Every Day was an Adventure.
In my quest for understanding, I frequently think about a guy who, when I was incredibly young, showed me how the other side lives. And by “other side,” I don’t mean politically. I mean, he had a perspective on life that was so far removed from what I believed, I literally thought he was joking.
I lived with Larry for three years. I was a 20-year-old college student, and he was a 36-year-old biker. College was never in his life plan, and I’d never lived a blue-collar life. I learned a lot while living with Larry.
I learned that loyalty and friendship are as important as blood; once you trust someone, you never turn your back on him. I learned that family is forever. I learned that what you do and where you go aren’t nearly as important as brotherhood.
I learned that when you live from paycheck to paycheck, there isn’t any more money if you’re hungry or – in my case – if you want another beer. Until you get paid again, money will not magically materialize.
This lesson boggled my mind, since I’d always had everything I wanted. I had to learn to do without, so I also learned that I could live with much less than I thought I needed.
In Larry’s world, every day was an adventure. He never complained about his job. As a machinist he said, “I’m a skilled laborer. That means I have a skill. I can work anywhere in the world!” I just thought it was cool that he could wear yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt to work.
On warm weekends, Larry would say, “I’m going out to work on the bike.” This was a regular event which required him to sit all day amidst small metal objects and oil. People would stop by and chat, standing and staring at the motorcycle. They stayed for hours.
We ate burgers and pizza; we never cooked. We watched football at the VFW. Larry had a country band, so we played guitars and sang together, often on dark, tiny stages. We were always out.
Larry’s beliefs were dramatically different than mine. Larry once told me he was addicted to cigarettes because his mother smoked when she was pregnant.
Did you smoke when you were an infant? I wondered. Larry was serious.
Our world was lily-white, mostly bearded men. The few women were “old ladies” like me: scantily clad trophies who didn’t talk much.
Once, while sitting at a stoplight on the back of Larry’s motorcycle, I pointed out a Mazda Miata convertible. It was my dream car.
“You like that piece of [bleep]? Get off my bike!” Larry roared. He wasn’t kidding; I had to walk miles to get home. That’s how I found out that Mazda is a Japanese manufacturer. This apparently was not okay – especially for a machinist who wanted to continue working “anywhere in the world.”
I was supposed to be terrified of Hell’s Angels (“they’ll slit your throat”), but to ride without a helmet (“freedom, Baby!”). Everything required some risk.
But living Larry’s life – because he never lived mine – offered me a pinhole peek into the anger, the ignorance and the upheaval that is pouring from some people lately. Larry never struck me as a White supremacist, but his concern about race, foreigners and skin color baffled me.
So I doubt that Larry is following that movement; he’s likely just still singing and keeping his head down. I think about him, though, and I thank God I survived those years – and that I have the life I have today.