It’s Fuckin’ Beautiful.
One of Larry’s biker friends invited us to a party.
“It’s all fuckin’ weekend!” said Bear, whose real name was never uttered.
We didn’t get to Bear’s house until Saturday evening. Jammed with people, music blasting seemingly from the sky, this was the best party I’d seen since the ATO pig roast at college. Bear’s tiny house had a huge backyard with two grills going, a keg in one corner and icy, alcohol-filled coolers strategically placed around the yard.
Kegs had sentimental value, so I filled a cup and stood next to Larry, not speaking, listening to southern rock and taking in the hordes of people. The whole place was strewn with strands of white lights.
Everyone was a biker, a chick, or a child. Even the children wore Harley t-shirts. I knelt down and petted a dog while Larry blathered with a group of guys. After refilling my second beer Larry said, “C’mon, we’re going to see Bear’s new piece!”
Piece of what? I wondered. I was the only female but I didn’t want to be left alone so I followed the men. I strolled behind them through the house and into a small bedroom.
The guys walked in first, all taller than me, so I still had no idea what we were supposed to be doing. It looked like everyone was huddled around the lamp. Then Larry turned to me and held out something shiny.
I nearly vomited on the spot. It was a silver handgun, like a water pistol made of metal.
“Haven’t you ever seen a gun before?” Larry asked as I turned pale. “Go ahead, hold it! It won’t hurt you.”
I noticed he didn’t say it wasn’t loaded.
I shook my head.
“Hold it!” Larry insisted. “It’s fuckin’ beautiful.”
I reached out my hand and Larry put the gun in it, handle first. I flattened my hand and stared at it, started to shake, wanted to cry.
Guns were against everything I’d ever known. And I was holding one, expected to say nice things about it.
What if … I thought, but thinking about pulling the trigger made my hands shake harder.
Larry laughed at my discomfort. “Okay,” I said, and held out my palm for him to take it back.
“See?” he said. “It’s fine!” He was still admiring it when I raced out of the room, chugging the rest of my beer.
When I walked out of the house I noticed, for the first time, a huge oak tree in the center of the yard. I grabbed a can of beer, shoved it into my pocket, and started climbing. I got up about 25′ before finally taking a seat and opening the beer.
I breathed.
It took awhile for Larry to find me when they returned. He smiled and shook his head. Even from that distance I heard him say, “Nah, she’s fine. She just fuckin’ does this stuff.”
I stayed in that tree until the wee hours of morning, coming down only long enough to use the restroom and restock my beer supply. At one point a few kids climbed into the lower branches, excited. Then they scrambled down and ran away laughing.
The white lights sparkled below me. I could watch the ground sway, sing along to the music, embrace the warm night air, drink, smoke, and generally be me. I didn’t talk to anyone when I was down, and I climbed like a monkey on a mission going back up. I only did what I wanted to do.
I felt safe. And that was fuckin’ beautiful.