TWO ON A FARTY
Naw, dude, he had no idea the age of the nnnugget, Julianna, but she definitely wasn’t some puppy-eyed punkette younger than Ronnie, now floundering somewhere in his mid-twenties. There were some hungover mornings when he could believe his mind’s jive turkey talk—that he was you know hanging out with some older Anne-Bancroft-Mrs.-Robinson-scotch-and-Virginia-Slims- panty-hose-and-blouse-type, but there were nights when the malt liquor was really kicking in, and the bands were hitting their strides three to four songs into their sets, her blue eyes were you know Bambified wonder, and she would shake that curvy-enough body up and down round and round, and Ronnie’s hormones sang Beefheartian lyrics on the order of “Rather than I wanna hold your hand / I wanna swallow you whole / and lick you everywhere that’s pink / and everywhere you think,” she looked younger than Ronnie, younger than the clove-smoking dorm girls in their CRASS t-shirts. As he got to know her, Ronnie no longer thought about Julianna’s thirtiness (thirtiness!), and he even for- got that on the night he met her, he contemptuously regarded her as “an aging yuppie.” Natch, when Ronnie first met Julianna, she was looking notso hotso. It was at The Drunken Mick; she swiv- eled on the stool next to Ronnie’s and she had lost a twenty dollar bill and was accusing the Irish bartender of shortchanging her on her last drink. She kept swiveling in her chair like a drunken manatee bobbing and weaving in a lagoon scanning the dark dirty bar floor for any sign of the bill, mumbling and swaying as the barstool squeaked each time she spun a 360, leaning forward, back of her blouse bunching upward and revealing the promise of two glorious asscheeks. As she spun, Ronnie was getting the feeling he was on the verge of being accused of reaching across the bar and stealing the twenty when she left it there while stumbling off to use the ladies’. Each time she spun his way he felt nausea in his stomach; he totally thought she was a stupid-ass aging yuppie. Actually she didn’t think Ronnie Altamont had anything to do with it; her only suspect was the bartender, tallying her drinks with her hands—wwwwwun . . . twoooo . . . thhhhreeee . . . fffffff- four . . . fffffive . . . sssssix . . . ssssssseven . . . —repeatedly, obnoxiously asking why they don’t teach subtraction in Irish schools.
Then Ronnie found it as he was about to bail, irritated and depressed with his decision to waste the evening drinking when he could have been trying to write; he spotted the twenty folded in half, pressed against the bar and the floor, far below the range of the swiveling yuppie’s double-sight. With the kind of self-righteous elitist snobbery one gets when knowing that the independent rock and roll music you’re fond of is billions of times better than the dependent rock and roll music the masses are spoonfed, Ronnie plucked the bill from the floor, made a sarcastic produc- tion of showing her the discovered twenty, and slammed it on the bar without saying a word. Two events prevented him from leaving The Drunken Mick right then and there. Three Gainesville scene nnnnuggets entered the bar one . . . two . . . three, and they knew Ronnie from his parties, and he knew them because they were nnnnuggets and anytime he saw them—individually and collectively—he bit his fist like Lenny from “Laverne and Shirley,” and as they said their Hahhhhowareyewws in that syrupy southern way of theirs, at the same time, the woman, Julianna, wouldn’t stop thanking him for finding the twenty, wanted to repay him in whatever he wanted to drink. Well? Sure. Ok. He returned to his seat, she bought him the drink, the nnnuggets seated to his right bought him drinks, the yuppie bought the nnnuggets drinks, the nnnuggets bought the yuppie drinks, and Ronnie made charming promises to repay them all when he finally found a job, and in no time it was like the beautiful bright celebration Ronnie wanted to throw when the lead singer of U2 finally up and died.
Within minutes, she was no longer an aging yuppie but someone decently attractive, who spoke knowledgeably of Belgian indie-pop and Nova Scotian hardcore, who actually knew the older members and the older bands of the scene inside and out, who had moved to Charlotte, North Carolina on a whim, and moved back to Gainesville, Florida on a whim, someone even more to Ronnie’s taste than the nnnnuggets with their fake IDs could ever be. Seeing them, Ronnie and Julianna, in the long bar mirror behind all those multi-colored liquor bottles, he saw all the makings of a fellow flounderer, the perfect companion to kill these empty Gainesville afternoons, evenings and late nights. She could pass for an almost-haggard Swedish stewardess, short blonde hair, pale skin, almost statuesque save for the slight arm flab, a barely perceptible unfirm around the middle, tiny purple veins beginning to emerge in the thighs. Have you ever heard the song “Lady Midnight” by Leonard Cohen? Well, if you have, she— and it—were a lot like that. Ronnie had uneven short black hair from one-too-many friends who were amateurs with hair clippers. He had a darker inevitable Floridian tan—even though he rarely ventured outside. He wore black-rimmed glasses—handles covered in grime eating into the hinges. He kept his stained baby blue Oxford shirts untucked to camouflage the emerging beer belly. Unfortunately for Ronnie, the belly would kind of, you know, hang over the shorts he was forced to wear nine months out of the year, and by the month, it was getting harder and harder to hide, no matter how much he sucked it in. Of course, behind the bar, the nnnuggets didn’t notice it, but when he stood . . . I mean, did The Ramones have beer bellies? That’s how he explained it to Julianna. She said, Dude, find something else to drink besides all that stupid beer, get some exercise! Why do you care so much about it? I’m older than you; I should be the one complaining! Beyond the floundering and the drunken belligerence, Julianna was usually well-intentioned in her honesty, even if Ronnie would never argue with someone as much as he did with her. She would argue over anything—literally anything—especially when drunk—and she lived in France for two years and knew everything about pre-fusion jazz—knew more about music than even Ronnie’s extensive knowledge, spoke fluent Russian, graduated Magna Cum Laude at the University of Florida. Easily, she was the smartest woman Ronnie had ever met, but there was nowhere for that energy to go, so she drank, and that would have been depressing to be around, if Ronnie hadn’t matched her drink for drink, time and time again. Totally, when he stopped thinking of her as some yuppie, he thought of her as a serious drinker—not a drunk or a lush or an alcoholic—not yet, and maybe not ever—but as someone equally as bored as Ronnie by what his surroundings had to offer anymore. Her intelligence simply didn’t exist with the women in the Gainesville punk scene. Some came close— Maux, for instance—but they were too young, masking their inexperience with a self-invented world-weariness.
Fortunately for Ronnie, he had broad shoulders. If he could hold his shoulders back and try not to slouch, the beer belly practically disappeared, but unfortunately, years of playing and seeing loud music had dulled his hearing. To listen to what the nnnuggets were saying, he needed to slouch inward, towards them. He had no money—living a hand-to-mouth existence from plasma donations—so joining a gym or even buying running shoes was completely out of the question. To be in shape meant not playing music, not writing, not going out each night, because it meant finding a full-time job, and Ronnie Altamont, in case you didn’t know it, was destined to be a great writer and all that shit. Yes, all that shit!
Being a little fat and a little deaf, and more so by the month, it seemed, Ronnie would lean into conversations, shoulders slouched, belly poked out, if he wanted to hear what the nnnuggets were yapping about. It isn’t nice and it isn’t cool to not listen to the nnnuggets, because the way they talk and what they talk about is almost as important as how they look in determining whether or not they’re really and truly a nnnugget, or some run-of-the-mill cute girl with the grave misfortune of being a fan of Alice in Chains, and Ronnie hated making that mistake. So he leaned inward a little bit, and the gut popped out enough to make Ronnie inwardly cringe, ashamed at what the floundering was doing to his body, making him age ungracefully, someone who could no longer hang with nnnuggets, with anyone younger than he. But, as he often said to Julianna, it’s important to know if they’re, you know, punk, or not.
Julianna disagreed, and they had many arguments about it. But Ronnie was obsessed with this, and would go on and on about it, like some Maximumrockandroll columnist delineating what is and isn’t punk and why and why not and Julianna would surrender the argument out of outright boredom, simply not caring one way or the other, as Julianna had slowly moved away from younger punk rock obsessions in ways Ronnie had not.
About her own looks, Julianna was equally depressed.
You know, Julianna would say, I used to be a nnnugget myself. Before I thought I had grown up. I can hide years, and sometimes, when they’re drunk enough, I think the boys actually think I’ll be off to take my core classes the next morning. Assuming they even care about it, and many of them don’t. How can they not see this fatty ass and this fatty face and this sagging everything else, Ronnie?
Bull. Shit. Ronnie would counter. You’re beautiful and I know it, and they know it, and if you don’t know it, I’m gonna keep telling you! Kee-rist, lady! Get over here!
And Ronnie would stand, extend his arms into a hug the way he would when he thought he was being charming, and he’d put his arms around her and embrace, hands touching her back where the Carolina pale was darkening into Floridian permatan, and it was always around closing time, when the bars or shows or parties were ending and this youthful life they had lived for far too long felt exhausted and they didn’t know where to go or what to do next, that tasty guitar lead to the Dan’s “Reelin’ in the Years” came on like it always does, somewhere, on a jukebox. Another night where you go out with so much hope and come back feeling older than you actually are. The world is against you, and so are the nnnuggets, who are as coy as you are drunk and the teasing is the worst, the unconscious coy teasing that inspired so many of those emo songs from the emo bands of that emo town. These temporary early twentied sorceresses of the nanosecond, the boys and girls at the height of their beauty, and after this, it would be over for them the way it would be over for Ronnie and Julianna, and only Ronnie and Julianna knew this secret, and it killed their hurt along with the booze—the bottle and the wisdom a futile solace wherever they ended up. This brought out the “Reelin’ in the Years” talk, the regrets of wasted lives with wasted lovers, forget- ting they were still young and not unattractive.
Really, they batted about .300. Usually once a week one of them succeeded in what Ronnie called “prospecting for nnnuggets.” On the awesome nights, they were both successful. The awe- some nights weren’t as rare as snow, but they weren’t as frequent as frat boys, but it was obvious they were a good pair, setting off the latent charms inside each other that nnnuggets picked up on immediately and responded accordingly. The nights were bright brilliant parties of bands and booze and pizza and singing and the ol’ awoooooga! Julianna’s arrival into Gainesville led Ronnie to reserves of vast energy, to places Ronnie never knew existed. It was the best of times, papa papa papa ooo mow mow papa ooo mow m-mow, even when it was notso hotso. Even if the worst happened, if there were no nnnnuggets around and it was only Ronnie and Ju- lianna sitting on Ronnie’s roof—bored, drunk, and arguing—hey, it beat sitting at home watching television, waiting for work the next day. Good or bad, it was living.
That first week, they were inseparable, seven days and nights of binge-drunk self-destructive hilarity! Kicks! Ronnie thought, in the Kerouac-mindheart of these moments. The break-ups and the frustrations of not fitting in in this alien land melted and out of all that Ronnie reemerged as a goof with a fellow goof, a goofette, and her arrival in town brought all the dudes around and all the nnnnuggets appeared around Ronnie, because it seemed they were together but they weren’t together, it was like that first dusty grizzled prospec- tor sticking his tray into the crick, sifting out the dirt and the water and he sees it and screams “GOLD! IT’S GOLD IN THEM THURR HILLS! HOORAY FOR 1849!” and you and her are the only ones in the crick and it’s simply a matter of how many nnnuggets you can carry off because they’re there ready for you to take them home.
What a great week that was, when they were first inseparable. Starting at The Drunken Mick, when Julianna had lost her twenty dollar bill that Ronnie found. Clinton was reelected. The Gators were bound to win the National Championship in football. There was a safety to the mid-90s, between decades full of apocalyptic gloom and doom, and there was relatively less to worry about. With few responsibilities and a time to get out there and enjoy life, why the fuck not? Everyone was apathetically blissful, ripe for adventure. Yes, ripe!
By the end of the week, when the 70 percent unsuccessful rate would happen, Julianna was crashing on Ronnie’s couch rather than staying in her depressing studio apartment in some “high-rise” (six stories, a veritable skyscraper for Gainesville) close to campus. The second week was nowhere near as good as the first week. Julianna was beyond drinking for fun and relaxation. In the morning, she shook. She would vomit. She wasn’t eating. Her face puffed and sagged, and bags the size of tumors hung below her eyes. She was, as she said, the living embodiment of the Iggy and the Stooges song “Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell,” and Ronnie had to agree. She never looked older, and she lived in a constant cycle of pass out, vomit, pass out, vomit, and somehow nevertheless back to the studio to feed and walk her poor dog.
Then on Friday night, Ronnie’s roommate Roger had had enough. Ronnie figured it would only be a matter of time, but Julianna was oblivious, moving from one drink to the next. Eventually, Ronnie knew, that stressed-out aspiring film critic roomie of his was going to flip out over Ronnie and all these new weirdass older and younger friends coming and going at all hours, on morning drunks, afternoon drunks, night drunks. And Ronnie couldn’t afford to pay the bills, the rent. When he’d enter the Myrrh House with Julianna and whoever tagged along behind her who wanted more of whatever “their thing” was—whatever it was these new friends Julianna introduced to Ronnie were doing, Roger would turn away from his precious artfilms and send a deathglare that grew more severe with each passing day. Then one night, they brought back to the Myrrh House some nnnugget who wanted Ronnie to teach her guitar, and some ponytailed freshman who caught Julianna’s eye, some collegiate claiming he would be the next Scorsese, Roger snapped, raving like a Führer in a traffic jam.
What the fucking fuck fuck! he screamed. I live here! I work and go to school and when I get home I need to study and watch films! This isn’t The Drunken Mick! You’re the most selfish, thoughtless people, and you, Ronnie, are the worst roommate—
A nasty scene. Roger wanted everyone out, immediately. Julianna yelled, Sorry about your luck, fag! Ronnie lives here too! Roger swung a right hook, connecting with Ronnie’s jaw. Ronnie fell backwards, Julianna stuck her right index finger in Roger’s face, screaming, Why are you such an asshole, asshole?! and her new friend—the Next Scorsese, stepped in and started swinging.
Oh my God oh my God! screamed the nnnugget, standing over Ronnie, who bled and stared blankly at the ceiling. Scorsese stood over Roger, who had also fallen backwards to the floor.
As drunk and everything else as she was, Julianna always had a deep reservoir of composure when it was absolutely necessary. She could control her thoughts, her brain, into passable, rational sobriety.
You two should probably leave now, Julianna said to the nnnugget and Scorsese.
All the nnnugget needed was an I’ll be ok from Ronnie for her to step out the door, but Scorsese wanted more punches, even if Roger was already prostrate on the ground, holding back tears. Just leave, Julianna insisted, whispering, I’ll call you later. (The only time they ever saw those two again was at some party by the train depot two to three weeks later, where the nnnugget and Scorsese touched and groped and kissed like boyfriend and girlfriend while Ronnie and Julianna rolled their eyes. Kissing in public. How disgusting.) She gave Ronnie a dishtowel of ice for his jaw, and wiped away the blood and the tears from Roger’s face, making harmless jokes the entire time, so incredibly charming in that way only southerners have, when their voices are smooth soft and sugary and total and complete bullshit. You silly boys, she kept saying. All heart, no brains, no muscle. As a peace offering, Julianna offered Roger her collection of Jodorowsky videos. He agreed, but only if Ronnie agreed to stop having strangers over well into the early morning hours on weeknights. Fine, Ronnie sighed, through the drunkenness and the swelling jaw, as he was starting to believe that, more and more, he could actually date Julianna, if she would have him. That night, after they left Ronnie’s and actually spent the night in Julianna’s studio, she did.
The next morning, they talked about it in terms of its inevita- bility. Bound to happen, Julianna said. Wanted it to happen, Ronnie insisted. Now they could move on to other thoughts, other people.
Dating was out of the question. She refused to be with anyone, after leaving Charlotte, and Ronnie refused to take anything— especially this—seriously. But they would talk about it, indirectly, with a giggly reticence proving neither had grown up completely.
Fantastic, Julianna would later say, as they drank malt liquor on Ronnie’s roof, as the sun set over the student ghetto.
I always wanted it to happen, Ronnie said. From when I first met you and everything. It was better than I expected.
Aw, c’mon, Julianna said, punching Ronnie in the arm. It was awful. I was awful. Dranking (She called it “dranking.” She liked how it sounded more, you know, winoish?) too much made it awful, but it wouldn’t have happened any other way.
No, I was awful, Ronnie said, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek as she pulled away. We’ll never try it again. I was so bad.
You were great. The best. Julianna said. But we’re friends. Friends can’t do this.
It gets dramatic, Ronnie agreed. There’s too much of that here already.
I can’t be monogamous now, Julianna sighed. It’s too much trouble.
I don’t care that much, Ronnie said, finishing his quart of Brain Mangler malt liquor then watching the bottle roll off the roof and shatter.
They never officially got together again, but unofficially? Ok, sure. In those weeks they were the closest and most unorthodox of friends, there were some blacked out moments, when waking up was a jigsaw puzzle missing most of its pieces, one or the other waking up to the other’s snoring, an arm trapped under or draped over the other’s semi-nude body.
We didn’t, she’d say, waking up in her new place, some prefab house she rented on a month-to-month basis in the Duckpond, realizing she had more money saved from her Russian translation job in Charlotte than she realized. Money went further in Gainesville than in most places. God bless towns with cheap costs-of-living. (The month-to-month at the studio was far too depressing, surrounded by all those dumbass college kids yelling. Simply deplorable, ugh, she said. And besides, there was so much more room and a backyard for Charlie, her dog.) (She paid for everything. Food. Drinks. Once she happened to drive past as Ronnie was walking along. Where are you going? she asked. To donate plasma for money, he answered. What? What?! No, you’re not doing that. Get in here! Ronnie climbed into her car. If you need money, she says, I have money. You shouldn’t do that. It’s not good for you. And Ronnie never donated plasma again.)
Oh we did, baby! Ronnie would laugh. And you were, like . . . rrrrroar! Animal! Sex kitten! All that shit! Meow!
As much as she drank? Really? I must have been like a corpse!
Well, Ronnie said. What are you? Thirty-one? Thirty-two? You’re not far off, har har har . . .
Shut up, kid. Get your clothes on. I wanna bloody mary.
Oh, a bloody mary! My gout! My hernia! Ronnie laughed and laughed until Julianna yelled STEAMROLLER!!! and tried rolling over Ronnie, Bob and Doug McKenzie style.
Sometimes, they would break out what Dylan called “your useless and pointless knowledge,” but typically, neither wanted to talk of anything much deeper than where they would go to drink, where were the parties, and bands, bands, bands. Ronnie didn’t want familiarity. Familiarity hurt. For the first two weeks, Ronnie didn’t even know Julianna’s last name. Wasn’t interested. And for that first month, neither realized the other had a brain, you know, for thinking? Then, they would start talking of their recent pasts, their almost-glory days (if they were dumb enough to believe life peaked before you were twenty-two), when she was straight As and living in France, when he was editing the school newspaper and writing highly-regarded yet notorious humor columns. Over time, they learned they had more in common than the floundering, that they were older than the college crowd, smarter, yet dumber, and stuck in this town and they had no idea where they were going next.
It was a partnership of necessity, because nobody else around them was going through what they were going through, and they were connected in part because they shared a weariness with everything and everyone around them—for Ronnie, the culture of the South, and for Julianna, youth culture. They did not dislike anyone; they simply found it all too funny—punks, vegans, rednecks, indie-rockers, emo kids, co-workers, roommates, students. They would sit on Ronnie’s roof and they would laugh at all of them, and for all the right reasons. These kids were all so serious, thought everything mattered, thought life and living was all so very important. Ronnie and Julianna were the only ones in Gainesville who saw through all the pretentiousness of everyone. Ronnie and Julianna were real. They had lived. They weren’t in college anymore. Ronnie, for his part, had taken to speaking in an exaggerated Chicago accent, throwing out words like “yer basic,” and “jagoff” whenever the opportunity was there. On the roof, they were like Statler and Waldorf on The Muppet Show, heckling from their balcony. On the ground, at parties and shows, it was a mutual bitterness and frustration with where their lives were going . . . Excuse me, scenester jerks! Ronnie would yell as he moved through parties. Why do you whine so much? Why do you feel the need to whine your songs? Julianna would ask of bands during and after their sets. They hated these uniforms these Gainesville punks all wore—their stupid short hair and their beards and their tattoo sleeves and their black band t-shirts and their cutoff army fatigues and their wallet chains. They lived to be as obnoxious as possible around these people. And on the classic rock radio stations of the world, Steve Miller sang “Time keeps on slippin, slip- pin, slippin, into the future. Tick tock tick. Doo doo doo doo . . . ”
Yes, with each passing night, the awareness that this really could not last. They would have to grow up already. Knowing this lessened all inhibitions. Because these opportunities would not happen again. Ronnie wasn’t going to act this way when/if he made it to Julianna’s age, and beyond. And there was only so much money Julianna had saved, only so much she could use to buy Ronnie food and drink. She would need to find a real job eventually.
And Ronnie still considered himself and still wanted to be a writer. He thought of people he would never see again, of an Orlando that no longer existed.
This can’t last, Julianna said. Someday soon, we’re going to move on. We need to.
Why? This is fun.
You write. Your bedroom is full of scribbled journals and stacked pages. When I’m around you all the time, you do nothing but sit on this roof and drink and talk shit. It’s not healthy or right for you not to be writing. I’ve read what you’ve written.
No you haven’t.
One afternoon, while you slept off a late night, I grabbed the manuscript off your desk and read the first fifty pages while drinking coffee with Roger. I told him you were actually a pretty good writer. He agreed, didn’t understand why you weren’t trying anymore.
Cah-mahhhhhhn, Ronnie said in his best grew-up-in-Bridge- port-next-to-the-Daleys-accent.
I see you, observing all of this. You think it’s all one big Bukowski scene, and you’re Chinaski himself, but you ain’t that. No way. You’ve had it too good, overall. But you’re shifty-eyed, Ron- nie Altamont, and I see you observing these places, this town, and I know you’re writing a book in your mind. And someday soon, you’re going to give up this farty-fart fartaround and get serious with it.
And if I do, Ronnie said, you’re getting serious with me. Move to Chicago.
What am I going to do in Chicago? Seriously.
No idea. Because they knew, when this floundering existence ran its course, when one or the other or both said Enough! they would drift apart. Ronnie even knew it would go down the way Julianna predicted. In upcoming weeks, months. He would move on, and Julianna would either stay on the binge and find another partner in the floundering fartaround, or she would move to a real city and get a real job. The only conceivable way Julianna could get serious with life right now was if she fell off the roof, or crashed her car, or when the proverbial sauce and the proverbial dressing did to her outsides what it was doing to her insides. The Floridian climate makes the easy, unchallenging life very comfortable, seductive, and it isn’t something you can simply change overnight, wake up and say Ok world, let’s get to work. Only when you run out of money does that happen, and Julianna had no shortage of money. Let’s tour Florida! she said one fine hungover afternoon on Ronnie’s roof. I’ll drive. I’ll pay for everything!
The motherland? You wanna explore the motherland?
We’re taking a Gainesville timeout. Let’s dress like tourists and see what happens. We’ll go through the panhandle, both coasts, the Keys. Everywhere!
At the thrift store, they found a nice pair of sandals to go with Ronnie’s black socks. Swim trunks at the mall that looked like Bermuda shorts. A tan-gray short sleeved collared shirt with a penguin embroidered on the right breast. A light blue fishing hat with a navy blue brim. Flip shades for his glasses. An old camera neck- laced over the front. Sticky Fingers by The Stones on cassette on a perpetual loop. (I’m sick of all this played out punk rock garbage, Julianna said. Me too! Ronnie hollered.) Singing “It’s just that demon life / gotchoo in its sway.” Maybe Julianna went overboard with it, too undeniably a native Floridian to really look like a tourist, so when she dressed in a pink Minnie Mouse long-sleeved t- shirt, tucked into tight khaki shorts, she looked like an alien from the planet Camel Toe. The purple cruiseship visor and the sun- glasses permanently wedged behind into the bleach blonde hair was a nice touch. Perfectly new white Keds tennis shoes. It didn’t even occur to them to bring a change of clothes. Initially, Julianna drove her blue Honda coupe like a tourist, or like a retiree, sputtering down the Interstate at five to ten mph below the speed limit in the left lane, cutting across two-to-three lanes of traffic to hit an exit at the last second. But they grew bored with this, and it was too much work. Florida! Up and down the Atlantic coastline, where the past of seafood shacks, boiled peanuts, and neon motels gave more and more ground to the hot pink hotel skyscrapers. The old fort at St. Augustine, and the winding little walkways where the bars were filled with Conch Republicans listening to beach bums strum “Margaritaville” on nylon strings on beat-up acoustic guitars on tiny wooden stages. Across and down the peninsula, south of Orlando, driving through all the theme parks. A replica of the Bates Motel seen from the highway, on top of a hill, in front of a setting sun. Highway signs reading “HOLY LAND WET AND WILD/ NEXT EXIT 2 MILES.” Everyplace, every sign, reading, in essence: WELCOME TO FLORIDA. GIVE US YOUR MONEY! Decorative palm trees, Seussian in their postures and presentations. Ferneries and grapefruit groves. And it’s the no-season of 70 degrees. The absolute miracle of the nature when it isn’t ruined by overdevelopment. The dreadful towns. The backwoods. The Born Agains. The pick-up trucks with “NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR BEING WHITE” bumper stickers. The feeling of being on what amounts to a narrow stretch of land, memories of Bugs Bunny taking a chainsaw to the Panhandle, pushing Florida away and proclaiming, “Take ’er away, South America!” Through Tampa, the glows of televisions visible in all the tiny shacks along the highway, no promises of anything worthwhile for a couple of pretend tourists like Ronnie and Julianna, no disappointments nor regret for driving straight through.
Stopping in St. Petersburg to check out the Dali Museum. Watching Un Chien Andalou several times, fascinated by how people get up and leave when the music has its triumphant finish though the film does not. Humbled and inspired to continue living, and that’s how it went with them when they found the few artistic statements humbling and inspiring in their semi-affected jadedness. Seafood and wine by the water as piped in Caribbean music steeldrummed all over the place. Yah mon, Gulf Coast irie, Ronnie said, and Julianna laughed. They checked into a hotel for the night, planning to drive farther down the Gulf Coast before cutting across Alligator Alley, check out Miami then drive all the way down to the Keys before the long return trip to Gainesville. It’s a search for what Florida’s all about, Julianna said. The Floridian Dream! Whatever, Ronnie said. They reclined in separate beds, drinking wine, watch- ing late-night television, Ronnie flipping through the hip alterna- tive weekly paper. Says here there’s gonna be something called The St. Petersburg Margarita and Ribs Blues Fest tomorrow afternoon. Oh really? Julianna said. I could do this, Ronnie said. We’ll check out of the hotel, go see what this is all about. I do love all three of these, but together? That’s madness. Yes, it is crazy, Julianna said. Maybe we’ll learn something of our Floridian motherland.
And—hoo boy!—here comes the gremlin, the weasel, the Joe Lieberman of destiny to mess up all their plans, even though they really honestly had no one to blame but themselves!
Downtown St. Petersburg, among the strange mix of the bank buildings and old man bars. The streets are closed off. The margaritas are cheap, too cheap, and the ribs don’t cut into the tequila enough. At first, this is enjoyable. Fat Floridian Rush Lim- baugh-type guys looking like they just stepped off their yachts, faces smeared with barbeque sauce, spilling their ’ritas with ev- ery sway to the white man bluesbands singing “I went down to the crossroads” and so on and so forth on the stage draped in corporate sponsorship banners. Wristbands and handstamps. Clowns making animal balloons. Police. Ronnie and Julianna dancing like crazy, front and center, alone like Druncles at weddings, on their fourth, fifth, and sixth ’ritas, not as watered down as they should be. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Was it the ribs or the ’ritas or the bummer jams the white-man blues bands were laying on their ears? It could be any or all of the above, as everything turned a little, then a lot, disorienting, sloppy, gross. How they didn’t wind up in jail is anyone’s guess. There were all these kiosks selling things like pirate hats and plastic swords and rainbow-lensed John Lennon sunglasses. Ronnie, bored and drunk, thought it was funny to shoplift everything that wasn’t nailed down, and through the audacity and total belief that nothing bad could ever happen to him on that day, he continued getting away with it, to the point where he was walking down the street trying to speak in a Liverpudlian pirate accent. Oh, and then there were blackouts:
(Julianna making out with one of these Rush Limbaugh guys, one fattyass hand on her ass, the other fattyass hand holding a cigar.)
(Ronnie on the curb, singing a cappella Steely Dan songs like Mi- chael McDonald for spare change that was not forthcoming.)
(Ronnie wearing dozens of colorful beaded necklaces, exchanging these for views of tits of varying size and quality.)
(. . . . . . . . . . )
. . . And then they’re in the car, on some back road between St. Petersburg and Gainesville, Julianna driving, screaming (screaming!) You’re a shitless piece of worth, Ronnie! You’re the worst! I’m pulling over at the next town, and you can get the fuck out!
What did I do?
What did you do? What did you do?! I don’t know what you did! You were running around screaming “Tits!” at the top of your lungs, and “Blues!” and “Tits Blues!” and it was all I could do to drag you out of there to break up the fight that was about to hap- pen, the arrest that was about to happen.
He needed to remember to thank her for tapping into her sobriety reservoir when the going turned ugly. He could remember very little of this. You’re drunk too, he said.
Yeah, but we’re leaving. You’re getting out at the next town. I hate you Ronnie Altamont! Then, a ten minute tirade: You are a terrible writer, Ronnie, an awful musician, a lazy ass, no friends, no girlfriends. You destroy everything and everyone around you. You ruin people. You fuck up everything you touch, Ronnie. Everyone you touch. Jerk. Dick. Cock. Pussy. And on, and on, and on, Julianna broke out the big guns, so much so, Ronnie couldn’t accept it as anything more than Julianna too far gone on the ’ritas to be rational. Ronnie took out his wallet, tossed bills on the dash. Here’s gas money. Please drive me back to Gainesville, and that’s it. We don’t have to ever talk again. No! I’m pulling over now! She pulled over in the middle of Florida cracker ranchland—flat green earth and cattle only broken up by clusters of jungle. Aw, dude, Ronnie said. Please. Get out! No, I won’t! There’s my money. Take it. Just give me a ride home. And then, as the standoff in the heat and humidity was really about to start, Julianna calmly rolled down her window and
barfed. Ronnie looked away, staring at the ranchland. Violent retchings. Splatter onto the dirt shoulder of the road. That smell. What does this all mean? What were they doing here? In the backseat, a gallon jug of water. Ronnie reached back, grabbed it. Here. Drink this, he said. She turned around, wiped the puke off with her ironical Minnie Mouse t-shirt. Ok. Three large gulps. The fourth a swish around the mouth and a spit out the window. I’m drunk, she said. I shouldn’t be driving. We’ll go to the next town. Get a room. Ok.
After twenty minutes of nervous silence, they find a motel, and of course, like most east coast motels of this type, it’s called The Sunrise Motel. It’s evening when they check in. One bed apiece. Squiggly color TV. Wood-paneled walls. Julianna orders a pizza before passing out. Ronnie eats a slice before passing out. Hours later, he wakes up. Julianna spooned in next to him. He pulled her closer. On the floor, their now-wrinkled, stained, and stinky thrift-tourist clothing. None of this makes any sense to him. It isn’t supposed to. It’s the end, isn’t it? he thinks. The end of the fartaround. Ronnie was wide awake when the heralded sunrise attacked the motel room window, as the A/C unit wheezed like an asthmatic. He kissed Julianna on the back of her blonde head before falling asleep again. They would wake up and leave minutes before checkout time.
Hungover.
The day of the week did not matter, but from the serious driving of the mail trucks and delivery vans, it was a weekday late morning. A little remorse, but no regret, and a lot of recovery in Julianna’s car. These low-energy post-mortems always put Jimi Hendrix in Ronnie’s mind, singing “I don’t live today.” How did we get to that hotel, exactly? Julianna asked. Ronnie shrugged. You drove. I did something to piss you off. You wanted to leave me on a ranch. What?! Yeah, you were screaming. Said I was awful. Really mean. Oh. Ronnie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I don’t re- member much. Yeah. Sigh. We should go back to Gainesville. Yeah. You’re right.
Two hours later, they were back up the peninsula entering Gainesville’s city limits. Ronnie marveled as he always did about how innocuous the place looked when you pulled off the highway. The world Ronnie lived in was hidden when you came into town like this. It was hidden. It always looked sad to Ronnie. Transient. Magical, but fleeting. Like Julianna, who would leave very soon. He would never forget the look when she dropped him off at his house, the unwashed touristy clothes and unwashed hair. But the eyes. So bittersweet. At the time, Ronnie would be too hungover, too exhausted, to give it too much thought, and he figured they would be on the roof this time tomorrow, laughing about their arguments, piecing together what they would recall of the Ritas and Ribs fest, and everything after. Wow. What happened? That was crazy! Yeah. I’m sorry, Ron. I already accepted your apology. We were drunk. Ridiculously drunk. It went too far. But I’ve never met anyone like you ever. I . . . no, I’m not going to say love, but couldn’t we try? Who else is there around here? Kids. And you know I’m not like them. I hope. We could try, right?
She would call Ronnie, on the fourth day upon returning from the ersatz search for the Floridian dream. I’m leaving for Tallahassee, she said. I’m going to take the GRE and get into grad school there, and, clearly, I can’t be here anymore. There’s no reason for me to stay here. What little I have is packed. I’m gone. Ronnie, flabbergasted, blubbering like the Big Bopper, uh whuh . . . whuh . . . will I whuh? He would think of all the right things to say in the upcoming weeks and days, but she left town more abruptly than she arrived, Lady Midnight, and Ronnie sat in his room, listening to the song “Days” by The Kinks, over and over again . . . “Thank you for the days, endless days, sacred days, you gave me . . . you’re with me every single day, believe me, although you’re gone, you’re with me every single day, believe me. ” Someone once described “Days” as the only heartbreaking song in which the person had no bitterness towards the person who split. “Days you can’t see wrong from right. It’s alright. I’m not frightened of this world. Believe me.”
And so alone, in his room listening to The Kinks, on the streets, at the parties, riding around the great space coaster aptly named The USS Great Lost Dickaround, Ronnie would think of Julianna, and half expect her to tumble into some dumb scenester party with a six-pack yelling WHAT’S UP NOW, SELLOUTS? WHO WANTS A WINE COOLER? But that Julianna wasn’t coming back, and Ronnie knew, somewhere in his head, that their connection was a brief bright moment, a mutual respite from the uncertainty of impending adulthood. But alone on the roof, looking northwest to Tallahassee, across the miles of Florida, he forgave and he loved and he thought of old Julianna, he thought of old Julianna.
Brian Costello is a writer, musician, and comedic performer living in Chicago, Illinois. He plays drums in the band Outer Minds, and co-hosts Shame That Tune, a monthly live game show. Losing in Gainesville is his second novel.
