“That’s a Fact!”
Some things I learned from Larry were important. Having grown up sheltered and well-protected, I knew very little about the adult world. Larry knew a lot.
Larry knew how to ride a motorcycle without crashing, and how to get off the bike without burning a leg. Larry knew when police were important for safety, and when they might arrest us. Larry knew how to find drugs and still pay the rent, and to carry but never use his credit card. He knew how to be a loyal friend, a die-hard biker and a consummate performer on stage.
While I tried to self-destruct, Larry made sure I didn’t implode. Sometimes, even now, I realize that I owe him my life.
But I knew from the moment I met Larry that he wasn’t smart – or at least, not as smart as I’d have liked. Larry was street smart – a street genius, even. But after college, I understood that I wouldn’t be enjoying a lot of intellectually stimulating conversation.
I did not know until late in 1987, however, that Larry was a complete moron who believed his own lies in spite of mountains of evidence to the contrary. “Evidence” did not concern Larry.
Firmly convinced that really stupid things were true, Larry also believed he was the smartest person in any room. And his conviction about his intelligence was enough to make other people believe it, too.
He was nothing if not confident.
Larry believed he was right even when his declarations made no sense at all. He invented his own world view. He believed that his theories were truths, and then he sought out people to agree with his proclamations.
Larry believed, for example, that hot dogs weren’t made of meat, so he wouldn’t eat them. Andy Capp’s Hot Fries, however, were “made with real fuckin’ cheddar!” and therefore healthy.
Larry believed that the government was watching him – and everyone – through street lights, even in Pitcairn. He was quite serious. Sometimes we had to run from one lamp post to the next for “safety,” our heads down.
Larry believed that the Japanese had infiltrated every American company except GE and Harley Davidson. Anything new or different was labeled “Jap shit,” then mentally – and often physically – discarded.
For me, though, the most ludicrous was Larry’s explanation about why he smoked cigarettes.
“I was addicted to cigarettes since I was fuckin’ born,” Larry said, a cigarette hanging from his lips. “My mother smoked cigarettes when she was pregnant with me so I’ve been addicted since the womb.” He shook his index finger once, sternly, for emphasis. “And that’s a fact!”
Larry adamantly spouted “facts.” When he stated a “fact,” it could never be denied.
I didn’t say a word in disagreement; my youth and my gender meant to Larry that I knew literally nothing.
I didn’t mention the likely possibility that Larry hadn’t been breast-fed on tobacco juice, or given chewing tobacco as a toddler. He probably wasn’t smoking Winstons in elementary school. The first 12 years of Larry’s life didn’t play any part in his theory of addiction.
But this “fact” was the final straw. In spite of my constant inebriation, I awoke to my reality that day. I finally recognized that Larry was, in many ways, the most moronic person I’d ever known.
This made me think about my parents’ ideas – the ones I’d shunned since moving in with Larry. My parents suddenly seemed smarter somehow.
And that started me thinking about leaving Larry for good. I just couldn’t fathom how to leave Larry and still be a drunk.