I Felt It As Disdain But It Was Grief.
My mom warily called down the stairs: “Kirsten, you have a visitor!”
“Okay!” I yelled. A visitor? No one ever visited me.
I walked upstairs and there he was, on the porch, looking every bit as old and bedraggled as ever.
It was Larry.
My stomach flip-flopped. “What are you doing here?”
“I came for you, Baby!” he said, smiling that all-too familiar smile. “I drove all the way here on the bike, didn’t stop except for gas.” He was so proud of himself, gesturing toward the Harley on the street.
Behind me, my mom appeared not to listen while hearing every word.
“I don’t know what you want,” I said. “I am not going back to Florida. I have a job.”
“We don’t need to go back to Florida! We’ll stay here and start a band!”
A band, I thought, remembering the guitar, Larry naked on the mattress, singing Waylon Jennings songs.
Suddenly I felt my mom’s eyes on me, her hot breath on my neck: the warden. Just like that, I needed to escape.
“Let’s go somewhere and talk about it,” Larry said, his gravelly voice oozing, his timing perfect.
Go somewhere, I thought. I can drink I can drink I can drink.
It had been a long time since I’d had a drink.
“I don’t know,” I hesitated.
I turned around but Mom was nowhere to be found; I must have imagined that hot breath.
When I looked at Larry, he was smiling. “I brought your helmet.” He pointed at the bike again. Yep, two helmets.
“Give me a sec,” I said, and closed the door. I found my mother in the kitchen, her despondency already apparent.
“Are you really going to go with him?” my mom asked, incredulous. “After all that’s happened?”
“We’re just going to talk,” I said. “I’ll be back.”
She shook her head, incredulous, her hope for me destroyed. I felt it as disdain but it was grief.
I ignored her, pushed past and ran downstairs. I pulled on some jeans, my boots, my leather jacket. I felt like a god.
I went out “my” basement door and found Larry smoking by the bike, helmet in hand.
“Hey Baby,” he said, his cragged-toothed smile as big as the sun.
“Let’s go,” I said. I strapped on my helmet, hopped on the bike, and settled in for the ride. The summer air was glorious.
Larry took me to the same bar where we’d gone so many times before, with the old people dancing, the country band playing. I sat down in a booth feeling better than I’d ever felt with Larry before – awake, alive.
While Larry got our beers, I sat quietly scanning the room, mysteriously bothered. I couldn’t quite identify the nagging feeling that something was dreadfully wrong.
Larry sat down next to me, a can of Miller Lite on the table in front of me. I took a healthy sip, and another, and the nagging slowly went away.
Finally I felt calm. I hadn’t felt calm in a long time.
Larry talked over the band. He said he understood why I left Florida, although he absolutely did not. He talked about getting an apartment, starting a band, living without roommates, blah blah blah.
As he talked, I continued to drink. I looked at his calloused hands, his thinning hair, the little wrinkles around his eyes. I listened to his voice, like liquid valium. I drank beer after beer, hearing less and less about Larry, returning to that anesthetized dreamlike state where I believed anything was possible.
I finally felt free again.