My dad and I drove as far as we could go and stopped at a roadside motel. He went into the room while I stayed outside to smoke.
It was the first day in forever that I’d had no alcohol. I didn’t know that going without it would affect my mood. I didn’t even know there was an invisible line, let alone that I’d crossed it.
I didn’t know that the person I’d become was not the person I’d always been.
My dad didn’t know either. He stepped outside, ready for bed. It had been a very long day for him. He’d flown to Florida, rented a U-Haul, found his wayward daughter at a gas station, packed up her stuff, driven hours and hours, and buried a couple of hamsters along the way.
“Do you think you’ll be coming inside anytime soon?” he asked. “I’d like to get some sleep.”
I snapped snarkily: “How am I supposed to know when I’m coming inside? I can’t tell you when that’s going to happen!”
“Well it’s been a long day and ….”
“I know it’s been a long day!” I interrupted. “My hamsters are dead! I left Larry! And I’ve been sleeping all day so I’m not exactly sure that I can just lay down on a bed and go to sleep right now!”
My dad stepped back, stunned. “It would just be easier for me if ….”
There wasn’t an ounce of empathy in my body. “Easier for you?! I’m the one whose whole life is over! I’m the one who has to go back to living with my fucking parents because I have nowhere else to go!”
My dad finally reacted to my pushing. “Are you serious? I did this for you! I could have stayed in bed instead of flying to Florida, but you needed our help and ….”
I cut him off again, yelling now: “Maybe it would be easier for you if I didn’t come home with you at all! How ’bout if I fucking live right here! Would that be easier for you?! Maybe I’ll just live right fucking HERE!” I was spitting acid.
“I just wanted to …” he tried.
“Fuck you!” I screamed. “Fuck you and whatever you want! I’ll find a place to live right here! I don’t need your fucking help!”
I stomped across the parking lot, heading for the highway, heading into darkness again.
My dad – who had a good eight inches and 50 pounds on me – walked quickly and caught me. He grabbed me around the waist, nearly tackling me before I could start hitchhiking.
I refused to break. I was going to be free, dammit; I was independent! I punched at his face behind my head and when he grabbed my arms to keep me from punching, I started flailing in the air, kicking him in the shins, nearly knocking his feet out from under him while he constrained me, completely off the ground.
“Let me go!” I screamed as I kicked. “Let me fucking gooooo!”
He held me until I stopped kicking, until I stopped screaming, until I wore myself out and collapsed on the ground in front of him.
My dad stood over me for a minute, waiting to be sure I was done running, fighting, kicking, screaming, at least for the moment.
Finally he said, “I’ll leave the door unlocked. “Come in when you’re ready.” Then he walked back into the room to sleep.
Half an hour later I walked in, too, and cried myself to sleep.
I left Florida. Goodbye, Larry, Dave and Ed! I never called my boss; I just never went back to work at the window company.
I wish I could say that, after leaving Larry’s house, I thanked my dad profusely for rescuing me from my self-imposed hell. I’d like to say that I hopped into that U-Haul, asked my dad about his trip, recognized him for the hero that he’d always been, and helped him navigate our long trip back to Pittsburgh. But that’s not what happened.
I got into the truck, plopped the hamster cage onto the floor beside my feet, and promptly fell asleep.
Previously I’d been awake for at least a day and a half, so I needed some rest. I slept until we stopped somewhere in Georgia.
The U-Haul needed gas and my dad needed lunch, so he parked the truck behind a restaurant. I moaned about not wanting to wake up, but I needed a restroom anyway. So I opened my door to get out of the truck, accidentally kicking the hamster cage.
Oh right, the rats.
I was glad that the hamsters required less attention than they had on the motorcycle, but it was still hot. I picked up the hamster cage and put it on my lap, and encouraged them to awake.
“C’mon, guys,” I said. “Wake up; let’s get some water!”
Chippy, who always sniffed the air with his eyes closed, did not sniff the air. And Dozer, who always rustled about under his bedding, did not rustle about.
“C’mon, guys!” I implored. “Wake up!”
I opened the cage door and touched Chippy, who remained motionless. Doubting my own eyes, I poked at Dozer, too. Neither one of them moved.
Or breathed.
My dad was standing outside the truck when he heard me wail; he raced to my side.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think they’re dead!” I sobbed. “They’re both dead! I don’t know what happened! They can’t both be dead!”
My dad looked in the cage, saw their little lifeless bodies, and confirmed that they were, indeed, both dead.
My sobbing came in huge heaves, my throat screaming in agony as I cried. My dad took the cage from me and placed it on the ground so he could hold me as I howled in anguish.
I hadn’t thought about the heat on the floor of the U-Haul. After all the care I’d taken when they rode on the motorcycle, I took no care at all to comfort them or save them from the elements during this trip. I thought they’d be fine with me watching.
But I’d slept through their suffering, their intense need for help. I’d slept through their deaths.
I knew instinctively that I’d killed them because I’d been selfish and stupid and reckless. I knew that I’d killed them. And that fact made their deaths absolutely unbearable.
My dad – who had still gotten no respect for his heroic part in this adventure – let me cry until the wailing turned into quiet sobs. He repeated “I’m sorry” and patted my back and did everything right.
“We have to bury them,” I said. We found a metal rod near the dumpsters that worked well enough for digging. And my dad silently dug.
I placed their tiny lifeless bodies in the tiny lifeless hole, tears pouring down my cheeks. My dad covered their bodies with dirt while I tossed their cage and all of their supplies in the dumpster, knowing I would never get hamsters again.
I couldn’t even take care of myself.
My dad wasted no time driving the U-Haul to Larry’s house to get my stuff. I knocked on the door, Daddy by my side.
A smiling, shirtless Larry flung open the door, cigarette in one hand, and started to say, “I knew you’d be back!” But he trailed off and stopped smiling when he saw my dad. Dad was not smiling.
“What’s going on,” he said flatly, nodding in my dad’s direction and holding the door open for us.
“I just need my stuff,” I said, ducking past Larry and heading into the bedroom. I started shoving my clothes into the boxes from whence they’d come, some into the duffel that had been strapped onto Larry’s motorcycle only a couple of months before. I should have known I was in trouble when I got choked up packing my filthy black Harley-Davidson t-shirts.
But I squashed my tears and shoved my crap into bags and boxes. I handed all the boxes to my dad, grabbed as many packs of cigarettes as I could find and, finally, headed for the hamsters.
Larry watched me in disbelief. While my dad was outside he asked, “Are you sure you wanna do this?”
“I’m totally fuckin’ sure,” I said, spitting the words at him. Suddenly I was furious with Larry for forcing me to live in this hellhole, this beastly hot place with no air conditioning and no guitars.
Suddenly everything was Larry’s fault.
I fumed silently, shoving hamster food into torn plastic grocery bags. When Larry tried to pull me toward him, I pushed him away with my head, shrugged him off.
I would not be held.
This was the only time I ever realized that real Dad was better than fake Dad, although I still didn’t understand the Freudian aspect of what I’d been doing. I left Larry in Florida almost exactly a year after I’d found him, and I tried hard to burn that bridge before I left.
From a young age, I’d believed that being angry would protect me from my angst about loss. I weaponized my anger against my sadness and took it out on anyone associated with me. Every time I learned we were planning to move, I started to hate the place we were leaving. I thought anger turned me into something more stoic than the lost child I ignored. When I moved away from places I loved – schools, homes, even vacations – becoming angry kept me from crying. I thought anger would make leaving less painful.
In actuality, I ignored pain completely. Along with everything else, alcohol robbed me of any distinct feelings. My pain disappeared along with my love, my hate, my fear, my joy, my excitement, my mind. In the process of trying to destroy my pain, I destroyed every feeling I’d ever had.
At the age of 21, I was already dead inside.
My dad took the last of the boxes to the U-Haul and started the engine, cooling the cab while he waited for me to say goodbye. He didn’t need to say anything to Larry.
I grabbed the half-bag of wood shavings, then picked up the hamster cage – waking up both furry critters, their noses crinkling at the sky, confused, their eyes still closed. They were adorably ignorant.
Larry gently grabbed my arm, shaking the cage. “What can I do to make you stay?”
“Not a fucking thing,” I said, yanking my arm from his grip.
He let go without a fight and watched me walk out the door without another word.
My dad – who had been awakened in the middle of the night by a panicked drunken daughter screaming and crying into the phone – threw some stuff into a bag and hopped on a plane to Florida.
I assume my dad claimed a “family emergency” in order to temporarily ditch his prestigious job at Carnegie Mellon. Then, I assume, he spent a ton of time on the phone calling airlines to get a fast flight. Then my mom – who was likely shaking from fear the entire time – probably drove my dad to the airport so he wouldn’t have to pay for parking, then drove herself home dazed by the terrifying thought that her daughter was standing on the side of a road somewhere, waiting.
I assume all of this because I wasn’t there. I was the drunken daughter; I didn’t do any of the heavy lifting.
I sat on the curb by the pay phone smoking cigarettes and waiting for hours and hours and hours. I didn’t have anywhere to go, anything to do, or any money to spend. Unsurprisingly, no one invited me to party. I looked like I’d been dragged out of bed and trampled by a horse.
It was pitch black for a long time, yet I sat in the parking lot wearing my pitch-black shades. Then the sky lightened, and lights started turning off in the nearby neighborhood. Then people started appearing at the gas station, heading to wherever they might be going on that sunny summer day.
I sat on a curb; I sprawled in a patch of grass. As the alcohol metabolized and my appetite started to return amidst my usual morning nausea, I bought two liters of Diet Coke, a Fifth Avenue candy bar and another pack of cigarettes. Then my money was gone.
I started shaking – my normal after-effects of extreme alcohol consumption combined with cool morning air – and worrying that I’d be living at the gas station forever. I called my mom to make sure that I’d be rescued.
“Daddy’s coming to get you,” she said. She sounded calm, reassuring, not as though she were dying inside. Everything seemed fine.
So I waited. The day got warmer.
Meanwhile my dad boarded his flight, tried to get an hour of sleep on the plane, and landed in Tampa. Then, thinking ahead and knowing that changing residences requires more than a phone call to one’s parents, my dad rented a U-Haul, pulled out a map, and drove that U-Haul to find me at that gas station.
I had no idea when I saw the U-Haul that my dad was driving it. He parked in front of me, climbed out and walked around to where I was still collapsed on the ground.
I stood up, a complete mess. My dad opened his arms and I walked in. He hugged me and I cried; he hugged me harder and I cried harder.
It’s hard to feel safe when you’re self-destructive. The destruction takes on a life of its own. The cigarettes, the alcohol, the drugs, the sex, the motorcycles … it just masks the desperate need to feel okay, to feel a sense of belonging, to feel safe in a world that’s always so disappointing.
I felt free with Larry, but I never for a moment felt safe, even when Larry was beating the crap out of someone in my honor, even when I was brawling in a bar, even when I thought I was so unbreakably tough.
But I felt safe at that gas station in Daddy’s arms, knowing I was finally going home.
I walked out of the bar and into the night without a single thought as to where I would go or what I would do. I didn’t even know if I’d remember, when the sun came up, why I walked out.
But I knew that I wasn’t happy with Larry or Florida. I believed that the secret to my happiness was to find the right person and the right place to literally make me happy.
Since this situation wasn’t going to do it, I just wanted out.
It was the middle of the night and I was wandering completely lost with only the clothes on my back, the now painful boots on my feet, and a few dollars in my pocket. I didn’t want to go back to Larry’s house, and I had absolutely no attachment to the state in which I lived.
I continued to walk until I ended up at a gas station that was open. Compared to the dark neighborhoods through which I’d come, the gas station was so glaringly bright that I put on my pitch-black biker shades as I approached.
This was me, incognito.
The walk sobered me enough to realize that I would need to find somewhere to sleep eventually, but I had no idea where I would go. I thought about sleeping on the beach, but I didn’t know how to find one. I considered finding a guy to take me home, but picking up a guy at a gas station is what got me into this mess.
When I briefly considered Disney World, and knew immediately that it was not a solution, I realized I needed to get out of Florida. But how? Maybe I could hitch a ride on a tractor trailer – although I didn’t see one anywhere, and the gas station was virtually deserted. It was, after all, the middle of the night.
I thought about what I really, really wanted – and I realized that what I wanted, for the first time in a very long time, was not cocaine or beer or a man.
What I wanted was to crawl into a big bed and sleep somewhere warm, comfortable and safe. And I only knew one place like that.
I picked up the pay phone in the gas station parking lot and called my parents, collect.
“Hello?” said the most familiar voice in the world.
“Mum?”
“Kirsten?”
“Mum I’ve gotta get out of here!”
She’d been asleep but was wide awake now. “Out of where? What do you mean? Where are you?”
“I’ve got to get out of here! I can’t be here anymore!”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at a gas station,” I said, trying to discern more exactly where I was. “I’m still in Florida!”
“Hold on,” she said. I could hear her whispering something to my dad who was, in all likelihood, also wide awake now.
For emphasis I wailed, “I can’t live here anymore!” But I’m not sure anyone was listening. There was a lot of rustling about on the other end of the phone.
I lit another cigarette, checked for coins in the change dispenser. Nothing.
Finally my mom came back on the line. “Where exactly are you?”
“At a gas station,” I repeated.
“Can you get me the address of the gas station?”
I looked around. “I guess,” I said. “Hold on.” I went inside and asked someone to write down the address, then I went back to the phone, hanging there, and read the address to my mom.
“Stay there,” my mom said. “We’ll come and get you.”
It was just like every other day when it happened.
Larry had started working again; the money was flowing in. We’d go out drinking until 3 a.m., then get up and go to work again. Every day was the same, and weekends gave us a little time to sleep.
It was just another night in another bar, like every other night.
Like always, Larry was watching the band and I was staring around the room. As always, I compared the way everyone looked to the way I felt.
Everyone looked old and drunk, dancing and singing and acting ridiculously immature for their very advanced ages. At 21, I felt bone-crushingly lonely and out of place, like a bright red tulip in a field of weeds. It didn’t matter that I was in no way a bright red tulip. I thought I belonged in a better place.
I was watching some old women (at least 30) cackle in a corner; one of them kept putting her arm around some guy who obviously didn’t want her hanging on him.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I said to Larry when the band was on break. “I can’t be here anymore.”
“Whattaya mean?” he asked. “You wanna go to a different bar?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t live here anymore. I can’t be here anymore.”
“I’ll get you another beer,” he said, knowing from experience that I easily might forget all of this in ten minutes. “Wait here.”
I can’t wait here, I thought. I don’t want to wait. I can’t be here.
Larry went to the bar, ordered us another round, and then talked to someone in the band. He was jovial and upbeat. I was sitting stone-still in my chair, staring emptily forward, dazed by my internal conflict.
I believed I might spontaneously combust.
Larry set my beer in front of me, took a long swig of his beer, then stubbed out his cigarette. Smiling, he said, “I’ll be right back, Baby!”
Then he climbed onto the stage and strapped on a guitar. Before I had a chance to say anything to him, Larry was starting to sing:
“If you had not fallen, I would not have found you, angel flying too close to the ground….“
Obviously Larry did not understand my angst. He thought this had something to do with him, that he could pacify me with a song, remind me that he loved me, that he’d protect me, and I’d be happy again.
But this had nothing to do with Larry.
It had to do with … everything.
I can’t be here anymore. This is all wrong.
Everything had been wrong for a very long time, but I was only seeing it now. I just wanted out.
I can’t be here.
“Love’s the greatest healer to be found….” Larry sang, smiling in my direction. But he’d become just a distant figure on a stage in the abstract world that was suddenly my life.
I can’t be here. This can’t be my life.
My head felt like it was going to explode.
“I’d rather see you up than see you down…” Larry sang. He didn’t understand me at all.
I. Can’t. Be. Here. Anymore.
“So leave me if you need to…” sang Larry. And that’s when it hit me.
I need to leave you, I thought. I need to leave right fucking now.
And with Larry still on stage smiling, playing his guitar, I got up and walked out of the bar.
And I kept walking in the dark for a long, long time.
After my bar fight in Tampa, I was not allowed to go across the bridge and play pool until 3 a.m. anymore.
“We gotta wait for them to forget who we are,” Larry said. He figured this would take a month or so.
Meanwhile, I had realized that I was pissed off most of the time, underneath my fun-loving exterior. I kept myself busy with smoking, drinking and sex, but whenever I stopped doing stuff, my default mode became anger.
While I was waiting to be allowed back into my favorite bar, we needed to find a new bar in Tampa. That extra hour of drinking was paramount, so we found a place that stayed open until 3:00 and had a live band, even though the band stopped playing at midnight and the bar was the size of a shoebox.
Sometimes Larry would wander off to the bathroom and someone would whisper in my ear, “Wanna do a line?” And I’d sneak off to the ladies room with the guy, do a couple of lines, and then return to my seat.
I’m not sure how they knew I wanted cocaine. Did everyone want cocaine?
The other thing the new bar had was “regular” people – meaning, non-bikers. They were all old, like Larry, but not all clad in leather.
As I gazed around the room, I saw my parents just like my parents … and I would want so badly to get out of there, believing strongly in my independence. I was almost sorry the bar stayed open until 3:00.
But when we were home, it was worse. I was starting to realize that my time in Florida was being wasted. Ed had been a beautiful distraction, but now he was just … beautiful. I was no longer distracted.
Work was not enjoyable. “That’s why they call it work!” laughed Larry, entertaining himself. I was not amused.
I’d go off in the mornings to the dark office in the giant warehouse where I saw no one and talked to no one – except my mom, who had that toll-free number.
I would answer the phone a dozen times a day, write down messages on little pink pieces of paper, and then I would go home. I had no mental stimulation.
I would smoke one cigarette in the stifling heat at 10 a.m. and another at 2 p.m. My half-hour lunch (a bologna sandwich and generic sugar cookies) gave me enough time for three cigarettes.
Larry would drop me off and pick me up half a block away from work, to avoid the ground glass and nails in the industrial park. At home I’d change immediately into jeans and grab a beer, then plop myself down on the couch until after “dinner” (more bologna or leftover pizza). Then we’d maybe head to the bar.
We did not watch television. We did not talk about anything of any significance. We ate garbage. We drank 12-pack after 12-pack of Miller Lite. Larry did not sit around and sing, like he had in Pitcairn. He just sat and smoked and drank and talked about motorcycles.
I was bored. I was bored with my job, with Larry, with the heat, with Florida, with my life. I saw absolutely no future for myself and it was starting to sink in that something needed to change.
But I never said a word to Larry about my dissatisfaction. Instead I drank more, did shots of schnapps at the bar, did some coke when he wasn’t looking, and started looking diligently for someone else to save me.
In Tampa one night, before 3 a.m., I noticed a woman staring at me.
In fact she was kind of … glaring, as though I’d done something improper. I couldn’t figure it out, so I ignored her. Larry and I continued playing pool, gulping our beers between turns. I was quite enjoying myself; pool made bars extra fun.
Suddenly that glaring woman rammed into me. “Excuuuuuse me!” she squealed delightedly. Then she laughed and walked back to her side of the bar, and changed back to glaring mode.
After our game, Larry and I both plopped down on our bar stools and the woman started staring at Larry. I saw her wink at him, and blow a kiss.
I looked at Larry, who was smiling but looking down.
“Do you know her?” I asked Larry, confused now.
“Never fuckin’ seen her in my life,” he said. “She’s just tryin’ to pick a fight.”
“With who?” I asked, perplexed.
“With you!” Larry looked at her and she blew another kiss and winked again, then glared at me. She was like a badly drawn cartoon.
Then I heard her voice again: “I want the leader!” she squealed. “I want him!” And she pointed directly at Larry, who was apparently “the leader” – of what, I’m not sure.
Then she glared at me and mouthed the word “bitch.”
It occurred to me that I was wearing giant skull rings, bulky and solid metal, so they’d be great for punching someone. But I didn’t have any desire to hit that girl. She was ridiculous.
“Take the pool cue,” Larry whispered to me.
“Huh?”
“The pool cue,” he said. “Ya gotta surprise her. Hit her with the pool cue.”
So, as instructed, I picked up a pool cue and walked around the bar to where the girl was sitting. Since I didn’t want to fight, I imagined I’d knock her out with one swing.
She stood up when she saw me coming, still blowing kisses, then laughed, “look at the little bitch!” And as she turned her head to say it, I cracked her across the back of her skull with the heavy part of the pool cue.
It actually knocked her down. Both of us were surprised.
While she was on the ground, I realized that I was rather angry – although not necessarily angry at her.
But the mere act of swinging that pool queue released something in me that I hadn’t really noticed before. Underneath my drunk, quiet exterior was enough rage to blow up a building.
Before she struggled to her feet, I hit her with the stick again, then kicked her in the face with my boot. When she then pulled herself onto her knees, I punched her in the jaw with that brutal metal skull ring. She reached out to grab my hair and missed, and I punched her in the nose, which bled immediately.
She went back down to the ground quickly. Everything happened in slow motion.
I became vaguely aware that people around me were yelling. Another girl was frantically waving the pool cue in my direction. Some guy was pushing at Larry, who brushed him aside with one arm and pulled me off the girl.
“We gotta go,” Larry said, his voice low and slow.
I was still kicking.
“We gotta go,” he repeated, ultra-calmly.
“I’m not done with my beer!” I said.
“They called the cops,” Larry said. “We don’t want to be here when the cops get here.”
So without my beer, we went outside, hopped on the bike, and roared away.
Lest the world believe that I did nothing but drink after college, I had one other vice that was equally serious, and equally life-threatening. And since no one in Florida seemed to have any cocaine, at least not at my house, I kept my other addiction pumping full-force, 24/7: I smoked cigarettes.
And I smoked cigarettes constantly.
When I’d started smoking, I did it occasionally, usually while drinking, and I smoked Salems. This is what my boyfriend smoked so I thought that was what I should smoke.
Then I discovered Salem Lights. These seemed more in line with my femininity. Everything I was doing was “light” at the time. I ate “light” foods and drank “skim” milk and “Diet” Coke. So Salem Lights seemed to be just the thing.
And I always smoked menthol, because it was like peppermint candy.
Later I discovered Salem Light 100s, which were a little bit longer. For the same price, my cigarettes would last longer, so I smoked those.
Then one day, I arrived at the gas station to discover a display box near the cashier. There was a picture of a woman on the box, and the brand name was “Virginia Slims” which sounded like a very thin woman. I picked up a pack of Virginia Slims Menthol Light 100s and put Salems in the rearview mirror.
It took a minute to adjust to the new brand, but I felt cooler asking for cigarettes that were made specifically for me.
The day I discovered Virginia Slims 120s was truly providential. The 120s were ridiculously long – they looked nearly twice the size of a standard cigarette – and for me, that mattered.
The marketing for Virginia Slims 120s implied that smoking these meant I would be elegant and beautiful. The antithesis of the Marlboro man, who had a rugged demeanor and wore a cowboy hat, a Virginia Slims 120 smoker wore an elegant gown and flirted, head thrown back and laughing, with every millionaire at the proverbial dinner party.
For me, there was no gown, and I have never wanted to attend a dinner party.
I was all about quantity. My motto in life: If it’s good, more is better. What I wanted was a cigarette that was going to last a long, long time. And originally, I believed I would be holding that cigarette in my hand most of the time, just looking cool.
In reality, I smoked every centimeter of that cigarette, all the way down to the filter, every time.
Larry (who smoked Winstons and wouldn’t touch menthol) sometimes put his cigarette down. He’d set it carefully in an ashtray, still burning, so he could do something else, like make a sandwich. I saw other people put their cigarettes down once in awhile, too.
I didn’t understand this. I never, ever put my cigarette down unless it was a dire emergency – like, my beer tipped over or I fell off my bar stool. Otherwise the cigarette stayed in my hand and I sucked on it like a baby with a pacifier.
Before I ever got sober, I was smoking three packs of Virginia Slims 120s every single day. That’s 60 cigarettes a day, more than 400 cigarettes a week, well over 1,500 cigarettes a month. And I never, ever put my cigarette down. For years.
I believe my family’s prayers are the only reason I am still alive. Otherwise, it makes no sense at all.
Ed was a scruffy dreamboat from Pitcairn with long bleached-blond hair, sparkling green eyes, and a slow, deep voice.
One day, unbeknownst to Larry and me, Ed hopped on his Sportster and rode from Pitcairn to Florida. He appeared on Larry’s doorstep on a random Saturday afternoon.
“Hey Man!” Larry said, patting him on the back and inviting him in. “How ya’ doin’? Ya want a beer?”
“Yeah,” Ed drawled. His voice was even deeper than I remembered. “My fuckin’ ass is killing me, fuckin’ Sportster! I gotta get a bigger fuckin’ seat.”
I glanced quickly at Ed’s 25-year-old butt, wondering briefly if he needed a massage.
Larry laughed, nodded, lit a cigarette. “I guess my brother told you where we live!” It wasn’t a question.
Ed cracked his beer. “Yeah,” he said. “I hope it’s okay if I crash here for a few.”
“Of course!” Larry said. “Stay as long as you like!” With Joe gone, we had a whole couch available for Ed.
So Ed stayed.
When Larry and I went anywhere, we took Ed with us: me on the back of Larry’s bike, Ed on his Sportster. I ogled Ed as he rode, his shoulders almost always bare in spite of sunburn, his hands clad in fingerless leather. Ed would take off his helmet, shake his head like a wet dog, and emerge like a GQ model.
When he smiled, showing all his perfect white teeth, my stomach would flip; around Ed, I felt like a schoolgirl.
At the bars, Ed and I discussed music that wasn’t country. Ed would dump all his quarters into the jukebox to play Rough Boy on repeat. He’d play bad air guitar, his wild locks flying, then he’d run one giant hand through his hair, willing it back into place. I melted every time.
When we played pool, I’d casually rub against Ed as we moved around the table. When Ed’s hand slid down lower than it should on my back, I not only allowed his hands on my body, I craved them.
One day we all went out in Dave’s pickup, and Ed and I hunkered down in the back. We had to stay under a tarp to avoid being noticed by law enforcement. Ed and I were under there for an hour, our hands wandering all over each other, exploring what we couldn’t have. We started kissing under that tarp, my insides topsy-turvy, and kissed until the truck stopped moving. Then we hopped out and never mentioned it again.
Ed and I stayed up nights drinking while Larry slept, completely hands-off. But when Ed would pass out, I’d sit in my chair and stare at him sleeping – drinking my beers and drinking Ed in.
One morning, I was still staring at Ed when he woke up.
He saw me staring and stared back, hard. Could he see me trembling? Please, I begged telepathically, please, now.
Finally Ed nodded toward Dave’s room, sitting silently open and empty.
Obediently I left my chair and threw myself onto Dave’s bed. Ed followed me in, closed and locked the door in one motion, and never said a word.
I started to whisper something but Ed put his finger on my lips, then carefully, passionately kissed me. The anticipation, the reality of succumbing to this particular desire, made us wild with desperation. But we remained deathly silent. Whatever we consummated in that room had been coming for a very, very long time.
Afterward, satiated, we padded back to our original positions on the couch and chair.
Larry was asleep in the room next door.
