I Did Not Laugh With Larry.
One night with Robert solidified an idea that previously had been pushed to the wee corners of my mind. I had ignored the little voice calling from back there for so long, pretended it wasn’t there, gone on with my life as though it didn’t exist.
But as I rode into Pitcairn with those college guys, that little voice became impossible to ignore. It screamed: Larry isn’t the right person for you.
Instantly, I screamed back: He has to be! I don’t have anyone else!
But after a very full day of partying with people my own age – people who likely came from the same general background as I did, even though they were male – it was hard to believe that I should settle for living in Pitcairn with a man nearly twice my age.
More importantly, it was horrible to go back to living without the kind of laughter I’d shared with Robert. We’d really laughed. We’d had things in common; we’d found the same things to be funny. I’d laughed that way with a handful of ex-boyfriends who were kind-hearted souls, who’d treated me with respect, who enjoyed the same things I enjoyed. Robert reminded me that people existed in the world with whom I could laugh.
But I never, ever laughed with Larry. I’d laughed with Bonnie at some of the songs Larry sang; the lyrics had been funny. I’d laughed at the “CHICK” name tag I created for myself, at the irony of naming myself something so mundane. I’d laughed with Ronnie about little things. But I did not laugh with Larry.
Larry’s idea of humor was to hang Christmas ornaments around his penis and strut around naked saying, “Look at my big balls!” as the ornaments clanged together.
This did not make me laugh. Like most of the things Larry found funny, I didn’t see the humor. But Larry – who never recognized my apathy – laughed at his own jokes enough for both of us.
For most of my youth, nobody laughed at my jokes. My humor is so dry, some people miss it.
“People have to be smart to get your humor,” my mom told me. “Not everyone is as smart as you.” This made me feel better about the throngs of people who ignored my jokes in high school.
Maybe Larry isn’t as smart as you, the little voice yelled from its corner.
Robert and I had laughed about everything. Our perspective on life and people seemed to be aligned in a way that made us find the same things funny. It was just an added bonus that Robert was sweet.
Of course, Robert and I had no cell phones, and we weren’t planning to keep in touch.
But after Seven Springs, it was like someone had blown all the fairy dust off of Larry. I could see him for the man he was, not the man I wanted him to be. He was like a cowboy without a horse and I’d always been a bigger fan of horses than cowboys.
Sure, Larry was cool. My God, he was cool! He played that guitar and flew me down the road on that Harley. But for the first time in my life, I wanted something more than “cool.”
I wanted somebody smart. I wanted to be smart. And I wanted to laugh again.
I just had no idea how to make that happen.
So I drank more. And I became even more morose.