“Kiss-A-Me!”
After my disastrous run-in with Larry’s ex-girlfriend, I begged Larry to find the infinite parties that surely awaited me during my spring break.
Where could I find the sun-drenched college kids and keg-infested parties? We were in Florida! I thought I’d be surrounded by half-naked college kids everywhere; I thought that was how spring break worked.
Apparently the entire state of Florida is neither a beach nor a party.
In fact, I hadn’t even seen a beach – just a million scrawny palm trees and miles and miles of very short houses. This is not what I’d imagined.
Larry and I sat in a dark bar somewhere, like we did at home, and drank. I whined and moaned and complained. Larry heard my pleas and somehow found out about a party in Kissimmee, more than an hour away.
Kissimmee, pronounced Kuh-si’-mee, had the dubious distinction of including the word “kiss” in the spelling of its name.
Larry found this to be hysterical. He called it “Kiss-a-me” and insisted that, every time the word was uttered, a kiss needed to be exchanged.
“Let’s go to Kiss-a-me!” he’d say, leaning toward my face with his lips pursed. “Kiss-a-me, Baby!”
I would peck him on the lips and he would giggle like a child with a secret.
When we finally arrived in Kissimmee – which is just another palm-tree-laden town – I didn’t see beaches or college kids or sand or kegs or frisbees.
Instead we rolled the Harley into a trailer park. We found the party by following the classic rock blaring from the boombox propped in the open window.
The party was jammed with people, none in college and mostly men. They stuck together like licorice inside the tiny trailer holding cans of beer, cigarettes and cigars that burned my eyes while my ears ached with the brutal raucousness of it all.
There was plenty of beer. I drank and drank and drank and drank, speaking to almost no one, guzzling whatever I could to drown out the fact that I was stone-cold alone, even with Larry nearby. When the sun started going down, he was still blathering with strangers.
I was only there for the beer. I had no idea that this was a preview of my supposed future in Florida. This probable mistake aside, I still thought we’d find beaches.
Occasionally Larry’d come by to check on me and ask, “You okay, Baby?” And I’d nod.
I spent my day with the local dogs. I sat on the ground outside the trailer, willing mutts to let me pet them – which they did. They were matted and despondent. When the dogs tired of me, or of the noise, they would crawl under the trailer to escape.
Eventually I crawled under the trailer to escape, too.
Larry stuck his head under the trailer in the dark and laughed. “What’re ya doing?”
“I’m staying here,” I said.
“But first … Kiss-a-me!”
I rolled over and pecked his face. Larry laughed, then disappeared again.
Like the dogs, I came out when I needed something – another beer, a bathroom – and then I crawled back under the trailer. The ground was nothing but dirt, mud and bugs, but I found it comforting to be away from the ruckus.
Eventually I decided I may as well sleep there. I put one arm under my head as a pillow and passed out in the mud.
Later Larry crawled under the trailer, too. He curled up next to me and slept, both of us waking up cold and filthy with the sunrise.
By morning, even the dogs were gone.