I’m Not Ready to Go Home.
One Saturday afternoon, Larry and I went for a ride in the country. We were in a forest when I started begging to stop for a drink.
“There’s nothing out here!” he said over the roar of the Harley. “Just Seven Springs, and it ain’t cheap.”
“Let’s go there,” I said, having no idea that ski resort drink prices meant we’d run out of money before I could drink my fill. Of course, “my fill” was never possible – but my feeling of deprivation would happen a lot sooner at an expensive resort.
A minute passed. “I guess we could have a couple,” Larry said.
Within half an hour, we were pulling into the Seven Springs parking lot and clomping out of the sunshine into a dark cabin-style bar. Except for a handful of young guys at the end of the bar, the place was empty.
A couple drinks later, Larry and I were chatting with that group of guys; they were all college kids.
They were my age. I suddenly felt less alone than I’d felt in forever.
Within an hour, I’d begun ignoring Larry, who was sitting to my left at the bar. My stool was turned completely to the right, my back to Larry, while I chatted with the guys … some of whom had moved closer to be better able to hear me over the music.
Interacting with these college guys was thrilling. We talked about spring break and dorms and parties and compared and contrasted our schools. We talked about whatever songs played on the jukebox, which inspired conversation of the bands we’d seen in concert, our favorite classics, and the worst songs ever made (“You Light Up My Life” topping that list). And when I learned that the guys were from Pittsburgh, we talked about our respective high schools, our (mixed) reviews of Vincent’s Pizza and what sports we all played, even though I no longer played sports.
I was having the time of my life in that bar, just hanging out. And Larry uncharacteristically allowed our banter to continue without interjecting. The fact that they all happened to be rather attractive young men did not elude me, nor did it elude Larry, but we were just having fun.
I think Larry realized, after Florida, that I needed something more than he could provide.
Larry didn’t push me to shorten the visit, nor did he insist on being part of the conversation. He was smiling and seemed to be having a good time – which I noticed whenever I turned around to look at him. He didn’t appear to be unhappy or agitated in any way.
In fact, Larry allowed the guys to buy us beers and shots – lots of beers and shots. But after two or three hours, Larry was finally ready to go.
Like any good drunk, I would have started chopping off my fingers if it meant that I could continue to drink right where I sat. “Please, can we just have one more?” I begged. “I’m not ready to go home.”
Larry had heard it all before, and sometimes we stayed. Sometimes we left anyway. But on this particular occasion, we did something we’d never done before.
Larry turned to one of the guys and said, “You can get her home, right?”
My jaw dropped.
The guy next to me blinked. “I’ll make sure she gets home,” he said. They shook on it.
I was flabbergasted. “You’re gonna leave me here with them?”
“They’ll getcha home,” he said. And he sauntered out the door, leaving me behind.