Troy story

Troy liked to introduce himself as “just a good dude trying to get back on his feet.” And I’m sure of this much, he practiced that sentence in the mirror. The way some people rehearse wedding vows, Troy rehearsed excuses. On dates, he opened doors. Asked about childhood dreams. Said things like, “I respect women.” He wore that phrase like a thrift store blazer cheap, but convincing from a distance. In reality, Troy was a locksmith of soft hearts. He didn’t kick doors down. He waited until they unlocked themselves. He never had an address longer than a season. Winter was with Denise, because she had a space heater and a Hulu password. Spring was with Carla, who owned a Honda Civic and a soft spot for men who looked tired. Summer drifted into Keisha’s couch, where he said he was “stacking money,” which was funny, because his stack was always invisible. I believe Troy thought honesty was a loophole. He’d tell them, “Look, I don’t got it together right now.” And they’d nod, like that made everything clean and legal. It’s like robbing a bank but announcing it first. “Ma’am, I will be emotionally irresponsible in approximately 15 minutes.” And somehow, that counted as character. He borrowed cars the way other people borrow pens. “Just for a quick run.” Quick runs turned into full errands, then whole afternoons. He’d come back with fast food and a smile, like a cat returning with a bird it didn’t technically kill. Money? He never asked directly. He let emergencies do the talking. “My card acting weird.” “My job trippin’.” “My cousin in trouble.” Each lie was a paper umbrella thin, colorful, temporary. Enough to survive the rain if nobody looked too close. What’s wild is the women weren’t blind. They knew his situation. They just thought honesty meant safety. Like because he admitted he was a mess, he couldn’t be dangerous. Perhaps that’s the trick of narcissists. They wear their flaws like warning labels and call it transparency. Meanwhile, Troy watched YouTube motivation clips about “high value men” while eating groceries someone else paid for. He quoted podcast dudes who say women should submit while sleeping in a guest room with cartoon pillows. And I can’t help thinking about how he’d post vague quotes online during the Drake and Kendrick beef, like, “Real men move in silence.” Meanwhile, he was moving through houses like a Wi-Fi signal strong everywhere, rooted nowhere. Eventually, the women started comparing notes. Not in a dramatic group chat way. More like grocery store coincidence. “Did Troy ever say he was between jobs?” “Yeah… did he ever borrow your car?” “Yeah…” “Oh.” It was like discovering the same stray dog had been eating at three houses on the same block. Troy didn’t collapse when they figured him out. He relocated. That was his real skill. He didn’t feel guilt. He felt interrupted. In his mind, women were like charging ports. You don’t fall in love with the outlet. You just need power. And maybe that’s the saddest part. Not that he lied. But that he never thought he was stealing only surviving. It seems to me Troy wasn’t chasing women. He was running from himself. And every couch he slept on was just another mile marker on a road that didn’t go anywhere.