BLACK MONDAY

When the old man's company went public he gave each one of his children 500 shares of stock. This stock did amazingly well throughout the 80's. When things got tight I would sell a few shares or more often put things on my Visa cash reserve account. As long as the stock stayed above a certain point the bill never came due. In 1989 the market crashed. The next day Mr. Margin came calling. My NYSF grant never saw the light of day. The margin call was the exact amount of the grant. By the time I got back to NYC I was completely broke. Easy come, easy go.
BB was having a show at Postmasters gallery when it was on Ave. A. It was a big deal and she looked to me to be the supportive boyfriend. I fell a little short on this front. Even though my efforts had shifted into playing music, i still wanted the acceptance of the the art world and it was not forthcoming. The couple who ran Postmasters had looked at my work and turned up their noses. I, in turn, copped an attitude. My glum mood spilled over into Baby-Baby's opening and subsequently into the after party at my apartment. By the time we went to bed it was down right chilly. I was just being an asshole.
My history of violence had never been a secret between us. She knew all about Honey and even the slap of Big Nose Julie. I had confessed all, not wanting to repeat any of it. A particular tidbit I had told her about Honey tossing cold water on me in my sleep BB had tucked away, recognising it may come in useful at some point. About 2 am, deep in dreamland, a spagetti pot full of ice water hit me in the face. I don't know if I was awake or still asleep, but my arms were working. My fist caught BB square in the eye before the bell even sounded. Furniture went flying. The TV crashed to the floor. Her long fingernails scratched my arms. Her nose was bleeding. I had my girlfriend in a death grip before the cobwebs cleared enough for me to realize what was going on. I wanted to kill her and in the blink of an eye could have snapped her neck and gone right back to sleep. The rage I felt is indescribable.
By morning we lay exhausted on blood encrusted sheets. BB's eyes were swollen shut. She looked like she'd been in a car wreck. We both were so horrified by our actions, neither of us knew what to do. My rage was only equalled by my guilt. The series of events that led up to this seemed so inconsequential, and out of balance with the place we now found ourselves. A crushing sorrow fell over us. All I wanted to do was crawl in a corner and die. If I've learned anything over the years it's just how fragile everything can be. Like a fucking butterfly wing.