With college behind me and Larry’s career being mobile, we decided to follow “our” dreams. We were moving to Florida.
Larry already had a house there, and we’d all had enough of our dilapidated hotel room.
While “we” were earning money for the move, I did nothing. I fed “the rats” – as I called them, although they were quite literally hamsters. Chippy and Dozer had somehow survived college – and now they ran on their very squeaky wheel all night long in our tiny room, which especially irritated Larry’s brother.
I’d slept through that wheel every night at college. Plus I loved my little rodents. Chippy – who did most of the running – was a constant source of entertainment. And Dozer was a cuddly buddy whenever I needed a friend.
Since college had ended, I’d realized I had not a single friend in the world.
My pets were my only real pals. So packing for Florida should have been easy; we’d just throw everything into the back of the pickup and go.
Except … Larry said we had to sell the pickup.
“Nooooo!” I whined. I’d never loved anything the way I loved that truck.
“That fuckin’ truck’ll never fuckin’ make it,” Larry laughed.
My dearly beloved oil-leaking Ford pickup was gone the next day.
I stopped in at my parents’ house before we left, presumably to say goodbye. After all, I was leaving forever.
The way I saw it: I was leaving their prison of responsibility to go where I would finally be free and livin’ the life. I’d be an adult in the real world – that ever-elusive real world – and I’d somehow be a success. This “goodbye” marked the end of childhood and the beginning of adulthood.
My parents didn’t see me seeing it that way.
“You’re acting like it’s a vacation,” my mom said.
“This is my life!” I retorted. “I know it’s not a vacation!” I grabbed some of my old jewelry for added effect. I was really leaving forever!
My mother has since told me that I left on her birthday, though I have no idea when I left. I certainly don’t remember saying “happy birthday” to the person whose life I was both dissing and destroying.
I just left.
I had a purple duffle bag, which Larry tied with bungee cords to the top of the tour pack. Larry threw his worldly possessions into the saddlebags. We had two cartons of cigarettes, some jeans and a couple of toothbrushes in a plastic bag.
We lined the bottom of the hamster cage with t-shirts and put the entire cage into the tour pack. The cage was made of metal; we didn’t want them to scorch themselves during the ride. We left the tour pack open half an inch so Chippy and Dozer would have “fresh” air.
Then we climbed onto the Harley and headed off to the Sunshine State.
It was a loooong trip to St. Petersburg. We’d done this trip during spring break, so I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. But this time, we also had to stop at least hourly to take out the hamsters and let them run in some grass.
We would rouse the two nocturnal creatures and plop them in the grass, where they’d waddle about a little, nibbling at the green. We offered them water, and sometimes they drank. Sometimes they insisted on sleep.
It was hot in that tour pack. And it was summer. And we were going south, so it got hotter as we drove.
After three days, we somehow got them – and ourselves – safely to Larry’s house.
As though he were explaining the concept to a ten-year-old, Larry told me: “I know a trade. I can work anywhere in the world.”
I wanted to be able to live “anywhere in the world,” so this seemed perfect.
Larry’s trade meant that he worked in something called a “machine shop.” I envisioned stores that sold machines – with no idea what kind of machines would need to be sold, or who would buy them, or what those machines did.
“I’m a machinist!” Larry said proudly. Everything he said about himself, he said proudly.
“You make machines?”
Larry laughed. “I make machine parts,” he said.
Larry had been doing this work at a “shop” in Braddock, which is a town near Pittsburgh that one should never visit at night. Sometimes, though, we visited Braddock in order to get cocaine since my connections in Ohio were … well, still in Ohio.
I had never seen Braddock in daylight. But with Larry working there every day and me “free” from college, he suggested that I visit him at work.
“I’ll buy ya lunch!” Larry said. I hoped this meant “beer.” Beer would be worth the ten-minute drive.
When I arrived, I parked in an alley. There was no parking lot. Larry’s motorcycle was in the alley, too.
The “building “shop” resembled a large garage outside. Inside, it resembled my seventh grade shop class, only in a very spread-out sort of way. Every five feet or so was a freestanding machine of some sort. To me, they looked like big blenders or small jackhammers. Many of these machines stood empty.
But the ones that ran were very, very loud. It was deafening in there.
Larry was wearing safety goggles, just like I wore in shop class. I saw Leo, the bass player for Larry’s band, also wearing safety goggles. A bunch of giant blenders, Leo, Larry and one other guy … that was the whole “shop.”
Larry noticed me walking in clothed, as usual, in cutoff jean shorts and bare feet. Jeans and boots were reserved for motorcycle rides.
“Hey Baby!” he said, smiling, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Then he saw my feet. “Ya gotta have shoes on in here!” He pointed at his boots, which Larry always wore.
I went back to the car and put on moccasins. That was all I had.
Then Larry showed me around the shop. He pointed at Leo, who nodded at me. He pointed at the other guy, who didn’t nod. The entire time he spoke, he held a small metal object between his fingers – something that could have been a bolt, a weapon or a plate. He didn’t let it move in his hand; apparently it was only part-way finished.
“So this is what I do!” he said, holding his cigarette and grandly waving his one free arm.
I had absolutely zero interest.
“So you make small metal things,” I said.
“Yep!” Larry said, still smiling, holding the half-finished bolt-weapon-plate a little higher.
“Okay,” I said. “Can we go to lunch now?”
Larry laughed. “It’s past lunchtime!” he said. “It’s almost time to go home! Here – take five bucks; I’ll meet ya at Barry’s after work.” He handed me a bill from his chain-clad wallet, and leaned over to kiss me. He smelled, as always, like oil.
I took the money and held it. I glanced around. I lit a cigarette.
Still with the goofy grin, Larry shook his head in his isn’t-she-adorable way.
“Okay,” I said. I pocketed the five bucks, got in the car, and drove to Barry’s.
Sleeping on the stoop in the alley presented its own set of problems.
First, the doorway wasn’t quite as large as I’d hoped. I would have to sleep with my head on one step and the rest of my body on another step.
It was May, so the weather was warm enough that I didn’t need my biker jacket. I took it off and made a pillow from it, which was bulky and full of metal studs and zipper parts. It didn’t occur to me to turn it inside out. So I put the leather under my head and repeatedly got my hair caught in the zipper. I kept trying to find a space on the leather, failing, and getting poked with metal pieces.
Also I couldn’t stop thinking that in a few hours, someone was going to open the back door and I would be kicked in the head. So I wasn’t really drifting off comfortably.
I was, rather, trying to pass out in a place that made passing out very challenging.
I was lying there, prodded by metal and clenching my eyes shut tight, trying not to think about being kicked in the head in the morning, when I saw the light.
I mean literally, I was bathed in a very bright light. Was I dead? Dying? What was that? I tried to open my eyes but couldn’t; it was blinding. It was so bright I thought it could be sunshine. Was it morning already?
Then the light went away. I opened my eyes. The light reappeared, blinding me. I heard a voice.
“What are you doing?” said a man. A big, hovering man whose shadow stood behind the light.
“I’m trying to sleep,” I said. I thought this was perfectly clear.
“You can’t sleep here, Miss,” he said.
I sat up a little and looked at the shadow. It was becoming clearer: this wasn’t just a man. This was a policeman.
“But I live here,” I said. “And I can’t get in.”
“Don’t you have a key?”
I considered this. “No,” I said. “The door’s just always open.” I had no idea if Larry had a key to the hotel. I only knew he always unlocked the room.
“You still can’t sleep here,” said the policeman.
“But I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I said. “I threw rocks at the window and tried to wake up my boyfriend but he’s not waking up.”
“Please don’t throw any more rocks,” he said. Even in the dark, I could tell from his tone that he was rolling his eyes.
“I’m not throwing them anymore!” I said. Did he not understand I was just trying to sleep? I had given up on the rocks forever ago!
“Good,” he said. “You’re going to need to find somewhere else to go tonight. You can’t sleep here.”
“Okay,” I said, struggling to get up. It wasn’t that comfortable anyway. The policeman waited until I started walking away. Then he got back into his police car, which he’d been casually driving down the alley just looking for misfits like me.
Either that, or someone had complained about the idiot throwing rocks.
I walked several blocks, found some grass – probably someone’s backyard – and passed out there – no jacket pillow, no cement. In the morning, or possibly at noon, I found my way back to the Pitcairn Hotel where the front door was wide open, and our room was unlocked.
It was on one of those relatively normal drinking days when I wandered off on my own. Since he had a job and was working to keep the beer constantly flowing, Larry had left me at the bar and gone to bed.
Sitting there in the dark, singing along to the jukebox in my head, ignoring the handful of old men laughing at their table, I realized: I don’t have to stay here. Barry’s Bar was closing soon, Larry was gone, and I could do whatever I wanted.
So I used the restroom, finished my beer, put on my leather jacket and walked outside.
I wandered up the street, staring at its emptiness, absorbing the quiet. I listened to my boots clomp like horse’s hooves on the ground. I noticed the lights of the gas station – the only brightness I could see – and guessed that the person inside might be the only other person in the world who was awake but not at Barry’s Bar.
I walked up into the neighborhoods of Pitcairn, staring at the dark houses, wondering who lived there, wondering when they were getting up, wondering what reason they had for going to bed so early. I imagined living in Pitcairn forever, decided I’d rather be a gypsy. I walked and walked – and eventually decided to go “home” to the Pitcairn Hotel.
I walked and walked and eventually got back. I tried to go in the hotel’s front door but it was closed – and locked. Until that moment, I didn’t even know the hotel had a front door. We always just strolled up the front steps and into the dark hallway.
But it was very, very late. There must be limits to the open door policy, I thought.
I walked around the building – which is harder than one might imagine. The buildings were squashed together in the front, so there was no space between them. I had to walk all the way around the block to get to the side of the building – at which point, I decided to throw rocks at our window.
I picked up rocks. I stared at the side of the building. There were half a dozen tiny windows, all identical.
Ours was somewhere in the middle.
If ever I had a need for a cell phone, this was the moment. Unfortunately they weren’t yet invented.
So I threw rocks at all of the “middle” windows. I played softball in my youth, and had a great arm. Or so I thought.
I was too wasted to hit any of them. Eventually I started throwing whole handfuls of gravel at the wall, which didn’t travel nearly as high. I started tossing bottle caps and smashed cans and things I couldn’t identify, trying to hit the right window. A couple of things hit glass, but not many – and no one appeared to let me into the hotel.
I hoped the noise of rocks on bricks would wake Larry, but it did not.
The back door faced the alley, which was well traveled for an alley and large enough that cars could drive through the potholes and avoid the town’s one red light. My last ditch effort was a walk through the alley to the back door, which was always locked.
The door was just a slab of wood with a handle – how hard could it be to get in? I jiggled the handle and kicked at the door with my boots. Again, I hoped the noise would wake someone – to no avail.
Eventually I realized I would just have to sleep right there on the stoop, in the alley.
My days had no purpose after college. While many people went on to find careers, create families and build lives for themselves, I started my adult life with no ambition, no aspirations and no passions.
I wanted to rebel but no longer knew against what I was rebelling.
Even Larry was working.
I would wake up knowing: I am worthless. I hurt everyone I love. I have no purpose.
Then I’d light a cigarette, alone, in that dark bed in the Pitcairn Hotel and try not to think about it.
My solution was to drink as quickly and as much as possible.
I’d walk out of my dark apartment building and become instantly blinded by the light outside. I never knew what time it was, but the sun was always shining too brightly. I’d walk the 20 yards to Barry’s bar and step inside where I felt more comfortable in the dark.
Without my asking, Barry would get me a Miller Light. That’s what Larry always wanted, so that’s what I always got.
I’d crack the can carefully, so as not to spill any, and tilt the glass toward the can so I wouldn’t get too much foam. It was important to preserve every drop of the golden liquid, especially the first one.
My first sip tasted like the inside of someone’s shoe. I aimed for the back of my throat, trying to spare my taste buds, holding my breath as I gulped down as much as I could.
Within seconds, that familiar feeling returned: a tiny buzzing right in the front of my brain. An overwhelming calm. This feeling, this first-sip feeling, was the feeling I constantly craved.
For a few glorious seconds, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged in the world, like everything was okay, like my life was complete and whole and beautiful. I felt … normal.
This was not a feeling I ever had sober.
To keep the feeling going, I’d take another sip. Already the taste wasn’t as bad. Already it made sense to me, why I was doing this.
The second sip wasn’t quite as powerful though, and the buzzing in my head didn’t stay pleasant. I’d down the whole beer as fast as I could, and the calm vanished.
So I’d down another. And another.
At three beers, I became happy. I felt content and excited and brave. I felt smart and beautiful and strong. At three beers, the world was miraculous, and I fit right in.
I had it down to an art. At three beers, I was perfect.
But after three beers, I couldn’t stop. I wanted that feeling to continue, so I tried to drink in measured amounts, willing it to stay. But halfway through the fourth beer, it was already too late.
At beer four, everything vanished: the calm, the contentedness, the elated enthusiasm for life. The buzz became a sloshing. The peace became confusion. The enthusiasm became desperation.
I wanted the good feelings back, and I knew I’d gotten them from drinking, so I drank more.
Every beer was part of a search. Every beer, every day, all day long. I woke up trying to ignore my worthlessness. And I felt consistently more empty as I drank, trying to feel complete.
I’d reach outside of myself after three beers: music, men, cocaine, schnapps, sex – anything my imagination (limited by booze) would conjure. I just wanted to feel good all the time.
Eventually, I would just pass out. And the cycle would start again the next day.
After staying out extremely late the night before, getting out of bed for graduation was tough. I had to get dressed and put on my gown and get to the ceremony in time for the grand walk with my class – none of which felt like it was real.
When we lined up in alphabetical order, The One was almost directly in front of me. Everyone was hugging everyone else, so I hugged him and got into my place in line. I stood in line, hungover and fatigued, for what seemed like six hours. Then we all walked. Like cattle.
I remember absolutely nothing about the ceremony. I remember trying to keep my eyes open while my head was spinning and begging for sleep. I remember being afraid I’d fall over before I got to my diploma. I don’t remember walking across any stage, or listening to any inspirational speakers, although I’m sure when I was 21, everyone who spoke was inspirational.
After the ceremony, I found my parents. In spite of everything, and because of everything, they’d come to support me on my big day. They were dressed beautifully – Dad in a great suit, Mom in a dress – and smiled broadly as I approached.
Wearing a tan sport coat he’d picked up at Goodwill just for this occasion, Larry stepped out in front of my parents, arms outstretched and squatting halfway to greet me, that big grin on his face as always.
“There’s my girl!” he said, lifting me up and half-spinning and kissing me. “You’re a college graduate!”
I’m not sure Larry had ever known a college graduate before.
When he put me down, I was finally able to say hello to my parents – the ones who had paid for my education, who hadn’t seen me in months, who should have been congratulated themselves for the four years of angst, turmoil and financial distress.
“Congratulations!” said my mom, hugging me and patting me on the back. My dad repeated the sentiment and hug. At that moment, I loved them with all my heart, had no idea why I’d ever left, and just wanted to crawl back into my bed and stay with them forever.
What else did I have to do?
We were there for only a minute when Debbie, my best friend from freshman year, appeared out of the gown-clad crowd and hugged me. We hadn’t spent much time together since Bonnie had arrived at Mount Union, but seeing her …
The memories flooded back: meeting her on a sidewalk the day we tested for scholarships; finding her living in the room next door; playing games during orientation week; track house parties where we danced for hours; all-nighters in the King Hall lobby where we laughed so hard my stomach ached and my face hurt and we didn’t get any studying done at all.
Debbie and I hugged for a long, long time. We’d always said we would live next door to one another and raise our children together. We both knew we were headed separate ways. We knew it would be our last moment at college, and we both cried. And hugged. And cried. And cried.
When I let her go, I felt like I was letting go of my youth. But I did, eventually, let her go.
“Would you like to get some lunch?” my mom asked me – and, presumably, Larry.
“Sure,” I said, wiping my eyes and trying to focus on the future.
Other than lunch, I could see no future ahead of me at all.
The last party of the year meant more to me than graduation day. It was the end of an era, the end of my youth and, as far as I could tell, the end of my life. I wanted to make the most of it.
I think it was a Phi Tau party, but I cannot be sure. I only know that I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.
Bonnie – who wasn’t graduating since she was two full years younger than me – had gone home. Her boyfriend, Tony, had not.
So when Tony invited me to smoke a joint with him, I followed him into his room. I was still in my “I-don’t-smoke-pot” holier-than-thou phase, so I wandered around his room while he smoked a joint. He let me pick the music – some fabulous new wave stuff – and as much as I wanted to get back to the party, I was having too much fun with Tony. We were having a wonderful chat when, quite suddenly, Tony pulled me onto his lap and started kissing me.
Tony was a very, very good kisser.
I immediately forgot about Bonnie and continued kissing Tony until he got up and locked the door – and then I continued kissing Tony until we’d gone way beyond kissing and I still never even considered stopping. Tony and I never discussed Bonnie, and eventually I just wandered back to the party to continue having my end-of-college fun.
Of course I kept drinking the whole time.
I wandered around the frat house with my red cup, reminiscing about all the times I’d wandered around frat houses with red cups. I pushed through the people without talking or making eye contact, like a fly on the wall of my own experience. I watched people drinking and laughing and yelling over the music; I noticed the stickiness of the floor under my feet, the empty cups strewn about and placed on tables with cigarette butts in them. I felt the BOOM BOOM BOOM of the bass thumping and heard shrieks coming from someone laughing on the stairs and I saw the smiles on the faces all around me and I thought, This is how life should always be.
I couldn’t bear the thought that college was ending; I wanted it to last forever.
I started talking to Tom in a corner. One of my regular friends with benefits, Tom asked if I wanted to go for a ride, and I did. Cans of beer rolled around – miraculously chilled – on the floor of his van, and we cracked them open as we rode.
It felt like flying over the plains of Ohio. The weather was gorgeous, the windows were open, the night sky was ours.
Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Tom stopped the van and we became very adventurous in the front seat. We may as well have been lovers at the end of a long relationship; with college ending, we were ending, and we kissed extra long knowing this.
Then we drove home, quieter and softer somehow. It was getting late.
As we hopped out of the van, amidst the insanity of the still-rocking party, I saw someone I really didn’t want to see. The fact that Larry was in town for my graduation hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“There you are!” Larry said, catching me at the door. Tom had disappeared. Larry smiled and kissed me, completely oblivious to the details of my night.
My English minor required a class I desperately did not want to take: Shakespeare.
I’d like to say that, thanks to the iambic pentameter, grand metaphors and the deep significance of Shakespearean drama, comedy, and poetry, I learned to appreciate Shakespeare in spite of my incessant drinking. I’d like to say I fell in love with his clever wit long before I reached my forties.
But I did not.
I was a full-blown using alcoholic with a passion for cocaine. Shakespeare was just another long-dead guy who should have been able to use modern American English.
So I went to the class sometimes, and sometimes I did not go. Sometimes I made it to class but slept through the entire hour. I didn’t know what was going on; I didn’t even read the cliff notes versions of the works we were studying.
It was spring semester of my senior year. I didn’t care if I did the work or not. I just wanted to graduate.
My grades reflected my attitude. Every now and then, Dr. Chapman would pull me aside and say “blah-blah-blah,” and then I would do a little something. Sometimes.
He consistently reminded me: “You’ll need to pass the final exam or you’re not going to pass the class.”
We both knew that failing meant I wouldn’t graduate in May, so I did the bare minimum.
And then I didn’t even do that.
The night before my Shakespeare final, I pulled out everything we were supposed to read and I started reading. I hadn’t read anything, so I had a lot of catching up to do.
I started to read poetry, because it was shorter. But I didn’t understand Shakespearean poetry. I sure didn’t understand the plays. Still, somehow, I thought I could catch up real quick.
After “studying” for two hours, I quit. I figured I’d pass if I read the study guide a couple of times … while I was hanging out with Bonnie, who was also “studying.”
So I took some papers into Bonnie’s room, leaving my books behind, and Bonnie and I started “studying” together. Then we went to The Hood and drank until the bar closed.
Apparently I passed out at my desk with my face on my books because that’s how I woke up, parched as usual, head throbbing. My eyes barely open, I lit a cigarette and glanced at the clock.
My Shakespeare exam was over.
I’d slept through it. And I slept three additional hours, too.
I was not going to graduate from college.
What could I do?
I raced around asking people what to do. Someone said: “Call Dr. Chapman.”
So I did. I rambled on about some completely fabricated emergency that had caused me to miss the exam and how I was sure I was going to do well if only I’d had the chance to take it ….
I actually expected my professor to tell me I didn’t need to take the exam; I wanted so badly to get away with my blunder.
With barely a word of response, Dr. Chapman said, “You can take a make-up exam in two hours. I assume you can be here for that.”
He hung up.
His kindness was the only thing allowing me an opportunity to graduate.
Two hours later, head still pounding, I plowed through the make-up exam. I did not do well. But I somehow escaped the consequences of my own stupidity and drunkenness. Again.
I got a D- in the class, my lowest collegiate grade, and secured a minor in English, too.
Soaking up the last that college had to offer me, I went to every frat party at every fraternity, just like I’d done freshman year. I saw all the same people – those who’d abused me, those who’d ignored me, and those who’d partied and danced with me and brought me great joy for four years. While I remember very little about academics, frat parties shine in my memories.
At one particular party, I filled up my red cup and stepped outside, through a window, onto a balcony. (I wish I could remember which frat house had a step-able balcony, but I cannot.) I was thrilled to get away from the hubbub and spend a moment alone in the warm night air.
Mere moments later, The One stepped onto the balcony, too.
He once loved you, I thought. I forgot everything else. Seeing him there, my hopes soared. Could it be that He was still in love with me? Did He want to get together after graduation? Or would we just spend one more night together, talking and laughing like old times?
Being in such close proximity to Him made me nervous, but I was drinking. So I coolly mentioned the stars, pointing out the constellations that He’d taught me during our nights together, kissing, splashing in the lake, staring at the skies.
“I see the Honeybee Cluster,” I said, pointing at the sky. He laughed aloud. (There’s a chance that the Honeybee Cluster isn’t a publicly recognized constellation.)
The One and I chatted as though no time had passed, as though we’d just taken a few weeks apart. In reality it had been two and a half years since our night in the lake. Two years of me obsessing over every move He made, two years of me pining for my Prince, two years of me believing with every fiber of my being that He and I were Meant To Be.
And our conversation proved it all worthwhile. It was like we’d stepped back in time and finally, finally, we were conversing easily and comfortably, together again.
Then there was a rustle behind us – someone else coming out onto the balcony and breaking The Spell.
I turned to see someone climbing through the window, chains smacking on the sill, beer splashing on his boots as he landed on the balcony.
“There ya are, Baby!” Larry gushed.
I almost cried.
One second ago, my life had been perfect again. My future was clear again. My dreams were coming true again. And though I’d forgotten Larry’d ever existed, Mr. Right Now appeared and ruined The Dream.
“How’s it goin’, Man?” Larry asked, genuinely unconcerned. He smiled at The One, all those crooked teeth showing, humiliating me. I wanted to scream Go AWAY! but I couldn’t speak.
The One was a full four inches taller than Larry. He was younger, stronger, smarter, more beautiful and cooler in every way. The One made Larry look like a sick rooster.
But Larry’s appearance zapped the life out of The One. He was no longer looking at stars or having a conversation with me; suddenly The One was a deer caught in headlights.
The love of my life mumbled a greeting and a goodbye in one breath, and high-tailed it off that balcony just as fast as he could get through the window. In his extreme haste, I’m surprised he didn’t just jump over the ledge to the ground below.
Dazed and heartbroken, I crawled inside and went to get another beer. My cup had been empty for awhile and I hadn’t even noticed.
After her tryst – or platonic moment – with The One, Bonnie and I faltered. I wanted to believe what she’d said to me, that He’d loved me, but I had been with Bonnie on countless escapades when we’d picked up guys and gone back together to their rooms, homes or hotels.
I couldn’t really trust that she hadn’t slept with The Love of My Life, particularly since I’d once slept with the love of her life. If I’d done that to her, why wouldn’t she do that to me?
But what bothered me most was her willingness to walk out the door with Him, leaving The Hood while I watched the two of them go. She’d known me for two years, known that I watched Him constantly to see what He was doing, who was making Him laugh, when He was leaving – and with whom He left. So she knew I watched her go, with Him, and she didn’t care.
Worse yet, Bonnie had the audacity to confront me with the truth.
“How could you do that to me?” I wailed, even after we’d both thought the incident was behind us.
“I didn’t do it to you,” she said. “I did it for you. I wanted to know what made him tick.”
“But you know I love Him more than anyone else in the whole world!” I cried. “What were you thinking?”
Bonnie took only a small beat before answering. “I was thinking you had Larry,” she said. “And it didn’t matter who I fuckin’ went home with at Mount Union. Since you moved in with Larry, we haven’t exactly been doing everything together. When you’re with Larry, you’re not with me or anybody else.”
I’d been living with Larry for nearly a year and this was the first time Bonnie had mentioned that, along the way, I’d kind of deserted her.
I considered this thought.
First and foremost, while Larry was technically my boyfriend, he wasn’t someone who interested me, someone to whom I felt loyal, or someone who was going to grow old with me. He was already old, for one thing. For another, my interests were in men my own age, preferably ones with brains, and I rarely considered that I was “cheating on” Larry when I was just doing the same things I’d always done.
Larry was my protector, my rock star, my lifeline. He was the person who took care of me when my parents stopped. I didn’t once consider that I might want to take care of myself. I didn’t know how – and I didn’t want to expend the effort it would take to care for myself.
So the fact that I had ditched my best friend to be with a man had never occurred to me. I didn’t decide to be with a man; I decided to get away from my parents.
And Bonnie was still my best friend.
“But I would rather be with you,” I said. “I would always rather be with you!”
Eventually we were both crying and hugging and declaring our undying love for one another. And eventually we drove the truck through the drive-thru for beer, and started drinking again.
Soon after, Bonnie attached herself to a guy named Tony – a nerdy freshman with a penchant for pot – and she only wanted to be with him. I didn’t understand the attraction, and I found myself not only jealous, but dissed – even when Tony, Bonnie, Larry and I went out together.
That’s when I finally understood what she was saying. I’d traded in my best friend for a guy.
