Larry
There were ten of us traveling together in Berlin. There was supposed to be an eleventh, Dacia (Pudding-Face), but we left her in the trunk on the bus ride to the airport.
So yes, there were ten of us. Not everyone knew each other, others disliked each other and others developed a friendship. Ten of us.
And Larry.
I pegged his age around the mid-40s but actually, he eventually told us his age was 39 (the first time we asked him, he told us his age was "fuck you"). Thickly built, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Ruddy complexion and a toothbrush mustache that collected bits of food that never, for whatever godawful reason, found their way into his mouth. He has the sort of gray eyes dulled, I can only assume, by many, many years of personal disappointment. Larry wore a green jacket with a maple leaf pin and a black baseball cap that says I AM CANADIAN. He is, of course, Canadian.
And he is so Canadian that he is a member of the Canadian Armed Forces. "I handle the logistics of supply transportation." In other words, he drives a truck.
Our first night in Berlin, he attached himself to us ("us" being our group of ten) and it took us two days to get rid of his ass. And even then, he wasn’t truly gone—he’d just crept into recession.
After we checked into the hostel, as we headed for dinner, he asked Pat: "Mind if I hang with you guys?" Pat couldn’t refuse. Not diplomatically.
"Hey, listen," Pat walked out of the hostel with Larry trailing. "This is Lawrence. He’s uh…well, he’s eating with us."
Everyone: "Okay."
Pat: "Everyone say hi to Lawrence."
Everyone: "Hi to Lawrence."
We ended up eating at a Thai restaurant, of all places, with Pat gripping the map, directing the group and Larry looking on enviously.
When we got to the Thai restaurant, the proprietor and his wife saw ten paying customers (and Larry) through the window and their eyes lit up like the Hindenburg. The proprietor took us through the menu. He gestured: "Chicken, pork, fish…"
Moon-Face, a Filipino girl from Pasadena, clapped her hands and squealed: "Oh! He’s so cute! Tee hee hee!"
I wanted to smack her. Wouldn’t be so hard since she’s gained 30 pounds in two months. All she does is eat. Have you ever seen The Transformers Movie? The Transformer voiced by Orson Welles is a giant planet that consumes other, smaller planets. Essentially, that’s Moon-Face. I’ve entertained the notion that she might be with child. She’s done enough recently so we’re past the point of wild conjecture here.
After eating, we went to a bar where they were playing the accordian (always a good sign) and where Larry began hitting on the girls. He cornered Autumn and they spoke in hushed tones.
"You know," said Larry. "I like a girl with meat on her bones and I love a girl with long hair."
"I wish I had a mustache like yours so I could get beerfoam caught in it," said Autumn.
Larry covered his upper lip and made a noise like "Hrmph blarga blarga."
That night, we shook Larry’s hand, slapped him on the back and collectively said, Man it was great meeting you.
Later, he came into our room and sat down while we were trying to sleep. That’s when we knew we were going to see lots more Larry!
The next night, he was sitting on the stoop of the hostel waiting for us. We went on a pub crawl that night. I mentioned that Berlin was one visual drag in the day. The night life is actually sort of fun. The pubs—even the clubs (and I usually hate clubs) are distinct, the drinks cheaper than in London, and the people generally cooler. By that I mean that the London pubs are usually filled with drunks railing about Malcolm Glazer’s attempted acquisition of Manchester United, whereas the clubs are filled with greasy Eastern Europeans (and Brits) hoping to cop a feel of some fresh American booby.
In Berlin there’s still something raucous and surreal about the clubs and pubs—the Wohnzimmer bar looks like a David Lynch nightmare, another club had a stone dragon that spat flame into the air every fifteen minutes—just not invasively so.
Larry took it upon himself to hit on more women. We were on the pub crawl and, thankfully, most weren’t in our group. Though Larry would occasionally stumble up to us, his face a mess of burst blood vessels, and hiss something that inevitably began with, "Now I’m not a pervert or nothin but…" He also told us that he hated the nickname Larry and that we should, if we gave him a nickname, call him Spanky.
So. We left the pub crawl early because Moon-Face couldn’t hold her alcohol and her orbit was becoming increasingly erratic. Pat, Sam, Sticks, Luisa, Richard, and I (some of these names probably don’t mean much but bear with me) went downstairs into the hostel’s recreational area to play pool. Luisa actually just collapsed on a couch and fell asleep.
Incidentally, none of us can play pool. I spent much of the time trying to gun the 8 ball around the table while Richard, upon finding the key that unlocks the pool table (you have to pay 50 cents to access the balls), set about trying to rob it. Very unorganized.
Then Larry found us. Larry. This time, he was inebriated.
"We playing bar rules?" he asked. Demanded.
"What’re those?" asked Pat.
He told us. I can’t remember what they were.
"Nope. That’s not how we’re playing. Watch out." Pat hit and missed. Larry pshawed and waved his hand. "Weak, weak."
"Let’s see you do better, Fatman."
"I cn do better any ol day."
"Let’s see it, Larry."
"Dammit. How many goddamn times did I tell you not to call me Larry?"
"Look, Larry," said Richard. "You can’t choose your nickname."
"Gimme the goddamn cue." He seized the cue and tried to line up a shot. He missed.
"Larry, dammit," said Pat.
Sticks tried a shot and shanked it. "Hey Sticks," said Richard. "I’ll give you that shot back. If you sit on Larry’s lap while taking it."
"Hold on a minute," said Larry.
"Go ahead," said Pat. "Sit on his lap."
"You boys from San Francisco by any chance?"
"Close enough."
Sticks sat on Larry’s lap and made the shot, but he missed the next one.
"Hey Larry, I think Sticks is tired. Give him a back massage."
"You guys’re a buncha smart asses is what you are."
"Go ahead," said Pat. "Give him a back massage."
"Get the hell away from me." He looked at Luisa, asleep on the couch and sighed. "Man, she looks real purty there. Someone needs to carry her to bed and tuck her in."
That was when we decided to leave.
We saw Larry one more time afterwards—or I did. He actually stepped out of the bushes when I was coming back to the hostel alone one night and insisted on shaking my hand. I obliged him.
Luisa was fine. We kept her away from Larry and she was just fine. She was actually one of the people Richard and I got close to during our time in Berlin. We’d already been acquainted with her roommate, Jill. We both hated Jill. Luisa told us that a lot of people hated Jill and that it was sort of unfair. We told Luisa that it was sort of unfair for us to have to exist on the same planet as Jill.
Jill with one lazy eye and a mournful outlook on life. The Mad Ballad of Dead-Eye Jill. We sang it echoing in the halls to celebrate Larry.
So yes, there were ten of us. Not everyone knew each other, others disliked each other and others developed a friendship. Ten of us.
And Larry.
I pegged his age around the mid-40s but actually, he eventually told us his age was 39 (the first time we asked him, he told us his age was "fuck you"). Thickly built, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Ruddy complexion and a toothbrush mustache that collected bits of food that never, for whatever godawful reason, found their way into his mouth. He has the sort of gray eyes dulled, I can only assume, by many, many years of personal disappointment. Larry wore a green jacket with a maple leaf pin and a black baseball cap that says I AM CANADIAN. He is, of course, Canadian.
And he is so Canadian that he is a member of the Canadian Armed Forces. "I handle the logistics of supply transportation." In other words, he drives a truck.
Our first night in Berlin, he attached himself to us ("us" being our group of ten) and it took us two days to get rid of his ass. And even then, he wasn’t truly gone—he’d just crept into recession.
After we checked into the hostel, as we headed for dinner, he asked Pat: "Mind if I hang with you guys?" Pat couldn’t refuse. Not diplomatically.
"Hey, listen," Pat walked out of the hostel with Larry trailing. "This is Lawrence. He’s uh…well, he’s eating with us."
Everyone: "Okay."
Pat: "Everyone say hi to Lawrence."
Everyone: "Hi to Lawrence."
We ended up eating at a Thai restaurant, of all places, with Pat gripping the map, directing the group and Larry looking on enviously.
When we got to the Thai restaurant, the proprietor and his wife saw ten paying customers (and Larry) through the window and their eyes lit up like the Hindenburg. The proprietor took us through the menu. He gestured: "Chicken, pork, fish…"
Moon-Face, a Filipino girl from Pasadena, clapped her hands and squealed: "Oh! He’s so cute! Tee hee hee!"
I wanted to smack her. Wouldn’t be so hard since she’s gained 30 pounds in two months. All she does is eat. Have you ever seen The Transformers Movie? The Transformer voiced by Orson Welles is a giant planet that consumes other, smaller planets. Essentially, that’s Moon-Face. I’ve entertained the notion that she might be with child. She’s done enough recently so we’re past the point of wild conjecture here.
After eating, we went to a bar where they were playing the accordian (always a good sign) and where Larry began hitting on the girls. He cornered Autumn and they spoke in hushed tones.
"You know," said Larry. "I like a girl with meat on her bones and I love a girl with long hair."
"I wish I had a mustache like yours so I could get beerfoam caught in it," said Autumn.
Larry covered his upper lip and made a noise like "Hrmph blarga blarga."
That night, we shook Larry’s hand, slapped him on the back and collectively said, Man it was great meeting you.
Later, he came into our room and sat down while we were trying to sleep. That’s when we knew we were going to see lots more Larry!
The next night, he was sitting on the stoop of the hostel waiting for us. We went on a pub crawl that night. I mentioned that Berlin was one visual drag in the day. The night life is actually sort of fun. The pubs—even the clubs (and I usually hate clubs) are distinct, the drinks cheaper than in London, and the people generally cooler. By that I mean that the London pubs are usually filled with drunks railing about Malcolm Glazer’s attempted acquisition of Manchester United, whereas the clubs are filled with greasy Eastern Europeans (and Brits) hoping to cop a feel of some fresh American booby.
In Berlin there’s still something raucous and surreal about the clubs and pubs—the Wohnzimmer bar looks like a David Lynch nightmare, another club had a stone dragon that spat flame into the air every fifteen minutes—just not invasively so.
Larry took it upon himself to hit on more women. We were on the pub crawl and, thankfully, most weren’t in our group. Though Larry would occasionally stumble up to us, his face a mess of burst blood vessels, and hiss something that inevitably began with, "Now I’m not a pervert or nothin but…" He also told us that he hated the nickname Larry and that we should, if we gave him a nickname, call him Spanky.
So. We left the pub crawl early because Moon-Face couldn’t hold her alcohol and her orbit was becoming increasingly erratic. Pat, Sam, Sticks, Luisa, Richard, and I (some of these names probably don’t mean much but bear with me) went downstairs into the hostel’s recreational area to play pool. Luisa actually just collapsed on a couch and fell asleep.
Incidentally, none of us can play pool. I spent much of the time trying to gun the 8 ball around the table while Richard, upon finding the key that unlocks the pool table (you have to pay 50 cents to access the balls), set about trying to rob it. Very unorganized.
Then Larry found us. Larry. This time, he was inebriated.
"We playing bar rules?" he asked. Demanded.
"What’re those?" asked Pat.
He told us. I can’t remember what they were.
"Nope. That’s not how we’re playing. Watch out." Pat hit and missed. Larry pshawed and waved his hand. "Weak, weak."
"Let’s see you do better, Fatman."
"I cn do better any ol day."
"Let’s see it, Larry."
"Dammit. How many goddamn times did I tell you not to call me Larry?"
"Look, Larry," said Richard. "You can’t choose your nickname."
"Gimme the goddamn cue." He seized the cue and tried to line up a shot. He missed.
"Larry, dammit," said Pat.
Sticks tried a shot and shanked it. "Hey Sticks," said Richard. "I’ll give you that shot back. If you sit on Larry’s lap while taking it."
"Hold on a minute," said Larry.
"Go ahead," said Pat. "Sit on his lap."
"You boys from San Francisco by any chance?"
"Close enough."
Sticks sat on Larry’s lap and made the shot, but he missed the next one.
"Hey Larry, I think Sticks is tired. Give him a back massage."
"You guys’re a buncha smart asses is what you are."
"Go ahead," said Pat. "Give him a back massage."
"Get the hell away from me." He looked at Luisa, asleep on the couch and sighed. "Man, she looks real purty there. Someone needs to carry her to bed and tuck her in."
That was when we decided to leave.
We saw Larry one more time afterwards—or I did. He actually stepped out of the bushes when I was coming back to the hostel alone one night and insisted on shaking my hand. I obliged him.
Luisa was fine. We kept her away from Larry and she was just fine. She was actually one of the people Richard and I got close to during our time in Berlin. We’d already been acquainted with her roommate, Jill. We both hated Jill. Luisa told us that a lot of people hated Jill and that it was sort of unfair. We told Luisa that it was sort of unfair for us to have to exist on the same planet as Jill.
Jill with one lazy eye and a mournful outlook on life. The Mad Ballad of Dead-Eye Jill. We sang it echoing in the halls to celebrate Larry.
<< Home