I had never seen him show sorrow in any way until he was on his knees, begging. It wasn’t a sophisticated begging, either. Far from the ‘on-one-knee-beg-of-a-rich-gentleman’. It was in fact a ‘complete-and-utter-spare-my-life-Mr. Dictator’ kind of beg.

“Please, please, please…” he kept saying. He just said it over and over, driving me a little bit crazier each time.

The words coming out of his mouth were just as pathetic and hollow as he was. He could keep saying those stupid things; it didn’t matter any more.

“Sure,” I laughed, “Like you really care what happens to me.”

“No, you have to believe me, I love you,” he stammered, looking up at me hopelessly. His eyes had never seemed bluer than they did when he was absolutely desprate. “Please, please…”

“You take me for a fool,” I spat, a phrase I had borrowed from the Victorian drama movie I had seen on TV the night before.

“No I don’t!”

He reminded me of my younger brother, and the way he would deny knowing anything about my suddenly missing school books or desserts. The man in front of me looked nothing like my younger brother, but the level of stupidity was about the same.

“Be quiet.”

His begging stopped and I began to leave. But he stood up quickly and grabbed my wrist. “Don’t.” His voice wasn’t sad anymore, he was angry. No one ever said ‘no’ to him when he was angry. He was such a child; so spoiled and whiney. His thin face was twisted with rage. “You aren’t going.”

His long fingernails dug into my skin, drawing droplets of blood. “I am going!” I insisted, but I couldn’t pull my wrist from him, “Let go of me!”

“No.”

“Don’t be a prat, let go of my wrist. Sir, that hurts!” I cried out softly. He was scrawny, but he was strong. I was afraid of him again- fear was something I hadn’t felt for a while.

“I don’t…” he faltered, looking away from me and letting go of my wrist, “I don’t want to let you go. You’ll run off and find another man.”

“How do you know?”

He seemed shocked, “You mean you’ll run off and become a lesbian?”

“No!” I threw my hands over my head in an annoyed, emphatic gesture, “I didn’t mean it like that, you loony! I meant…” But it didn’t seem worth it to waste my breath on the lame excuse for a man staring at me, “Oh, sir, to hell with you.”

I’ll give him that he was persistent. His sorrow began to un-nerve me as much as his anger, “I will do anything you want me to,” he said flatly, placing a broken emphasis on the word ‘anything’.

For a moment I stopped, “Really anything?” I asked.

“Yes, anything,” he responded, nodding.

For a brief instant, I thought of all the horrible things he could do to himself on my suggestion. But nothing suited my fancy like the ultimate ultimatum, “You’re going to come with me.”

“Where?”

“On my Trans-American Road Trip of Inspiration.”

“What the hell is that? Are you going to give out free love and deal acid?”

“Why not? I’m going to write the next great American novel.”

Honestly, I had been debating the trip for a while, but seeing the shock on his face, I knew it had to be done. I was in for an interesting summer.