
My dad warned me since before I was a freshman at Temple University that I better watch my back on the subway, be careful who I become friends with, and never go anywhere alone. I thought that my rough Italian mean-mug I would give people when I walked passed them made me invincible. Yet, it only took four months after I graduated for that luck to run out and that stare to never immobilize or turn anyone to dust.
I was at my boyfriend’s house in South Philadelphia for a party. As I function as a 5th housemate in this surprisingly sweet house in the middle of yet another ghetto, I always put my belongings in my boyfriend’s room. So I proceeded to punch open the box of White Zinfandel Franzia wine I had chilling in his fridge and by the time the house was filled with over 50 belligerent guests, I was what my good friend calls “whacked.”
Hours passed by as I stumbled around his house and got involved in the inevitable love battle which at least one of your friends has to get into during an awesome party which further ruins the mood and the buzz. This led into my stepping outside into the pouring rain, as I further destroyed my fly outfit and hair as a result.
I ran back inside to dry off and grab my boyfriend for a little “Hey let’s make out upstairs while everyone bursts in thinking it is the bathroom,” and we made our way to his room. I flicked the lights on and just before I was about the throw him down and attempt to play around (which usually leads to me passing out instantly at this stage of drunk) I noticed my mother’s picture on the floor.
Then I saw my brother’s prom picture, the Barnes and Noble card that I got illegally when I told them I was a teacher (I work at a school, not being a teacher). As the spins hit me instantly and I collected my emotions into one huge wine soaked ball, I threw myself down on the floor and saw that my gorgeous, $348 Coach wallet was gone. “FUCK” was the only thing my boyfriend remembers me saying from that point on.
This lead to scenes of rage that I did not know I had inside of me. I threw everything in sight and started screaming and crying and just as I thought I was unable to even stand to throw my travel hair dryer, the anger really struck.
I ran downstairs and stood on the steps in front of no less than 30 people and started screaming, “WHOEVER STOLE MY FUCKING WALLET BETTER GET THE FUCK UP HERE…YOU THINK YOU ARE LEAVING TONIGHT? OH YOU ARE NOT FUCKING GOING ANYWHERE.”
I cannot even describe the number of awkward stares from the sets of eyes all peering upon my soaked couture and insane-looking stature, being that almost every person in my direct view was a stranger.
My poor boyfriend felt so bad and he dragged me upstairs and I finally calmed the hell down, collected my stuff and we went back to my apartment. We returned to his house the next day and his housemates looked upon me with a sort of laughing-nervous grin. I realized I reached a new level of dumb-ass during the night prior and knew there was nothing I could do about it.
I had to laugh at the situation. I lost a wallet but I got it on discount and I froze all of my accounts before that bastard could get into them. I also had a new activity to work on — waiting for that asshole to come back to Philly to run into me on accident/on purpose. That Italian-mug would come into action then, for sure.
And as I called my parents to receive the “Oh my God” from my mom and the “Jesus Christ Gia what did I tell you” from my dad, I learned the lesson that was four years late but inevitable. I also learned that embarrassing your boyfriend is actually easier than I had thought.
~G.I.
Philadelphia, PA
tua04031@temple.edu
