After endless days of flipping through help-wanted ads, I finally came to terms with the reality that I had zero marketable skills to my name. Sure, I’d worked security for Pinkerton during the AT&T strike, but standing around pretending to look tough wasn’t exactly a career. I knew I couldn’t live like this forever—dependent, caged, and suffocating under the weight of someone else’s expectations. Jackie was good to me in her own way, but it was clear this arrangement wasn’t built to last.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Summers spent on the beach, smoking clove cigarettes, drinking White Russians, and watching the waves roll in—it almost felt like paradise. Almost. But I needed more. I needed freedom, a purpose, a life of my own.
Jackie, bless her fiery Marine soul, wasn’t just possessive—she was downright territorial. One day, I was outside washing her car, wearing nothing but a pair of Speedos, my tanned skin glistening under the sun. I didn’t notice the girls across the street sitting on the curb, giggling and stealing glances my way. But Jackie did. She came flying out of the house, yelling like a banshee, accusing me of being a “whore” and dragging me inside like a mother scolding a disobedient child.
It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Her jealousy was starting to close in around me, turning the once-idyllic shack by the beach into a cage. Then came the trip to meet her parents in St. Louis—a road trip in her tiny CRX that doubled as my crash course in driving stick shift. Along the way, I earned a speeding ticket in Kansas and got my first look at the Gateway Arch. Her family didn’t have much good to say about her, and I couldn’t help but feel like they saw through the dynamic. They knew she was manipulating me, using my vulnerability to keep me tethered. I could feel the subtle pressure to marry her, to commit to something I wasn’t ready for.
Things took a darker turn when Jackie’s jealousy hit a fever pitch. A redhead who’d been eyeing me for days finally mustered the courage to approach me. She asked if she could use my bathroom, and one thing led to another. It was a brief, passionate escape—a reminder that I still had choices, even if they weren’t the best ones. Not long after, another neighbor decided to say hello, and that connection spiraled into something equally satisfying, but far messier.
With every misstep, Jackie’s paranoia grew, and my cage got smaller. She wasn’t wrong to feel threatened—my actions practically guaranteed her worst fears would come true. But the tighter she held on, the more I needed to break free.
Enter Dave, my old Navy buddy who’d just returned from Westpac. He read the situation like a seasoned sailor spotting a storm on the horizon. While we walked along the Imperial Beach Pier, he asked the questions I’d been avoiding.
“Why are you here, dude? What the hell are you doing?”
“I don’t know, man. I’ve got no money, no job. What else can I do?”
Dave didn’t accept my excuses. He saw right through my self-imposed helplessness and began chipping away at the wall I’d built around myself. That weekend, after another blowout argument with Jackie, Dave convinced me to escape for a night in Tijuana.
As soon as she heard the rumble of his Trans Am pulling up, Jackie’s radar went off. She stormed into the living room, but by the time she reached the bedroom, I was already halfway out the window. Hanging from the frame by my fingertips, I let go and hit the ground with a soft thud. She leaned out the window, screaming obscenities as I bolted to the car. Dave floored it, her voice trailing off into the night like a bad memory.
Tijuana was exactly what I needed—a night of freedom, surrounded by music, dancing, and people who didn’t know my baggage. Dave covered the tab, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I could breathe. When we got back, I crashed on the floor of his apartment, where he lived with his girlfriend and their child. But the reprieve was short-lived. The next day, I had to figure out how to retrieve my belongings from Jackie’s without getting myself killed.
We waited until she was at work, then used my spare key to sneak in. I was halfway through packing when one of the neighbors tipped her off. She burst through the door, her Marine training kicking in as she screamed, pushed, slapped, and scratched me. It was a full-blown domestic brawl, unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
At one point, she clung to my leg like a rabid dog, biting down hard enough to draw blood. In a desperate attempt to shake her off, I kicked a speaker system, sending it crashing to the floor. I managed to break free and headed for the stairs, where Dave was waiting in the Trans Am, cigarette in hand, as cool as ever.
But Jackie wasn’t done. She grabbed a river rock the size of a football—one we used as a doorstop—and hurled it with all her might. The rock sailed over the stairway railing, narrowly missing Dave’s windshield as he threw the car into reverse. It grazed the hood, leaving a dent as deep as her rage.
The commotion drew the attention of the police. When they arrived, Jackie spun a tale to make herself the victim. A female officer, unimpressed by my attempts at charm, seemed ready to take her side. But then my landlord stepped in, vouching for me and explaining that Jackie had been the aggressor. Somehow, that was enough to diffuse the situation. The officers let me go, and I left with what little dignity I had left.
As chaotic and toxic as the whole ordeal was, I can’t bring myself to resent Jackie completely. She gave me a place to land when I had nowhere else to go, even if it came with strings attached. But our dynamic was doomed from the start—she needed control, and I needed freedom.
The days of sitting on the beach, drinking White Russians, and smoking cloves felt like a distant dream as I faced the reality of starting over. Dave’s intervention gave me the push I needed to break free, but the scars—both literal and emotional—would stay with me.
Life has a way of throwing you into the fire, and sometimes you have to burn before you can rebuild. Jackie may have been the captor in my story, but I was just as complicit in creating my own prison. It was time to figure out who I was without the walls around me.
