We’ll Take Care of You.
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.”
“You’ve never seen The Blues Brothers?” The guys collectively gasped.
“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.