Florida Was Not What I Thought It Would Be.
Pulling into Larry’s house on the Harley was not what I thought it would be.
I felt relief to get off the bike, and was glad to get the hamsters out of the tour pack finally, but I didn’t feel excited. In fact, seeing Larry’s ranch-style house in the dark made me kind of nauseous. I tried to forget my malicious behavior with regard to his ex, Suzy, but it was all I could think about.
This was his home, not mine.
I tried to be cavalier, hopping off the motorcycle and rescuing the hamsters, introducing them to their new abode.
I’d had visions of dancing around in the living room, sprawling naked on the sofa, sex on the table … but going inside was not what I thought it would be.
Instead there was Joe, sitting on the couch.
He barely glanced up from his magazine. “Oh hey, Larry,” he said in a low rasp. He looked at me. I was grizzled from the ride – but still a 21-year-old braless female in tight jeans and black boots.
Larry saw him looking.
“Hey Joe,” he said. “Kirsten, this is Joe.”
Joe was younger than Larry but older than me – tall and thin with wild eyes and tousled brown hair. He looked like he had either been sleeping all day or hadn’t slept in a week.
I glanced from Joe to Larry, although neither really noticed. Why was this man in our house?
“Joe lives here, sleeps on the couch,” Larry said without any further explanation.
Later I would learn that when Suzy found another place to live, she hadn’t bothered to rehome Joe … or their other roommate, Dave. So they were staying.
With us.
Dave was in his bedroom with the door closed; I didn’t meet him until the next day.
At least we have a door on the bathroom, I thought. I put the hamsters down on the table for Joe to observe, then I skipped into the bedroom – also with a door on it.
Okay, so it was a little bit exciting. Doors should never be taken for granted.
But the bedroom wasn’t what I thought it would be.
Larry had lived here with Suzy for years, so I still felt like an intruder. There was no furniture – just a double bed with a thin, flowery blanket. And when I threw my suitcase on the bed, it bounced right off, falling with a clunk onto the floor.
My jaw dropped.
Larry walked in behind me and saw it happen; he wrapped his arms around me and laughed.
“Didn’t I tell ya, Baby? It’s a waterbed!” He pushed on it with his calloused hand to show me how it rippled. “It’s great for my fuckin’ back!”
Suddenly, I didn’t care about Joe or Suzy or the whole state of Florida. Boots still on, I jumped onto that bed with both feet like it was a trampoline, hooting and nearly falling off in the same motion.
Now Larry’s jaw dropped. “No, get down!” he bellowed. “You’ll fuckin’ bust it!”
I slunk to the floor, fun over. Larry explained that the waterbed was to be treated with the utmost care, not because it was fragile but because of the flood that would occur if I punctured it with my boot heel.
The waterbed was no longer a toy; it was more like an egg just waiting to be broken.
I looked around, disheartened. Florida was not what I thought it would be.