My dear friend Ronnie had followed us to Sturgis, appearing in his truck at the Buffalo Chip Campground to hang out and take pictures of all the festivities. He took all the pictures I have from Sturgis. Since I didn’t shower for seven full days, I have no idea if they were all taken in the same day or not.
For me, this meant that I had someone to talk to, and for Larry it meant I had someone to keep an eye on me whenever he wasn’t around.
But Ronnie didn’t care what I did, nor did he want to babysit. Ronnie was having the time of his life, surrounded by insanity and music. So I roamed around freely and did what I wanted to do, making sure to check in with Ronnie every few hours. We had a meeting place by the fence for those check-ins where we’d laugh and goof around like we were siblings. There was no “checking in.”
When Larry and Ronnie weren’t around, I became attached to a young biker named Jose from Azuza, California.
Partially I liked him because he came from Azuza, California. First, I believed that everyone from California was the epitome of cool, and wildly progressive. (This is not true.) Second, in the movie Mask, the Sam-Elliott-and-Cher biker movie that I loved, the main character says the word “Azuza” in a specific way that made me remember it distinctly.
So when Jose said he was from Azuza, I felt like I was somehow touching greatness. I begged him for a Harley t-shirt from Azuza which he provided, and I gave him one of mine from … somewhere else.
Jose started showing up at the fence when I was supposed to meet Ronnie. At the fence, far from the crowds, it was easy to make out without any concern that Larry might find us. Jose and I would make out like mad, stopping only to smoke and drink and breathe, then start up again.
Larry never did see us. At one point, I begged Ronnie to take a picture of Jose for me, so I could have it when I got home. We argued over whether or not this was a good idea – especially after the t-shirt exchange – but eventually Ronnie caved. I have almost no pictures of Larry, but I still have this.
I don’t think Jose ever took off his sunglasses. He did drive me around the campground on his bike, looking for clean port-o-johns, but we never found any. I don’t remember holding actual conversations with Jose; I only remember asking him about his hometown.
“It’s just like any other place,” he said. “My house is there.” I remember not understanding why he wasn’t overtly excited about this.
Jose didn’t understand my California dreams, based entirely on television and film stereotypes.
I couldn’t see the stage, so little Jose lifted me onto his shoulders. When he got tired, some other guy put me on his shoulders.
I remember music and sunshine and sleeping in dirt.
With as much alcohol as I consumed during those seven days, I’m surprised I remember anything at all. I saw some great concerts but I had to find out online that I saw Country Joe McDonald, Mitch Ryder and Canned Heat.
I only remember the crowds, music blaring into the sunshine, hordes of black t-shirts, and the blistering heat. I remember kissing Jose, laughing with Ronnie, seeing Mount Rushmore, and sleeping in the dirt.
Oh, and I remember the t-shirt debacle. Because I do tend to remember the worst things that happen.
While my Bike Week in Daytona was spent inside a single dark bar, Bike Week in Sturgis, South Dakota was the complete opposite. We were outside every moment of every day for an entire week.
We stayed at a place called the Buffalo Chip Campground. Larry and I slept outside on the ground in a dusty sleeping bag next to our broken pup tent. Other than one nighttime storm that sent us frantically crawling under cover and hoping we didn’t suffocate, we slept until the sun got too hot to allow for sleep any longer. And passing out at night was the easiest it’s ever been – I just had to make sure I was somewhere in the vicinity of the blob of tent.
Our campground was stellar in only one way: it was the biggest biker party in the entire state, maybe the entire country. And we never had to leave the campground. Music started sometime in the late morning and went until well past midnight – not boomboxes and karaoke, but enormous stages with rock bands playing non-stop morning till night, every night.
And throughout the campground were vendors selling beer, gear, food, tattoos, and anything a biker might want during a seven-day stay in South Dakota. I don’t remember eating, though I’m sure I did. I drank morning, noon and night.
I don’t remember ever being without a beer in my hand, with one notable exception. One day, I rolled over in the dust when Larry said, “We gotta fuckin’ go! Let’s go!” He was usually up before me but on this day, it was barely daylight and he was already clamoring to move.
“I don’t wanna fuckin’ go anywhere,” I slurred, barely opening my eyes.
“We’re going to Mount Rushmore!” he said. “The bikes are already lining up! Let’s go!”
Mount Rushmore, I thought. I will never, ever have this chance again.
“Okay,” I said. I rolled over and thrust out my arm to pull my cigarettes from under my helmet. I lit one, left it hanging out of my mouth while I pulled on my boots, and stood up.
The world spun. Dry-mouthed and filthy, I stumbled toward the port-o-johns that were scattered throughout the campground.
This, by far, was the worst thing about the Buffalo Chip Campground.
There were no cleaning crews at the campground, and bikers weren’t known for their careful urination and defecation. Those port-o-johns were the most disgusting things I have ever encountered in my entire life, and that includes the wet market I visited 30 years later in China.
Somehow I emerged without incident and Larry tossed me a Diet Coke. He was already revving the engine. Sleeping bodies on the ground didn’t even flinch; engines roared day and night.
I hopped on the back and fastened my helmet.
The ride to Mount Rushmore was spectacular – gorgeous, winding roads that went on forever. I’d never seen so much of the west and I loved it. The ride back, too, was breathtaking.
I wasn’t as enamored with the destination. Seeing Mount Rushmore was a disappointment. I’d been so excited to walk on the four presidents’ heads, touch the statues I’d seen in the pictures – but that’s not how it’s done. The visitor center sits quite far from the presidents, and there is no climbing allowed – even if we could have figured out how to get over there. It looked like the pictures from my history books, which didn’t impress me.
Reality regularly let me down.
Fortunately we were back in time for lunch and more beer, and substantially more partying.
We’d only been home from our first Bike Week experience for 4 months when we tackled Sturgis, the largest Bike Week in the world. In 1987, this meant 63,000 bikers converged on the tiny town in South Dakota. (Today, Sturgis hosts more than 700,000.)
For me, this meant only one thing: Beer. 24/7. For a whole week!
But first, we had to get there. And before we could get there, we had to stop in Wisconsin for something Larry “needed to do.”
I had no idea what Larry would “need” in Wisconsin. Then we arrived at Larry’s ex-wife’s house, where Larry’s daughter also lived.
Karen Marie (named after her mom, Karen) was 19 years old.
I was 22.
I did not want to go in the house. I wanted to stand outside and smoke. I didn’t want to meet people, I didn’t want to meet these people. I didn’t want to meet his ex-wife who was probably really old. I didn’t want to meet his daughter who was definitely really young. I wouldn’t be able to relate to anyone or anything inside that house and I didn’t want to participate.
But there I was, stuck somewhere in Wisconsin with Larry, who gently insisted that I would, indeed, be going inside.
We arrived very late. The house was dark. The yard was dark. Everything felt even darker than it was. The room was wood-paneled, the furniture was floral-patterned, and the tables were heavy, dark wood. There were no windows.
I don’t remember where everyone else sat, but I threw myself on the floor. I didn’t get up to meet Larry’s former family. I barely glanced at Larry’s daughter who may have been very nice. I wouldn’t know.
Larry sat with Karen Marie and chatted on the couch while I sulked on the floor, ducking outside without a word to chain-smoke until I forced myself to go back inside and sit on the floor again. Occasionally their dog came to sit with me, which was comforting.
It seemed wrong for me to be there. I didn’t yet understand parenthood, except in my rebellion against my own. Nobody asked me anything. I was glad about that.
But it smelled funny in there. Everybody said “ain’t” as though it were an actual word. No one seemed to be surprised to see Larry, or angry that he hadn’t appeared sooner. Still, when Larry laughed, it seemed raucous. His voice felt extra loud.
I glanced now and then at Karen Marie. I had not realized until this moment that Larry was quite literally old enough to be my father. I knew he was almost the same age as my dad, and I knew that sometimes he acted more like my father than I would have liked, but I hadn’t realized how very literal it was that he was dating someone young enough to be his daughter.
See? I thought. That’s his daughter right there! Karen Marie was blonde and cute and – according to Larry later – “she looks just like her mom did at that age!”
I felt nauseous. The. Whole. Time.
After what seemed like a week but was probably a few hours, Larry and I walked back outside together and got on the Harley.
“Isn’t she great?” he asked rhetorically. “I knew you’d like her!”
I mumbled some form of agreement. Larry apparently hadn’t even noticed my discomfort. By ignoring my behavior, Larry realized I’d feel single-handedly like a jerk.
Or maybe Larry just hadn’t cared.
We spent a silent night at a cheap motel nearby. The next day, we rode into Sturgis.
One day I woke up and Larry was nowhere to be found. We’d had a bit of a disagreement the night before and I thought, “Huh. Maybe he went back to Florida.”
Honestly, I didn’t actually care. He just didn’t interest me anymore.
I waited for a couple of hours, nursing the few beers that were left in the fridge and chain-smoking cigarettes. Finally, Larry strolled in the door, a carton of cigarettes under his arm. “Hey, Baby,” he said with his usual smile.
Larry tossed the cigarettes on the table and snubbed out the one he was smoking, then sat down next to me on our two-person couch.
“Where the fuck have you been?” I glared at him, not sure if we were still fighting. I was running low on beer so I tried not to sound too harsh.
“I got a fuckin’ tattoo!” he said. “Ya wanna see?”
My first thought was: You got a tattoo without asking me?!
My second thought: You got a tattoo without ME?!
But what I said was, “You’re fuckin’ shittin’ me!” which was slang for “Are you kidding?”
“Nope,” he said.
Larry lifted his shirt sleeve to reveal very red skin with an even redder blob in the middle. It looked like someone had torn off Rudolph’s red nose and stepped on it. The squashed circle had a squarish lightning-bolt thing on the right side.
“Ya know what it is?” he asked.
Somehow I didn’t think “Rudolph’s nose” was an accurate guess, so I did not reply.
“It’s a broken heart!” Larry said, without waiting for my guess. “Fuckin’ ripped right down the middle!”
I looked again. Maybe if a kindergartener with no artistic potential had tried to make a valentine, I could see it. Yes, maybe the blob was a heart.
“Only 50 bucks!” he said.
“You spent $50 on this?” I eyed the blob suspiciously.
“I got it for you!” he said, ignoring my rhetorical question. “Because you break my heart! You’re the only chick who ever breaks my heart, so this is for you.”
I did not understand this logic. It seemed ridiculously stupid and immature. But I said “I love you,” because there’s nothing else to say when someone gets a horrible permanent tattoo of a smashed blob to demonstrate how much he was hurt and claim that this ridiculous act of acquiring a terrible tattoo was not only your fault but also a gift.
Then we had sex on the floor, which is how I knew we were no longer fighting, and went to Paul’s Place to get drunk and show everyone Larry’s new tattoo.
My mom once told me, “Before you get a tattoo, imagine what it’s going to look like on your skin when your skin is all wrinkly, because you are stuck with a tattoo for life.”
For life! I thought. It was hard for me to imagine Larry being any older than he already was, but I tried to imagine wrinkly skin and that bright red blob all wrinkled up. It would look like a red pepper after three months in the fridge.
And I knew deep down that I wouldn’t be around to see that aged red-pepper blob when Larry’s skin got that wrinkly.
Ronnie was a dear, dear friend; he was the only person in Larry’s world whose company I truly enjoyed. Larry’s band would play for four or five hours, sometimes twice a week, and Ronnie and I would sit at a table completely ignoring the band, talking about things that actually mattered.
I have no idea what we discussed.
I only know we talked; we were friends. I hadn’t had a real friend in a long time, and I trusted Ronnie with my life. Ronnie being in his mid-thirties and still living with his parents didn’t even phase me. If my parents had let me smoke pot in the basement and buy cocaine from the local drug dealer and drink whenever I wanted and live rent free … well gosh, I might have lived with my parents until my thirties, too.
A major difference between us is that Ronnie was a virgin and I had experimented a bit with sex. Other than some interesting conversations where I answered as many questions as I could, Ronnie’s virginity didn’t interest me at all. It only mattered when the guys mentioned it in front of me, and then Ronnie felt embarrassed. It broke my heart and I never understood why his own friends would be so cruel. It was hard enough for Ronnie to be … Ronnie. He didn’t need the added humiliation.
Ronnie and I spent many weekends together at the bar, but one day he showed up at our apartment with a couple of joints. It was weird. Instead of the band backdrop and the dingy bar, we were in a really quiet place with a glaring overhead bulb in the ceiling. It felt wrong.
But I ran into the kitchen and threw in a tape, fast forwarding to a song I wanted Ronnie to hear. Ronnie was open to hearing whatever I played, unlike Larry who would only listen to country.
Ronnie and Leo – Larry’s bassist – hadn’t even sat down yet when Larry mumbled something about, “Ya can’t be a virgin for the rest of your life!”
“Leave him alone,” I said. “He can be whatever he fuckin’ wants.”
“I don’t really want to be a virgin,” Ronnie said quietly, surprising me entirely. “I just never found the right girl.”
The conversation never skipped a beat. Larry looked directly at me and said, “Take care of it, will ya?”
“Take care of what?” I asked, clueless.
“Just show him what to do,” Larry said. “He doesn’t want to be a fuckin’ virgin anymore.”
My stomach churned a little. I looked at Ronnie. “Is that something you want?”
Ronnie was looking at the ground. “I guess,” he said. “Yeah.”
I looked questioningly at Larry. “You mean now?”
“Yeah,” Larry said. Then he and Leo disappeared. Larry didn’t consider this cheating, maybe? Or maybe he just wanted to be in control.
Either way, this was legal cheating. Larry requested it specifically, and Ronnie agreed.
So I took Ronnie upstairs to the attic room that I’d spray-painted with neon orange scribbles. I flopped down on the sheet-less mattress, the only thing in the room. Ronnie sat awkwardly for a moment.
But only for a moment.
If Larry had realized how much I cared about Ronnie, Larry might not have offered me up as a sex-pert/whore for this particular person. But only Ronnie and I knew how much we adored each other.
Our time was unapologetically passionate, sweet, and fun. We treasured every moment together, and then we went back to being friends at the bar, closer than ever.
I certainly didn’t expect catharsis when I started to write. In fact, I started to write without thinking about the horrific memories I’d been carrying around. If I’d given any individual flashback serious consideration, I might have run screaming in a different direction.
Instead, I started writing and kept forging forward, knowing that the end result is that I got sober.
My parents have encouraged me to continue writing, even though they’d probably have preferred to not know so many details. But friends and family alike said, “It’s your story to tell.”
So I’m telling my story. And every time I share a horrific piece, a little bit of the horrific-ness from that time leaves me. It floats off into cyberspace, leaving me feeling just a little less bad than I’ve been feeling for the past 40 years.
I’ve been awestruck by this, and sometimes I wonder what took me so long to tell this tale. It’s been the single most freeing thing I’ve done during three decades of sobriety.
Sometimes I am sure I have the timeline wrong, or I forget important details that I’d like to have remembered, but I do my best to fill in the gaps. I want to be accurate and honest, and sometimes that is impossible to accomplish perfectly, but I keep trying.
For the past couple of months or so, though, I’ve been having trouble writing. I’ve not wanted to sit down at the computer to write the particular life stories stemming from 1987 and beyond.
Instead, I’ve been finding reasons to leave the house, avoiding the blog.
I’ve been reading fiction with a vengeance. I used to read only memoirs, all the time. Now I am avoiding memoirs, even the ones I desperately want to read, because I know that those books will gouge me the way they always do, and make me think about my own life.
Lately I don’t want to think about my own life.
I’ve reached a point in my drunkalogue where it only gets worse; drinking games and fun with friends are in the past.
My pulverized young adulthood in all its alcoholic glory has taken center stage.
The things that catapulted me toward sobriety by causing me unimaginable angst … those are the memories I’m reliving now. And it’s hard to write about those. They are the stories that have lined my intestines for decades, causing nausea every time I dare to remember even a smattering of the detail that is included in my writing.
And I’ve started having nightmares – recurring dreams of being on the wrong bus, so lost, never able to get home. In others, my baby boy is in danger and I can’t save him from whatever threatens his existence. It’s been weeks – maybe months – and I can’t get through a night without waking up in a cold sweat.
Finally, I realized my real-life problem: I’m reliving my misspent youth and I’m – again – unable to save the sweet, caring child I once was – the lost little girl I’ve locked away inside me.
I don’t know if my disease tried to kill her or if, in my zeal to protect her, I shoved her into a broom closet. Even in sobriety, I’ve kept her hidden, afraid of what could happen if I allowed her to walk vulnerably on this earth.
So today, I vow to move forward in telling my story while holding the hand of my inner child. Maybe I won’t become less hardened or brash, but maybe this time, we’ll survive these things together.
One night with Robert solidified an idea that previously had been pushed to the wee corners of my mind. I had ignored the little voice calling from back there for so long, pretended it wasn’t there, gone on with my life as though it didn’t exist.
But as I rode into Pitcairn with those college guys, that little voice became impossible to ignore. It screamed: Larry isn’t the right person for you.
Instantly, I screamed back: He has to be! I don’t have anyone else!
But after a very full day of partying with people my own age – people who likely came from the same general background as I did, even though they were male – it was hard to believe that I should settle for living in Pitcairn with a man nearly twice my age.
More importantly, it was horrible to go back to living without the kind of laughter I’d shared with Robert. We’d really laughed. We’d had things in common; we’d found the same things to be funny. I’d laughed that way with a handful of ex-boyfriends who were kind-hearted souls, who’d treated me with respect, who enjoyed the same things I enjoyed. Robert reminded me that people existed in the world with whom I could laugh.
But I never, ever laughed with Larry. I’d laughed with Bonnie at some of the songs Larry sang; the lyrics had been funny. I’d laughed at the “CHICK” name tag I created for myself, at the irony of naming myself something so mundane. I’d laughed with Ronnie about little things. But I did not laugh with Larry.
Larry’s idea of humor was to hang Christmas ornaments around his penis and strut around naked saying, “Look at my big balls!” as the ornaments clanged together.
This did not make me laugh. Like most of the things Larry found funny, I didn’t see the humor. But Larry – who never recognized my apathy – laughed at his own jokes enough for both of us.
For most of my youth, nobody laughed at my jokes. My humor is so dry, some people miss it.
“People have to be smart to get your humor,” my mom told me. “Not everyone is as smart as you.” This made me feel better about the throngs of people who ignored my jokes in high school.
Maybe Larry isn’t as smart as you, the little voice yelled from its corner.
Robert and I had laughed about everything. Our perspective on life and people seemed to be aligned in a way that made us find the same things funny. It was just an added bonus that Robert was sweet.
Of course, Robert and I had no cell phones, and we weren’t planning to keep in touch.
But after Seven Springs, it was like someone had blown all the fairy dust off of Larry. I could see him for the man he was, not the man I wanted him to be. He was like a cowboy without a horse and I’d always been a bigger fan of horses than cowboys.
Sure, Larry was cool. My God, he was cool! He played that guitar and flew me down the road on that Harley. But for the first time in my life, I wanted something more than “cool.”
I wanted somebody smart. I wanted to be smart. And I wanted to laugh again.
The idea of gang rape had never occurred to me before that moment.
I had no idea what to do, so I sat down and stared at the TV. I saw absolutely nothing. I sipped my beer, queasy at the thought of what was happening behind my back. I couldn’t run; I would never get to the door before somebody grabbed me. And if I got out, I had nowhere to go.
The banter between the guys had stopped; the only sound was coming from the TV. I didn’t dare move.
They’d seemed so harmless. Why was this happening? And what could I do?
After an eternity, a voice came from behind my head. It said: “You’ve got to pick one.”
I didn’t turn around. I squeaked, “Why?”
“You’ve just got to pick one,” came the reply.
“I’d rather not,” I said, still staring at the TV. If I pick one, I thought, maybe the rest of them will leave me alone.
A few minutes passed. I could make out the sounds of their hands moving, quiet but increasing.
“You’ve got to pick one,” someone said again.
I lit a cigarette. I stared at the screen. Finally, shaking, I turned around.
I took a long drink from my beer can as I surveyed my surroundings. Robert was the one I’d talked to the most; he seemed to be the nicest. All of the guys had seemed nice.
But Jeff was the most classically handsome, with his bright green eyes and perfect black hair swooping over one eye. He was gorgeous.
When would I ever get another chance to just pick someone gorgeous?
“Okay, I’ll pick Jeff,” I said. The other guys groaned a little at my decision, but no one got up – except Jeff, smiling his perfect smile.
“Let’s go,” said Jeff, and we headed into a bedroom together as though this were some elaborate game of Truth or Dare.
I didn’t question what was next; I undressed quickly and – since beds often made me nauseous after drinking – I threw myself down on the floor.
Jeff didn’t waste any time either. He jumped on top of me and started immediately, without even a kiss. Immediately bored, I realized that there was going to be no pleasure in this experience for me.
“Can I pick somebody else?” I sighed.
Jeff stopped and looked at me. “Huh?”
“I want to pick somebody else.”
“Uh, okay,” Jeff said, backing off and letting me up.
Naked, I walked into the living room. “He sucks at this,” I announced. “I want Robert.”
This announcement was followed by hoots of laughter, and even a demonstration of Jeff’s poor form. Finally Robert threw everyone else out and closed the bedroom door.
I had a much better time with Robert. He was slow and gentle and kind and beautiful, but best of all, we laughed literally all night long. We talked and we laughed and we messed around and laughed and cuddled and laughed some more.
We finally fell asleep after the sun came up and within minutes, the other guys were waking us to go home.
I didn’t want to go. I’d had more fun with Robert in one night than I’d had with Larry in two years. I wanted to stay in Robert’s college dorm room and marry him someday.
But instead the guys dropped me at the Pitcairn apartment. I dragged myself up the stairs. Larry – who asked nothing about my night in Seven Springs – was thrilled to have me home.
As Larry disappeared around the corner, the guy at the bar half-whispered, “He knows we’re not leaving until tomorrow, right?”
“I guess so,” I said.
I had no idea what Larry knew or didn’t know. What was I supposed to do until tomorrow? Where was I supposed to sleep? I had no money, no food, nothing but the clothes on my back and a pack of cigarettes, which was fast disappearing. How was I going to get my treasured menthols at Seven Springs?
Robert – with whom I’d been chatting carelessly only moments before – suddenly became my caretaker.
“Where can I get cigarettes?” I asked, wasted enough not to care about any of my other issues.
“We’ll take care of you,” Robert said, showing me to a vending machine in the corner, then filled my glass using the pitcher of beer in front of him.
Sure enough, the guys took care of me. We drank for another hour or so, then they decided it was time for pizza. It had gotten dark outside and Larry, sure enough, was long gone, no motorcycle in the lot.
We walked back to the place where they were staying – a massive multi-bedroom condo with an enormous living room, which was surprisingly clean, and an open-concept attached kitchen where, when delivered, the pizzas were sprawled on the counter.
I calculated quickly: six guys, and me. I prepared to sleep on the couch. Someone handed me a beer from the fridge as I stood awkwardly among them. “Help yourself when you need one,” he said, gesturing toward the refrigerator before sitting down.
“Movie?” someone said.
Robert said, “She’s never seen The Blues Brothers! We gotta watch it.”
“I’ve seen it,” I said. “I just don’t remember it.”
This was true; most movies I watched in the early 80s were lost in the haze of blackouts by 1987. I’d watched more than one movie several times and had no idea what the plot entailed, let alone what the key moments were. It took me multiple viewings of Animal House to remember (just) the food fight, which had become part of college culture.
Someone popped in a Blues Brothers VHS, and the guys sat on the furniture – a couch and several chairs – around the room. Not wanting to miss this surely awesome movie, I sat down on the floor, in front of the coffee table.
Sitting on the floor distanced me from the guys, too, which meant I felt a little safer.
They turned the lights off for the movie. Guys were shuffling back and forth to the kitchen grabbing beers and pizza and everyone was talking amongst themselves, commenting on the classic elements of the movie – the car, the Saturday Night Live superstars – but I tried to concentrate on what was in front of me. I wanted to appreciate the movie this time, even though I’d been drinking all day.
When my beer ran out, I hopped up to get another one. I reached into the fridge, cracked the beer, and then headed back to my spot in front of the television.
As I turned into the living room, I realized quite suddenly that every single one of the guys was quietly but obviously masturbating.
Mentally I gasped; outwardly I remained silent. Without a word I walked back into the room, turned my back on all of them, and reclaimed my spot on the floor.
One Saturday afternoon, Larry and I went for a ride in the country. We were in a forest when I started begging to stop for a drink.
“There’s nothing out here!” he said over the roar of the Harley. “Just Seven Springs, and it ain’t cheap.”
“Let’s go there,” I said, having no idea that ski resort drink prices meant we’d run out of money before I could drink my fill. Of course, “my fill” was never possible – but my feeling of deprivation would happen a lot sooner at an expensive resort.
A minute passed. “I guess we could have a couple,” Larry said.
Within half an hour, we were pulling into the Seven Springs parking lot and clomping out of the sunshine into a dark cabin-style bar. Except for a handful of young guys at the end of the bar, the place was empty.
A couple drinks later, Larry and I were chatting with that group of guys; they were all college kids.
They were my age. I suddenly felt less alone than I’d felt in forever.
Within an hour, I’d begun ignoring Larry, who was sitting to my left at the bar. My stool was turned completely to the right, my back to Larry, while I chatted with the guys … some of whom had moved closer to be better able to hear me over the music.
Interacting with these college guys was thrilling. We talked about spring break and dorms and parties and compared and contrasted our schools. We talked about whatever songs played on the jukebox, which inspired conversation of the bands we’d seen in concert, our favorite classics, and the worst songs ever made (“You Light Up My Life” topping that list). And when I learned that the guys were from Pittsburgh, we talked about our respective high schools, our (mixed) reviews of Vincent’s Pizza and what sports we all played, even though I no longer played sports.
I was having the time of my life in that bar, just hanging out. And Larry uncharacteristically allowed our banter to continue without interjecting. The fact that they all happened to be rather attractive young men did not elude me, nor did it elude Larry, but we were just having fun.
I think Larry realized, after Florida, that I needed something more than he could provide.
Larry didn’t push me to shorten the visit, nor did he insist on being part of the conversation. He was smiling and seemed to be having a good time – which I noticed whenever I turned around to look at him. He didn’t appear to be unhappy or agitated in any way.
In fact, Larry allowed the guys to buy us beers and shots – lots of beers and shots. But after two or three hours, Larry was finally ready to go.
Like any good drunk, I would have started chopping off my fingers if it meant that I could continue to drink right where I sat. “Please, can we just have one more?” I begged. “I’m not ready to go home.”
Larry had heard it all before, and sometimes we stayed. Sometimes we left anyway. But on this particular occasion, we did something we’d never done before.
Larry turned to one of the guys and said, “You can get her home, right?”
My jaw dropped.
The guy next to me blinked. “I’ll make sure she gets home,” he said. They shook on it.
I was flabbergasted. “You’re gonna leave me here with them?”
“They’ll getcha home,” he said. And he sauntered out the door, leaving me behind.
