Around this time, Torrei and I moved in together. With the money I was making at Sweet Cheeks, we were able to rent a house on Second Street in Philadelphia. In the filing cabinet of my life, I would put this decision in a thick folder labeled “Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time.” It was my first real relationship, and I was too young, dumb, and horny to take care of her emotional needs, communicate honestly, and repair the damage from the mistakes that had already accumulated.
Those mistakes came mostly from times when we argued so intensely that we broke up and messed around with other people—sometimes for sex, other times for retaliation. When we inevitably got back together, the knowledge—or sometimes just the suspicion—that one of us had been with someone else made the next fight that much worse. These fights usually took place under the influence of alcohol. Where drinking used to be a way to have fun together on my off nights, it soon became a match that was continually lighting our short fuses.
Once, during a period when Torrei moved back in with her parents, I had someone else at the house. Suddenly, I heard the sound of glass breaking outside. I ran into the street to find Torrei kicking the other woman’s car in. By the time she finished, the fender was hanging off the front, the headlights were broken, and the hood was dented.
Torrei and I didn’t talk for a while after that. Lust and habit eventually brought us back together, and before long we were fighting about why we left in the first place. We couldn’t live with each other and we couldn’t live without each other. We were in relationship limbo, caught between hope and hurt.
One night, while out drinking, we got into an argument about a guy she had seen during our most recent split. She then flipped it on me and got upset about the woman whose car she’d wrecked. The fight continued all the way back to the house, each word a weapon aimed at a specific wound. The more I slashed, the harder she slashed back, breaking skin and cutting deep.
“Fuck you and your comedy. You’re not even funny.”
“Are you listening to yourself right now? You fell in love with me cause you thought I was funny. Your head is so far up your ass that only shit comes out of your mouth anymore. I don’t know why I stay with you.”
“You’re not gonna be successful. Everyone knows it but your dumb, broke ass.”
What soon followed was one of the lowest points I ever hit, and it fills me with an amount of shame that’s beyond words. When we are triggered at the place where our deepest wounds lie, we respond with what we know, and what I knew was what I’d seen my parents do when they were fighting. At one point, Torrei spit on me. I let loose a volley of curses at her, and she lunged at me.
Next thing I knew, I looked up and I had scratches all over my neck and head, and she had a red, swelling mark on her face.
The next day, we didn’t talk to each other. I was so mad at myself for what I’d done. Eventually, one of us crawled back to the other to apologize, we had incredible sex, and then we acted as if everything was fine.
Another night, I passed out at home after a fight and woke up with the police handcuffing me. I was so drunk, I couldn’t remember what had happened. I didn’t have any marks on me, and neither did Torrei. As best I can tell, we got in a screaming match, and she decided to call the police because she thought it would hurt more than physical violence.
While I was sitting in jail, I realized that she was going to start doing this all the time. But there was a way to stop it. Next time we fought, if she laid hands on me, I could just as easily call the cops on her, and she’d get taken away.
The next time shit went down, she slapped me across the face.
“You going to jail for that!” I yelled as I ran to the phone. “You going to jail this time!”
I dialed 911. As soon as the cops arrived, I told them what had happened. “She hit me,” I said, glaring at Torrei.
They looked at me like I was an idiot. “So where’d she lay her hands on you, sir?” one of them asked.
“She slapped me across the face. Right here. Take her away.”
“Is there any blood or bruising, sir?”
“No. I called y’all as soon as it happened so y’all can get her up out of here.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but there are no scratches, no wounds, no marks. There’s nothing we can do here.” He turned to Torrei. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
“Well, Officer—” she began.
“No, it’s not about her! It’s about me. I’m the one who called y’all.”
“Sir, please—”
“This ain’t fair! Y’all took me away last time, and she didn’t have no marks.”
If I’d ever had a chance of getting help or understanding from them, it was gone after that comment. They were ready to take me away again.
From then on, threatening to call the police, or sometimes actually calling them, became a regular feature of our arguments. One day I told Keith that I wasn’t going to make it to City Line Avenue because Torrei and I were fighting. At this point, he knew how committed I was, so he offered to pick me up and get me out of there before it escalated into another police incident.
For all his tough love and shit talk, Keith has a great big heart and was a true father figure to me during this time. To this day, I continue to ask him for advice about everything. In many ways, I owe my career to him, beyond just the guidance and opportunities he gave me. If he hadn’t been taking me to New York almost every day, I might have been in prison.
Recently, I learned that those rides to New York were just as powerful for him. His mom was sick, and calling me “dummy” for a few hours each day helped him survive that time. A good mentor learns as much from teaching as the apprentice does from learning.
* * *
Despite all the drama, Torrei and I couldn’t seem to break up for good, because our ups were just as strong as our downs. In those times, we supported each other, laughed a lot, and fucked a lot. The one thing the good and bad times had in common was that they were passionate. We thought that sex and passion were the same as love and intimacy.
Our friends felt differently. To them, we were that couple. One night, I stopped by Na’im’s place and asked if him and his girlfriend wanted to go on a double date to Red Lobster. Na’im said yes, then had a conversation with his girl in the other room that went like this:
Na’im’s girlfriend: Why’d you say yes? You know what happened last time.
Na’im: I felt bad when he asked if we were avoiding them.
Na’im’s girlfriend: We are—one of them always says something, and the other one says some shit back, and they end up ruining everyone’s night. So buckle up.
Na’im: Well, at least they make our worst times look like a honeymoon in comparison.
For the first time in my life, I was on the receiving end of other people’s huhs, whats, and okays. I wasn’t observing a crazy world anymore—I was the crazy one. I never thought I’d find myself in that position.
51
* * *
THE DAY I BECAME A COMEDIAN