I Was Too Lonely to Care.
Ronnie was a chubby man with a permanent smirk and curly red hair. He still lived with his parents and, contrary to popular belief, did not have any mental challenges. He was sweet as could be and very, very quiet.
Ronnie showed up to watch Larry’s band play regularly, as he was bassist Leo’s brother-in-law. From what I could tell, Ronnie spent his time smoking pot and shyly looking at the ground when any females wandered by.
At first I was afraid of Ronnie, because I feared he was afraid of me. We spent a few Friday nights sitting together and alone, staring at the stage and drinking, until one night I was wasted enough and talkative enough to start asking him questions.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Thirty-four.”
“What do you do?”
“I work at the mill.”
He was very short with me, incredibly shy. But I was too lonely to care.
“Why aren’t you drinking beer?”
He became almost defensive. “I like mixed drinks.”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“Eraserhead.”
“What?”
“Eraserhead! Haven’t you ever seen Eraserhead?”
I’d asked the right question.
Ronnie and I started talking about movies, and comedies, philosophizing about what was funny and what wasn’t. We didn’t necessarily agree but I felt like I’d found a kindred spirit.
Talking to Ronnie was like talking to a long-lost brother. We each had healthy respect for the other’s opinions, and we became instantly attached every Friday night. Looking back, we were both incredibly out of place in that environment, and both exceptionally weird with our lists of favorite things. But together, we were both just off-center enough that we saw ourselves as suddenly more normal.
“What kind of music do you like?”
“The Who’s the best,” said Ronnie.
“The Who sucks!”
“The Stones then.”
“The Stones are okay. What about Black Sabbath?”
“I hate Black Sabbath.”
“Me too! Everybody I know likes Black Sabbath, but I hate them! I love AC/DC.”
“AC/DC sucks. What about new wave?”
“Oh my god I love new wave!”
When I started going to Linda’s to watch Larry play, I would spend most of my evening watching Larry play and bristling at Zeke, the new guitar player, who was just too loud for my liking. But once Ronnie started showing up, I completely ignored the band unless I was called up to sing.
With Ronnie there, I had someone to talk to – someone comfortable, someone who drank all night and never left early, someone who was happy to see me even though his smile was perpetually condensed.
The only difference I saw between Ronnie and me is that Ronnie loved to smoke pot, and the guys would all go out and get high in the parking lot between sets. It was months before I realized that Ronnie always had weed – always – and that he was getting the band high.
I found marijuana to be incredibly boring, since I’d smoked it in high school and found it dull. So I stood outside and watched the joint go around and chain-smoked my absurdly long cigarettes and believed I was holier than thou.
Then the band would get back on stage and Ronnie and I could go back in and discuss whatever was next to discuss.
Ronnie and I had substantially more in common than Larry and I ever did.
So when Ronnie showed up, I had a friend. And Ronnie, who still lived with his parents at the age of 34, had a friend, too.