He Had Absolutely No Inhibitions.
Larry came to pick me up on his motorcycle (hereinafter often referred to as “bike”). The motorcycle was so loud that we couldn’t possibly have held a conversation over its roar.
I remember thinking that it was nice that we didn’t have to talk. I didn’t have anything to say to him.
Eventually he pulled into the parking lot of a bar. We got off, took off our helmets, and started toward the door. I cringed a little.
“I’m not 21 yet,” I said.
“Fuck that,” he said. “Nobody’s gonna bother you if you’re with me.”
Larry grabbed my hand and we walked inside. No one even looked at us. We sat down in a booth.
This bar was fancy – first, there were booths. At college we were lucky to have a place to sit. And there was an actual band playing – or at least, whining. It wasn’t the kind of band I would normally enjoy.
A monstrous dance floor stood empty between the bar and where we sat. I watched Larry walk all the way across that empty floor. His hair was stringy and brown – stringy like thread, with a bald area in front that wasn’t quite combed over, and long enough in the back that it bounced when he walked. What he lacked on his head grew on his face – a bushy beard and mustache which, I recalled, scratched when he kissed me.
He wore blue jeans with a chain hanging out of his pocket on one side; it jangled with every step. His boots were black and bulky – “motorcycle boots” he called them – and they clunked loudly on the dance floor.
I was appalled. He made noise when he walked. I’d spent my entire life trying to go unnoticed.
Larry didn’t notice the clunks or the jangling. He had absolutely no inhibitions. As he walked across the floor he seemed to remember I was there. He held up two drafts in a sort of salute, and smiled that goofy smile. His teeth were yellow and crooked but he didn’t notice that, either.
“Here ya go, Baby,” he said, sliding into the booth across from me, the chain impetuously rattling against the wood as he slid the beer to me. He’d called me “Baby” a sickening amount of times in just a few hours.
“Thanks, Baby,” I mocked.
He blinked for a second and then regrouped. “Here ya go, Kris,” he said, trying to impress me.
I sipped my beer and considered this. Did I care that he didn’t know my name? No, I did not.
And yet: “It’s Kirsten,” I said, emphasizing the first syllable. “My name is actually Kirsten. I tell people ‘Kris’ because it’s easier.”
“Kristen?” he asked.
“No, it’s keer-stin.”
“Say it one more time,” he said.
“Keeeeer-stin,” I repeated.
Larry smiled. “Keer-stin!” he said, proud of his accomplishment. “That’s a pretty name! Pretty name for a pretty girl!”
“Thanks,” I mumbled. I was used to ridiculous, sexist comments like this, but I didn’t think my name was particularly pretty, so I just drank.
Larry got me a second beer, and a third, and then I lost count. I have no idea what we discussed.
When the bar closed, we rode back to his place – the place where the junkie had sold their stereo – and we screwed around on the floor until just before dawn.
“I’ve got to get back before my parents wake up,” I said.
Larry laughed. “Let’s go!”
When he revved up the motorcycle I realized: my parents would be awake the instant we roared into the neighborhood.