Lawrence Torn Up
by
Steven Hunley
I hadn’t seen Larry in a while, not after he spent more time at his AA meetings than at O’Hooligan’s. It was a beat-up establishment, a meeting place for the recycled and remanufactured, an alcohol dispensary complete with soothing and soppy music. So when I spied him balancing on a barstool, I knew he’d fallen off the wagon.
It’s my girl,” he confided. “She gave me the air."
“Well, maybe it’s just a temporary thing. Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
“Not this time, Old Buddy. Called me up on the phone, told me our relationship was ‘shifting’.” He attempted to loosen his tie. Larry never wore a tie.
“Shifting?”
“Just her way of saying ‘over’.”
“I get ya.”
When the barkeep drew near I said, “I’ll have whatever he’s having," and he gave me a nod. Muffled laughter snuck out of a hidden corner. Somebody lit a match. Another somebody rouged her cheeks a little too much. A man's poorly-trimmed nail snagged his long-legged girlfriend's butterfly-patterned stockings.
“This happened once before with her didn’t it?”
“Yeah, but this time it’s for real. You know, when a woman tells you you’ve got no future together, it’s worse than simple break up in the here and now. It robs a man of his dreams, his future. Say, you did time once, didn’t ya?”
“You know I did.”
I knew what was coming up. Larry had studied acting, and he was drunk. There was no way on earth he wasn’t going to get all dramatic. I could see the curtain was about to rise any minute, and was glad I was already sitting down.
“Here’s your Hennesy," said Smitty the barkeep. "Remember what Napoleon said about cognac and heroes."
“No matter how dark it was in the hole,” Larry continued, “there was always light at the end of the tunnel, your release date. That kept you going. But when a woman robs a man of his future, she graduates from a misdemeanor petty thief caught stealing silk stockings from Macy’s, to a top-drawer criminal like Capone, Dillinger or Bonnie and Clyde committing emotional murder."
“At least the old time criminals had the moxie to jettison the euphemisms.”
“That right! They knew when it was time to take off the euphemism-gloves and bare-knuckle a man down in the dust with a plain old fashioned ‘it’s over’.”
“That would be the humane thing to do,” I said. "Then she could left-hook him with a,'It’s not you, It’s me.'
When the jukebox started playing Promises Promises by Naked Eyes, Larry gave it a rabid-dog look. If anyone was an expert on promises broken, either verbal or implied, it was he, not some British eighties rock group. Caught up in a maudlin state the size of Texas, Larry believed he owned the patents on regret and sorrow.
“And people say they’re the weaker sex,” he said, looking down at his toes, shaking his head, giving out a great sigh, as if he'd taken the entire weight of the heavens on his narrow shoulders. Like Atlas, Larry felt tricked and trapped in the most dramatic fashion he could imagine.
“How much of it was your fault? Some of it must have been your fault.”
“Yeah, that’s what sucks. I’m a loser. I'm singing the Beatles here. I got no future, I’m a no-future kind of guy, so how could we ever of had one together?’
“I guess it wasn’t in the cards.”
“I guess not.”
Again, a song rang out from the jukebox. It was the Rolling Stones, written when they were in their bad-boy-tough-attitude-towards-women period.Titled All Sold Out, it seemed to match Lawrence’s mood at this moment, while he searched his limited vocabulary for a word that described his feelings.
Besmirched, bewildered, betrayed, left-behind, abandoned, run-aground, sinking, suffocated, stepped-on, squashed, flattened, no matter the word, it would lack the power to accurately describe his pathetic condition.
Every memory, every intimate conversation, was tainted, and left a bad taste in his mouth. The memory of each exquisite kiss, which, when they were hundreds of miles apart, brought him sweet hours of solace, he wanted to spit out like venom.
“How are you dealing with it? Seems like you're hurting. Looks like you were run over by a truck.”
He sobered for a second and sat up straight. “I’m doin’ pretty good. Been looking on one of those dating sites, got an account and all. Got thirty women want to meet me, right off.”
Then a dark squall approached and he deflated as quickly and he inflated. “Only one thing bothers me.”
“What’s that?”
“Me and Babygirl were an item for three years, three years! I kept her from discovering my faults for a long time before she got sick of me, before I failed to measure up to her high-altitude standards.”
“And?”
“I was thinkin the other day, I want a smart woman, see? Not your average cupcake, a bright sparkly diamond girl. But it occurred to me, that whatever Babygirl figured out, they’ll all figure out, sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Well...gee...that’s a depressing thought.”
“Yes," he hiccupped, and glanced around at the empty faces of humanity. "As a matter of fact it is.”
The barkeep approached and whispered in my ear. “Your wife was on the phone, said to bring home a pint of cream for the Portuguese gravy.”
“Thanks, Smitty. Larry, I have to bounce. I hope we’ll meet in the future.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, looking down sadly at the bottom of his wasted glass, his blue liquid eyes drowned in sorrow, pupils as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta, feverishly searching for solace like twin alcohol magnets.
“You'll know where to find me. Just look under the Vs for victim, victim of love."
©Steven Hunley 2013
http://youtu.be/JUe-lXAoSZI Beatles I'm a Loser
http://youtu.be/WBupia9oidU Naked Eyes Promises Promises
http://youtu.be/aiDLxsT3OpQ Rolling Stones All Sold Out
http://youtu.be/5CtMiALhcls Seals and Crofts Diamond Girl
