The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of
’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-You Can’t Go Home Again, Damn It, You Can’t- With Thomas Wolfe’s Novel In Mind
By Allan Jackson
A story as told to Josh Breslin
[I don’t know Larry Larkin the
subject of this piece but I do “know” Larry, his story and his plight part.
This is one of the few sketches that I didn’t do more than a little light
editing and a lot of conversation with Josh Breslin about where to head with
the thing. See this is one of the few pieces that don’t necessarily have to do
with classic rock and roll days and those like Larry, Josh and I who were
washed clean by that experience so I let Josh go where he wanted on this once
he completed his interviews with Larry. Still the subject is as intense today
as it was back in those 1960s days when anything was possible.
Normally I would have taken a pass
on doing an introduction to a piece like this because between Larry and Josh’s
comments and stories they tell all that needs telling and I would add nothing.
This one is different mainly because Larry’s not being able to go home again
when the deal went down resonates well beyond the specifics of his story. More
than a fair share of corner boys from the old working class, working poor Acre
neighborhood in North Adamsville found they couldn’t go home again either just
like Larry up in Olde Saco (and Josh too and someday I hope he will write up
his story which will share some of the same angst that Larry faced as he explained
to me one whiskey night after his long estranged mother had passed away).
Strangely, actually maybe not so
strangely, the stories Larry and Josh have to tell did not surface until late
adulthood. The same with the stories of corner boys like Frankie Riley, Johnny
Callahan, Jimmy Jenkins and a fistful of others I have interrogated about the
matter over the past few years. And me too. All of them, us have tales of
estrangement and woes that never got resolved. Of course we know Markin’s,
Scribe’s alienation and angst because we all think that contributed to his
early and frankly weird demise but the rest of us worked under the working
principle of the times, of the mostly Irish enclave of “not airing the family’s
dirty linen in public.” That extended to talking out loud even to fellow corner
boys about what was happening at home. Even Scribe seldom mentioned anything
about anything except you could tell he was always brooding about something or
was in a dither that you could tell automatically because he would suddenly say
he had to go run off his anger (which made him a great high school trackman if
nothing else).
I think we have enough material in
the piece so that I don’t have to go on and on here about my own circumstances
and maybe someday I will write a little something up but know this. I too was estranged
from my family, never went to my father’s funeral, which was a mistake, or my mother’s
which was not so line up. (Mothers by the way back then in that neighborhood
and maybe elsewhere as well were the main adult harassers and despots fathers were
too busy earning not enough money to come up for breathe except on some major
thing and hence that father mistake which I regret to this day.) Allan Jackson]
*******
Larry Larkin wondered, wondered that
night as 2012 turned into New Year’s Day 2013 why he had been fixated on that
title from the long ago American novelist Thomas Wolfe and his damn book, You
Can’t Go Home Again. Wondered too why over the previous five years, the
five years since he initially tried to “go home, again” he had not realized the
truth of that simple expression, had caused himself more grief that wisdom
choking over every misstep in the effort. All of this wondering, aided perhaps
by a few sips of white wine that he was sharing with his companion, Laura Hoppe,
as the new year came in had been triggered by remembrances of the past year’s
final (he hoped final) beating about the head over the matter when he had tried
to attend his 50th anniversary high school class reunion of the
Class of 1962 at Olde Saco High in the early fall at the Laurent Hotel , a
place that back in the day had meant nothing but trouble including the location
of his first marriage wedding reception. He had in the end wound traipsing with
Laura into Big Sur canyons clear across the country on the weekend of the
scheduled event. After churning it over in his head Larry thought, before the
wine flowed too freely to his brain that he had better go back to the
beginning, better go back to look how each step taken on that “go home, again ”
trail had been fraught with portents of eventual failure. And that ebbing New
Year’s Eve he at least knew that that road was now mercifully closed to
him.
Sure Larry knew, knew way before
2007 when he caught the “go home” bug that he could not go back to the time of
his youth in Olde Saco when even when things were tough, tough meaning the
constant war between he and his mother, Delores (nee LeBlanc, descended from a
long line of French-Canadian peasants he guessed they would be called, fellahin
a friend of his, Josh Breslin also with French-Canadian blood in him on his
mother’s side also LeBlanc although not related, trying to be smart called
them, who came down from barren Quebec to look for work in the mills and never
looked back), there were memories, maybe good memories, that sustained him in
bad times.
So Larry did not believe that year
he was going to go back to that “go home” but he did believe that he could at
least settle on an “armed truce” with that past. A past which included a very
long period of alienation and lost contact with his people back in Olde Saco, a
period of no contact by his own finally frustrated choice. One day in the
mid-1970s he just decided that he could no longer take the punishing contact
with the family, that it was better all around to cut his losses and so
went his own way. But humankind is funny, or at least Larry thought it was
funny that one day in 2007, one fateful day as it turned out, he had an intense
hankering to settle with his past, find out what happened to his family, who
was left and maybe try to reconnect. That one day was ordinary enough since
what had triggered his hankering (his word) was the fact that he had had to
return to Olde Saco to obtain a copy of his birth certificate in order to begin
the retirement process from his job as a middle-level civil servant up in
Augusta. So down to old town town hall Olde Saco he went. Of course since he
had spent the time and energy to travel down there he knew that he would just
had to stop off at Olde Saco Beach after he had completed his task.
As Larry once again began walking
Olde Saco Beach from the Pine Point far end he thought this stretch of ocean
front held many memories for a man who loved the sea, had declared at one time
or another that his homeland was the sea, was the mother, snarly and holy
vengeance one moment, tepidly ripple running to shore and gentle splashes the
next, who never abandoned him, draw what conclusions you will from that. Mainly
that cold early April day in 2007 he thought about how many times when he had
had some “unresolvable” beef (unresolvable then although now, having gone
through the same set of experiences with his own kids he chuckled over that
word) he would walk the mile to the beach from his shack of a growing up house
over on Atlantic Avenue and endlessly walk until he calmed himself down (later
in high school where he was a track athlete he would run that distance but the
brooding walking followed, followed as day to night). The beefs always over
wants, wants of one or sort or another usually over him wanting something,
clothes, date money, tickets to something, could have been anything, and she,
Delores, pulling the hammer down with the definite “no.” His hard-working
hard-pressed shadow figure father in the background backing her up, backing her
up without question. Other times the beefs were of a more serious nature,
trouble nature, trouble at school, trouble after school hanging around with his
corner boys, mostly thieving Irish kids, trouble with the law, mostly small unarmed
felonies, trouble, trouble as he squandered half his young life gnashing his
teeth against grabbing those from hunger want. It had been a close thing, a
very close thing, indeed that he had taken the judge’s, old Judge Matthews over
in the Arundel District Court, choice of enlisting in the Army over time at
Shawshank, seeing afterward what had happened to a few of his corner boys,
Clipper Johnson, George Kelly and the late Jimmy Dubois, as they edged their
own paths to the big house.
No question, and here he was not
giving into any false nostalgia, or at least he did not think that was but
there had been some good times too, mostly early on, but still good times.
Yeah, those trips to the beach with the family and the inevitable barbecues as
his father gave his mother (and maybe himself) a break from cooking, her an
indifferent cook at best harried by short father pay check money to feed five
growing kids, he could still smell those smells now all charcoal and warmth.
Those runs down to York Beach and the amusement park when he was fascinated by
his first run-in with the corner boy pinball wizards who populated the arcades
during the summer. Trips to Boston, trips to lots places in the area which made
up, a little, for a nerve-wracking home life. Yeah, those early days held much
promise before he came of age and the Delores wars started, started him out the
door to hang around with the guys at Lebreque’s Drugstore (and later Jimmy
Laurent’s bar where Jimmy did not ask questions about age but only the color of
your money). So after walking the length of the beach for the umpteenth time in
his life Larry got a small hankering. That hankering enlarged when he
surreptiously drove pass the old growing up shack of a house on Atlantic Street
and found that the house was no longer there but had been replaced by a high
end three-unit condo complex. He did not bother to check to see if any unit
belonged to Delores and Paul Larkin since no way could they have afforded such
digs. Besides he was too afraid to go near the premises in that neighborhood in
the unlikely case that some old neighbors might recognize him. Yeah, it was
like
that.
Then one day a few week later, out
of the blue, he began a Google search of the old town newspaper, The Olde Saco
Tribune, to see if any of his people other than the one outlaw older
brother he was still in contact (and that relationship too had stormy no
contact periods), William were still around. William then in assisted living
quarters in Wells after a long career of petty armed robberies in Massachusetts
and New Hampshire which produced a long career in various state penal
institutions nixed any involvement in the search having his own dank memories
and beefs. Yeah, Larry developed a hankering to see who was still around
(including the extended family many of whom on his mother’s side had lived in
the Olde Saco area after the huge migration out of the Quebec farms to work the
mills and on his father’s side too, working the mills that is, including him).
There the beauty of the Internet, even the now outdated capacities of the 2007
Internet came to the rescue. That search brought forth information from the
on-line Obituary section that an uncle, Lawrence Larkin who he was named after,
had died in 2005 after serving many years on the Kennebunk police force. That
was his uncle, no question. More importantly, among those in attendance at the
funeral was one Delores Larkin, although no mention was made of his father,
Paul. Delores was listed as being from South Portland and so on a whim he
checked on-line to see if a land-line telephone was listed in her name. Bingo,
there was one listed under her name. Larry thought this whole exercise had been
way too easy, he had been prepared to go to a detective agency if necessary and
here without two hours he had located his
mother.
Then the real crush began. Should or
should he not made the call to confirm that identity. Larry literally held his
breathe for a moment and dialed. An older woman’s voice (his mother would have
been in her late 80s by then) answered and he made his identity known. As he
found out later from a sister his mother had thought that he (and that brother
in Wells) were dead and so she had been confused, not sure who she was talking
to and told him to call back later when his sisters Maureen and Cecelia would
be home. A couple of hours later even before he had a chance to call back his
sister Maureen called him (another virtue of modern communications
technology-caller identification) and in no uncertain terms asked him what the
hell he wanted after all these years. The conversation, which lasted about an
hour, or he thought it seemed that long, provided information about his
father’s death in the 1980s and the deaths of other close and extended family
members, including his other brother Prescott in 2003.
Beyond the family information
Maureen expressed bitterness that Larry who had been able-bodied, had after all
made something of himself up in Augusta (after he provided his own life
information to her), and who had no good reason not to have been in contact
should trouble (her word) their mother now. She and Cecelia had spent the time
since their father’s death providing for their mother’s welfare, including the
previous several years her living with Maureen and her husband. When Larry
expressed an interest in seeing his mother Maureen cut him off at the knees.
She, they, left the situation like this. She and Cecelia would explain the
situation to their mother and if she wanted to see him then they would think
about giving their consent. They would contact him if they did so. The old
“don’t call us, we’ll call you” brush-off gave Larry a knot in the pit of his
stomach, and a feeling, the first of what would be a long line of such similar
feelings, that he would not be able to “go home”
again.
And so it came to pass. In late 2007
he received a phone call from a cousin, Peter LeBlanc (or rather his companion
Laura received a phone call because he was then down in Boston at a conference),
telling him that his mother had passed away, had passed away a couple of days
before in a Portland nursing home and that the funeral would be the following
Saturday at Saint Anne in Olde Saco. (Peter had also used the Internet to find
Larry since he too had been on the outs with his family, and with Maureen who
refused to give him Larry’s telephone number. Hail Internet, for some things
anyway.) Here was the hard part for Larry to take, he knew when neither Maureen
nor Cecelia called back that time he would not get to see his mother alive but
Peter made it clear that Maureen and the rest of the family under no
circumstances wanted Larry or William at the funeral services. So the curse
would extend to the grave, beyond the grave. Larry took that knowledge hard for
a while, although he and William did visit the fresh grave of his mother (and
the well-worn graves of their father and other brother) at the family plot in
Scarborough and thought no more about it, or better, did no more, knew then he
could not go that way home again.
Truth. Larry, smart enough to know
that chapter was over, closed, still had this empty spot, or as he told Laura,
this world-historic need (he really does say stuff like that) to dust off, to
salvage some part of the long ago past, to make sense of the shut-out that he
had just faced and what that meant to him. That is when he got to thinking
about his old close corner boy from back in the days, going back to elementary
school times on Atlantic Street, Kenny Bradley. Funny one night in early 2008
when filled to the brim with melancholia he thought about those times when his
mother who had worked at Mister Jiffy’s Donut Shoppe in Biddeford for a few
years filling jelly donuts to help make ends meet when his father was having trouble
finding work after the mills started closing down and heading south, or
wherever they headed to get cheaper labor used to give Kenny a bagful of
day-old donuts to take home when he came over to the house. Even in high school
when all hell was breaking loose in Larry’s life and it was that close thing
about a life of crime that drove the main wedge between him and his parents
Delores Larkin could do no wrong in Kenny’s eyes based on that childhood
kindness.
He had thought to himself that night
that he had been thinking about Kenny for a while, about what had happened to
him, where he was if he was alive, ever since he had received an invitation to
attend his 40th anniversary class reunion since graduation from Olde
Saco High. He had hemmed and hawed about going to the event before backing off
but that invitation had been the first time he thought seriously about getting
in touch, although like a lot of things in Larry’s life he let it slide until
the finality of his mother’s death brought lots of stuff to the surface. He
would find himself softly singing a verse from old 1960s folk minute singer Tom
Paxton’s song, I Can’t Help But Wonder, a song they both had loved back
then, “I’ve got a buddy from back home but he started out to roam and I hear
he’s out by Frisco Bay…and I’m going out to see him some old day, ” since
Frisco had been the last place they had run into each other after Kenny had
gotten out of the Navy and decided that he would start fresh in the West like
lots of their kindred had.
And here is where modern
communications technology came in again after Larry had been unsuccessful in
finding out Kenny’s whereabouts through a member of that 40th
anniversary reunion committee who had wound up as the secretary to the
headmaster of Olde Saco High and privy to any information that might be easily
accessible about him. He tried a straight Google search finding eventually that
Kenny’s parents had both died and since he was an only child that kind of cut
short some other possibilities. Along with the search for Kenny Larry was also
in something of a memory writing mood putting together some small sketches
remembered from his youth about high school dances, the lovers’ lane at Squaw
Rock down at the isolated end of Pine Point, hanging out with corner boys,
strange dating girls hassles, football rallies, all pretty much directed back
to old high school days.
Frustrated Larry Googled Olde Saco
High School Class of 1962 to see if he could get anything from that end.
Eventually he got to a generic all-America, maybe all-world, although he never
checked that far, commercial website which for a small fee would “connect” you
with your class. Larry paid the freight and for his efforts found his class
listed, and more importantly a list, a fairly current list of all the members
from his class who had joined the site. And bingo once again there was the name
Kenneth Bradley. The way this site worked is that you or whoever you were
trying to contact needed to pay that damn fee to be able receive private e-mails
and so Larry did pay and sent the e-mail with a short message to Kenny and a
way to contact him. A couple of days later Kenny telephoned him from Boston
where he was running his own contract painting company and doing quite well.
They cut up old touches for a couple of hours agreeing to meet in Boston a week
or so later when Larry would be in Boston for another of his endless
conferences. They met at Joe’s American Café in the Back Bay and while they
both had grown stouter, and had lost some hair, unlike many of Larry’s old
acquaintances they easily recognized each other on meeting.
They had a good
night with good food, good drink (they had been notorious drinking partners
even in high school which got them both into more than one of those “trouble trouble”
situations that dotted Larry’s youth. The highlight was that Kenny had brought
his very own copy of the Olde Saco Magnet, their high school yearbook,
and had many a nostalgic laugh over this and that. Of course Larry had been so
alienated upon graduation, as well as having a few grand larceny charges
hanging over him which would be resolved only by his taking the Army part of
old Judge Matthews Army or jail options, that graduation night drunk as
skunk he had thrown his copy in the Scarborough River and good
riddance.
Larry and Kenny had been from
elementary school days until that last time Larry had seen Kenny in Frisco as
close as two guys could be without being brothers. The had laughed when Kenny
made a comment at Joe’s that they probably were the only heterosexual guys in
the class (maybe the school or town even) who people wondered about whether
they were gay (or to use the term used then in sublime ignorance, “fags”). That
Boston night had been the highlight of their reunion although they met several
times after that over the next several months for dinner, to watch sports which
Kenny was still addicted to, and a couple of times Kenny had joined Larry and
Laura at concerts (one a Bruce Springsteen concert down in New Haven) but the old
comradeship seemed to be lost, lost like that closeness vanished in the bay out
there in California.
During this time Larry began
grinding his teeth when Kenny would endlessly talk about his painting business,
about the stock market that he dabbled in, graphic detail about his sexual
conquests, more endless talk about sports and frankly stuff that Larry had
either lost interest like sports or never cared to talk about and from his end
would be reduced to bringing up some old time flame, caper or incident from
high school days to fill the time. Larry sensed that maybe Kenny realized too
that they had gone very far away on their separate ways, and after dinner one
night in York Beach in early 2009 they had parted saying they would give each
other a call soon to get together again. They never did and that “go home”
episode passed into
dust.
Although Larry felt the Kenny
connection drifting away he still was producing those small sketches about
life, mostly high school life, in the old days in Olde Saco and placing them on
the appropriate section of the class website. Several of them, especially about
the local custom of searching for “submarines” from the backseats of ’57 Chevys
at Olde Saco Beach at night (the reader can be presumed to be able to be figure
that one out), the infamous grapevine that provided much needed intelligence
about who or who was no “going steady” centered in Monday morning before
school talkfest, and the night life at the Olde Saco Drive-In and Jimmy Jack’s
Diner on Main Street grabbed a great deal of comment and reply. Some of them so
he heard later from a woman classmate who had read them at the time would
become the talk of his class.
All done good-naturedly, all done
with trying to fill some empty hole in him, and maybe them. Then the hammer
fell. Misty Gordon, Class vice-president, head cheerleader, chair of the senior
dance and prom committees, assistant editor of the school newspaper The
Ocean’s Edge threw down a gauntlet, made a comment, very pointedly after
forty years later like she had been holding it in for that whole period
of time to the effect that who did Larry think he was, a guy who got into
nothing but trouble as everybody in town knew and tittered over and never did
anything to help his class now wanted to proclaim himself the quote “
bard of the class.” Now Larry knew this Misty, you could hardly avoid her and
her well-publicized exploits in a small high school, vaguely but had never
spoken two words to her and said so in his very public reply. But he also said
that “yes” he was trying to be not THE bard but one and wrote a funny (some
thought it funny in the comment section) sketch about how he was perfect
for the job, had all the qualifications of former ne’er-do-well, drunk, loner
and non-participant so that some decades later he was qualified, over-qualified
for the job.
This created a firestorm for a while, a couple of months with the
social butterflies, sports guys, and do-gooders siding with Misty and the
misfits, nerds, loners, and outcasts giving Larry the nod. But he grew tired of
an essentially useless argument with people he had not seen for many years and
once again he had gotten that sinking feeling that this venture too was no way
home and gave it up. For a while.
Larry let up, gave up trying to “go
back home” for a while until near the end of 2011 with the 50th
anniversary reunion the next fall (according to information that he searched on
the Internet when he found the reunion committee had set up a private class
website for the event) when seemingly undaunted despite the previous track
record of failure he got some curious “mystical” sense that he could turn the
tide this time. He made contact with the members of the committee on the
website and offered to/asked to be on the committee. This is how the last
indignity unfolded as told to an old classmate friend of his, Josh Breslin, one
night who will at least tell it
straight:
“This is the way Larry Larkin, my
old friend and classmate from up Olde Saco way, told me his sad story over
several meetings at one or another of our favorite watering holes a short while
back where he felt he had to get something off his chest about his latest love
interest gone sour, his, as he called it, last indignity about “going home” to
the old home town, or rather making peace with his past. Through his activity
on our high school 50th anniversary reunion committee we had
communicated and met each other several times recently and he had carried me
along with his enthusiasm about the event. Got me interested in the old days,
and possibly going to the reunion. And he in turn confided in me about this
love problem, wanted me to write something up about it as a form of therapy for
him or something. I am no expert on the issue of love, or maybe better having
been married three times and having had numerous affairs and flings I am as
clueless as he about how to deal with the subject. In any case here are my
recollections of what he had to say on that sad whiskey-filled
night:
The last time Larry Larkin saw
Merissa Pinot he was looking back at the headlights of her automobile veering
off as dusk approached to go north on Route 133 just south of Amesbury along
the New Hampshire border in the early spring of 2012. He did not know
that that glimpse would be the last, the last physical time he saw her,
although given the all-out fight they had had earlier that evening including an
enraged outburst by him he suspected as much. But like many things in this
wicked old world of romantic relationships that would not be the last of it,
although that indeed was the last physical time he saw her. There were some
final shots, some last metaphysical kiss-offs before the real end. And so as
Larry had muttered to himself at some point during the last not so metaphysical
dust-up whether 16 or 68 years of age the romance game never gets easier. And
so this story, or end of story.
Let’s
take a step back to figure out about the whys of that last headlight glance
before we find out what happened after the subsequent fall and the last
dust-up. Larry told me he had been thinking about his 50th class
reunion at Olde Saco High since he had received an invitation to go to his 40th
reunion back in 2002. At that time Larry had dismissed the invitation with much
hubris because then he still thought that the bad luck that had followed him
for much of his life had been caused by his growing up on “the wrong side of
the tracks” in the old town. He told me, a number of times, that he had spent
half a lifetime blaming that bad luck hometown affiliation on everything from
acne to wormwood.
Subsequently
through some family-related deaths that took him back to the old town Larry had
reconciled himself with his roots and had exhibited the first stirrings of a
feeling that he might like to see some of his old classmates despite his dismal
failure to connect with our old classmate and his best friend Kenny Bradley. In
late 2012, around Thanksgiving he, at least marginally savvy on such
user-friendly sites, created a Facebook event page in order to see
if anybody else on the planet knew of plans or was interested in making plans
for a 50th reunion. One day, a few days after setting up the page,
he got an inquiry asking what he knew about any upcoming plans. He
answered in a short note his own limited knowledge at the time of any such
plans but that his intention in setting up the page had been to seek others to
help out with organizing an event if nothing had been established as yet. In
that reply he had forgotten to give his name. And that is how the “girl with
the pale blue eyes,” Merissa Pinot, came into view.
“Who
are you?” asked Merissa returning his message, a name that Larry immediately
remembered from his high school days although he did not know the woman
personally. He shot back a blushed reply about being sorry for forgetting to
include his name, gave it, and casually remarked that he had remembered from
somewhere that she was a professor at a college in the Boston area. He asked if
she was still there. She sent an immediate reply stating that no she was no
longer there but that she had been and was still a professor at the University
of New Hampshire, and had been for the previous twenty-five years. She also
mentioned that, having access to her Ocean’s Edge, her class of 1962
yearbook, she had looked up his class photo, and said he was “very handsome.”
Naturally
any guy from six to sixty would have to seriously consider anybody, any female
in Larry’s case, who threw that unanticipated, unsolicited comment a man’s way
especially since she sent her class photo back as well. That got them started
on what would be a blizzard of e-mails over the next several weeks.
Frankly,
after the first few exchanges Larry had been more than a little intrigued with
Merissa, intrigued enough to think about further discovery. And as it
turned out Merissa had been as well. They discovered they both had much in
common academically, professionally, politically and personally. I won’t go
into the specifics of those “things in common” because in looking over my notes
from Larry that would take more time than necessary to make the point.
A
point necessary to make though since it contributed to the fall was
Larry’s “relationship” status which he introduced to Merissa after that
initial blizzard of e-mails and phone calls. Here’s the gist of his
response:
“…You
know as well as I do that we both carry a lot of baggage, busted marriages,
affairs, and so forth. On the other hand we are both old enough to have
whatever level of friendship we want from just friends to an affair because we
both as far as I know have no ties that would prohibit that, neither of us is
married now. And even if we did in this day in age we could still have whatever
relationship we wanted. As long as we both have our eyes open and know the
score. That “know the score” part is what I want to talk about. It is nothing
bad but it is a complication. And even if we decide to be just friends it is
part of what is unfolding.
Up
until a few weeks ago for the past ten years or so since the end of my last
serious relationship I was just rolling along writing, doing legal work, doing
politics, playing golf and all the rest. Doing all of that while living in the
same house as the woman that was my last serious romantic relationship, Laura,
who is still my closest woman friend. I have known her for over twenty- five
years and about twenty years ago we bought this modest house in Bath together.
As time went on though we had, as couples will, our problems until about ten
years ago we decided that it wasn’t working. But we both wanted to keep the
house and be friends. I won’t go into all of that now but you can ask me about
it. So that is what we did. And there is nothing wrong with that people make
such arrangements all the time….”
“…Then
out of the blue you came along. You know how we “met” and all so I don’t need
to go into that but what happened is that I was not sure where we were heading
(at one point if anywhere) and so I made a point of keeping that “relationship”
information to myself. Remember I made a point about just concentrating on us
and not on other baggage stuff. Part of it obviously is that if we were not
going anywhere then such information didn’t matter and if we were then that
would just be an awkward situation that we would deal with. That is what a lot
of my concern about expectations, the way we have met and all of that, has been
about. I have told Laura about you in general terms (the only way to put it
since we still have not met) and since this whole thing has been topsy-turvy
that is where things stand right now.
If
all of this seems like too much then so be it-but as for me I still say
forward- if you don’t that is okay and we can work on some other way to be
friends. I think we both strongly want to be friends and should be damn it if
that is what we want. Later Larry.”
A
couple more cell-phone calls and another round of e-mails got this pair to
setting up the meeting in person, having a “date” like some hormonally-driven
teen-agers. (Larry could not remember who suggested the idea first but neither
flinched at that possibility all he remembered was that he would finally have a
date with an Olde Saco High woman something that had eluded all through
high school.) They both admitted to nervousness as they planned to meet in
Portsmouth up in New Hampshire at a restaurant that she had selected (he was to
be at a legal conference in Portland and that locale was the closest convenient
city for both of them). Needless to say they hit it off remarkably well.
And
Larry, with two divorces under his belt and that also untold number of
liaisons, was also in his less lucid moments thinking along some just such
lines as an affair with Merissa (who had also been divorced twice as well),
maybe more. Except. Oh yeah, except here is where it got tricky, where Larry’s
calculations sort of misfired. Larry was, as he learned as they went along, ah,
still “married,” had been emotionally “married” for many years to Laura in his
head although he was only beginning to realize that, although as mentioned in
his e-mail to Merissa for a number of years past they had been living as
“roommates.” Roommate meaning separate beds, mostly separate lives, and most
definitely no sex. That hard little fact, that “marriage” fact, a fact that I
kept mentioning to him as he got deeper into the human sink of Merissa.
Naturally he would not listen at that point.
That
left Larry in a quandary. He knew, just like Merissa knew, that he desired her,
wanted to have sex, make love to her. But he also knew that once that happened
that a bridge would be crossed, or so that was his thinking at the time. Still
Merissa was there, still he wanted her so one Friday afternoon he called her up
out of the blue and told her to meet him at a hotel in Portsmouth. And that was
their high point, the acme of their thing. That was also the point where Larry,
back-tracking, began to squirm a little both at what he had done, that
bridge that he had crossed and that home he had left behind for a minute. The
omens thereafter were not good, although he never spoke other than in general
terms of those nights to me and I only knew that they had had sex from the
notes he handed to me.
But
Merissa was a fretter and a planner, not necessarily in that order so at
some point between that Friday and their resumption of e-mail traffic the next
day she, possessed of some dream future with Larry, tried to find out
more about Laura, about that “roommate” arrangement and what was to become of
her. See Merissa had certain rules as we all more or less do in that she took
pride in her serial monogamous relationships. She was with a man, and a man was
with her, or no dice. Once she finished with a man that was that. She told
Larry that in a set of e-mail exchanges on the subject. He in a little panic
over her hard and fast position kept trying to calm her doubts, kept trying to
pass over his longtime relationship as some platonic boy-scout trip, kept
trying to keep his head above water with Merissa. That night, that restless
Saturday night, he tossed and turned trying to mull things over in his head and
came up empty. Came up with the only conclusion that made sense-end the
flirtation and walk away. He, and this is characteristic of Larry, “wrote” the
thing out in his head first and then at the crack of dawn gathered himself from
his bed and went to the computer to compose an e-mail which he sent later that
morning. Larry never gave Merissa a chance to respond since a few hours later,
maybe two, he called her up and begged her to forget what he had written and
that they should keep on going as best they could but that he planned to do
right by her.
So
they went along for a while, sometimes happy, sometimes on edge with all that
future talk business in the background. Probably though the end started to
crumble the month before the end when a few days after coming back from a
fateful Washington trip together Merissa took a big spill, a serious fall at a
pool in Portsmouth where she swam to get exercise, that broke her hip bone
requiring surgery and their budding romance came to a crashing halt as she
convalesced and Larry took on the unaccustomed role of care-giver- general. Not
so much that incident itself since it was an accident but what it did to
enforce her idleness which left her too much time to think about how she wanted
him with her, wanted him to leave Laura, wanted to make those 208 plans
(roughly) that Merissa spent her waking hours doing in order to have him come
closer to her.
Not
a meeting between them in that period went by without some variation of the
on-going argument. Although there were some nice times, (one time he drove her
to their Olde Saco the sites of their youth homes both of which had
been torn down since the old days and they had many laughs, and some sorrows,
over that). Even when he had driven up in order to allow her to teach a seminar
at UNH and then drove her the next day over to the Portsmouth General to get
her cleared to be able to drive she/he/they argued over that same old, same old
material.
The
few days before the end had not been much better (really a few weeks Larry
thought since that damn accident put her out of commission placed a damper on
their affair as he became a care-giver and she a patient). The inevitable
Merissa war cry of when was Larry going to leave his “wife,” when he was going
to leave Laura, and what, get this, constructive steps he had taken to break
with her had led to a series of arguments starting with the day that she was
finally given the okay by the doctor in charge of her case at Portsmouth
General to drive.
Naturally
the e-mail and cell-phone traffic (actually the diminished traffic,
significantly down from the days when they would sent blizzards of e-mails to
each other when he thought about it later) reflected those unresolved tensions.
She needed to spent that first week of liberation catching up on work, house,
social chores and could only spare that next Thursday evening for them to get
together and since she was going to be in the Salem (NH) area they decided to
meet in Amesbury for dinner. Before that though Larry made what would be a
mistake, a fatal mistake, of putting into writing some of his feelings about
where they were at in their relationship. Thus he sent her an e-mail which was
the final piece of evidence that things had gone drastically wrong.
They
had a short acrimonious cell-phone exchange after she received that e-mail but
again agreed to meet in Amesbury the next day to figure things out. That next
evening things started well enough, after Merissa had ordered wine with her
dinner. The net result of their discussions was that they would go on as
friends for a while and see where that led. Of course to go beyond the friend
stage Merissa gave no uncertain terms to the proposition that she could not go
on, was “ashamed” to go on under the circumstances unless Larry got a place of
his own, left Laura.
Merissa
ordered another wine, unusual for her, and that must have given her courage to
speak again of the e-mail. She said it read like a lawyer’s closing argument,
that she had been hurt and that he was basically a bum of the month. He became
incensed, yelled at her and threw money on the table for dinner and walked to
the men’s room to fume. When he came back he tried to tell her his point of
view but he was tired of arguing by then and just said “let it go for now.”
They left, she put her hand in his arm as usual and he muttered that “they were
in very bad place” as he walked her to her car. He looked at her shoes, the
shoes she reminded him that she had worn in sunnier days down in Washington and
he commented “that seems like a long time ago” as they arrived at her car.
Rather than the usual kiss good-bye he yelled out “I’ll be in touch,” as he
walked back to his own car.
Since
Merissa was not good at directions (and the Google maps were
helter-skelter on this one) Larry had consented to have her follow him out of
Amesbury on Route 27 which she did until they got to the U.S. 495 South
entrance. A couple of exits up she veered off onto Route 133 for home. As he
shifted gears from fourth to fifth to push on up to speed in the U.S. 495 night
after he saw her automobile veer off to the northern route home he breathed a
sigh of relief, and of sadness. They never saw each other again.”
And
the final nail, hopefully the final nail, had been driven into the idea that
Larry Larkin could “go home” again.
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