(Chasin’ that Zack Morris High is a recurring series that details my experiences dating and having one-night stands with (mostly younger) dudes.
Teeter tottering between equal parts genius and whore, either way totally not giving a fuck- these blogs are an ode to the fact that Zack Morris will always just be a castle in my sky and so, I’ve been wayfaring through life in the spirit of a whiny break-up song sung by Adele- eating a lot of cupcakes and searching for someone like him.
In a vain attempt to showcase that it takes more than no shame and killer cleavage to turn sex into a lesson plan- I invite you to share in the grossly negligent comedy my dating life has been and will certainly continue to be.
Think of it as your Chicken Soup for the Whore Soul.
Reader Discretion Advised always.)
In the first half of my twenties, I made some not so sensible choices in men. Still figuring out who I was while also trying to tame my wild insecurities, I just sort of bumbled through short, fleeting affairs in search of the potential dude I could regularly bone while simultaneously watching 197 episodes of the Simpsons.
The first time I saw Rufio, I was intrigued. From Newark, New Jersey, he seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He kind of looked like Chris Rock- black with giant dimples, small build, a Yankees cap sitting playfully backwards on his trimmed up head. (I am a total sucker for dudes in backwards baseball caps. I can’t explain it.)
As any country mouse meets the big city love story will go, I was immediately drawn to him. But he never loved me. And I never loved him. And really, this is no love story, but rather a cautionary unromantic tale.
Rufio wasn’t smart, wasn’t funny, and any time he walked by a mirror, he flexed his muscles and gazed at himself like a weirdo. He oozed this overly fake confidence that barely veiled a wealth of insecurities. He called me fat and ugly and dumb. He once asked me why everything on Comedy Central was funny. He’d been in and out of jail. He didn’t have a job, phone, or car, but he did have a kid back in Newark that he had deserted.
He was pretty much the epitome of the dude your mother warns you about. He harbored all the obvious red flags, but also the ones I should have been paying even more attention to. Like how the whole time we dated, he was never the highlight of my day. Or how I never got that roller coaster feeling in my vagina when I looked at my cell and saw he messaged me. Or that nothing he said was compelling or made me think about the world and whenever he spoke it was vapid. Also, he was fucking a stripper behind my back but whatev. It wasn’t my most power couple moment, but I did learn some valuable lessons regardless- like always know the location of your car keys or don’t go banging on a dude’s door at four in the morning if he’s from the city and has done jail time.
Most of the time when we hung out, I drove us around and he farted and used my cell phone to call his stripper secret girlfriend. I broke up with him a few times, but would end up drunk enough that answering his phone call seemed like an okay idea and next thing you knew I was waking up with him in my bed. Or I’d break up with him and then he’d freak the fuck out in public causing a huge scene by screaming SHE DOESN’T LOVE ME at the top of his lungs while I tried to decide between Cooler Ranch or Nacho Cheesiest Doritos.
At some point after one of those times we had broken up, he had gotten his very own apartment up on Magic Mountain. (Big moves.) No surprise, but eventually he called asking for a ride one night. He told me that he’d watch a movie with me if I did it and I’m retarded sometimes so I was like sure, it’s either you or White Panty Chronicles Vol. 12 anyway. At the conclusion of the movie about black guys smoking weed and trying to sleep with chicks, it became apparent that I really didn’t even want to be there. Suddenly the whole truth of the whole situation started pouring into my heart and I had one of those epiphanies that someone can never unhave about relationships and love and life.
However, once again, I was in the same position I used to be in all the time- a bottle of whiskey deep and unable to drive. After we argued for a minute, I adamantly stuck to my decision to sleep on the couch and was prepared to wake up as soon as possible and sneak out.
Everything was working out accordingly as my eyes popped open and the sun had just barely begun to peep up over the mountains. I ignored the headache gripping my whole brain and tip-toed around his new minimally furnished apartment gathering my belongings and quietly snuck out locking his front door behind me. Practically running down the driveway to my car, I cheered and applauded myself on and the last teardrop with his name on it escaped and leaked down my cheek. I flung the door open to my Subaru, jumped in, went to start it and … fuck.
I tore apart my coat. I tore apart my purse.
As the sun dawned so did the realization that I had locked my keys in his apartment. There would be no sneaking away that morning. My head dropped to the steering wheel defeated as I came to grips with the fact I’d have to face him one last time before I could crawl back to my own apartment.
Leaving my pride in my car, I trudged back to his place. I knocked on his door, the longer I didn’t get a response the louder and louder my knocking got. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.
Suddenly the door flung open and a baseball bat came swinging around, hitting the one side of the door frame so hard it splintered. “Holy fucking shit!” I shouted with barely enough time to react, tripping backwards, narrowly avoiding the bat crushing into my skull. I stumbled back even more as he swung the bat around the opposite way just as hard before finally dropping it to his side as his brain began to register who was standing in front of him.
“Becki?” he puzzled, “I thought someone was robbing me or something.”
“Yeah, most burglars start by knocking on the door so they can rob you of your two pairs of Nikes and couch that smells like piss.”
“What the fuck are you doing anyways?” He stopped. “Were you trying to sneak the fuck out?”
I didn’t say another word. I stormed passed him, grabbed my keys, and stormed back out, finally making my bold getaway from both his house and that relationship forever.
(Side note: not all of the relationship was totally terrible. One time he let me listen to Akon’s track Lonely 56 times in a row. Also, up until then, he was the only black guy I had met who wasn’t trying to become a rapper. And this one time, he took a tampon out of me with his teeth, which is pretty neat because I don’t think I’ll ever see that again in my lifetime.)
Where are they now?
I have not answered a call or text from him or spoken to him at all since that morning, but I would later learn he ended up back in jail due to domestic disputes and supposed harassment with his secret stripper girlfriend. I also heard that he had another baby with some other woman (not a stripper) and that he is on house arrest, only allowed to leave to go to his job at Taco Bell.
In really awesome news, I have not dated another man who would dream of calling me fat, ugly, or dumb.