Minor Speculum

Larry’s Wednesday

By Nykamp

Initially, the start of Wednesday was like most for Larry. Naturally it started with masturbation, and was followed by the same ritual that had consumed his mornings for the past three years. The start was a vigorous and seemingly workmanlike shower, followed by a breakfast of two oatmeal packets with skim milk and a banana, then a brushing of teeth before exiting his apartment. The pieces of the morning puzzle fit snug together. Larry enjoyed it that way.

A stern vibration in the left thigh pocket of his Levis is what awoke Larry from his slumber. The routine was such that the 13 minute walk to class consisted of an iPod and oldies music, as well as casual glances at passerby’s. The vibration was a call from his best gal-pal, Pammy, which he so affectionately called her. Pam and Larry had met his very first day on campus, as Pam had lived directly across from his dorm room. Though their attraction for one another was evident, the relationship was that of professional studentship. Deep friendship could define the situation of the past three years.

“Speak to me baby-cakes,” Larry crowed with a glance at an awkward freshman gal.

“Fuckin’ Mahoney. I’m gunna need a drink today. Let’s meet at JoeBa’s around 5:30.”

While 5:30 initially seemed early to Larry, particularly on a Wednesday, he refused to care because he was done with class at 4:15, and didn’t have shit-else to do. With Pam saying the name Mahoney, Larry knew something serious was going down. In a relationship filled with irony, the usage of a Police Academy character’s name meant something had happened; one of a possible many parties had been scarred, and things needed to be discussed.

“Well okily dokily. How’s the morning going?” Asked Larry.

“Fuckin’ frantastical. Just meet me there at 5:30, give or take.”

“5:30, give or take. See ya then toots.”

A click on her end was Pam’s reply.

With the bluntness of her speak, she meant business. Larry dwelled over the brief conversation throughout his day. While he usually didn’t pay much attention in his Principle of Marketing class, today he was absolutely unfazed by each spoken word to a degree of uneasyness. Anatomy and Physiology was about the same, as was Nutrition for Healthy Living. In fact, his body refused to enjoy a single bite devoured of his Jimmy John’s #9 (Italian Night Club). He usually had random thoughts about Pam during the day, but today was a fixation.

At 5:36 Larry sauntered into the joint. He and Pam had called JoeBa’s home for the entirety of their legal drinking months. He headed directly for their usual table, but it was vacant. Perplexed, he looked toward the bar. Their stood a Bobby-Hot-Shit chatting up an unresponsive and quite morose Pam. They never sat at the bar, but there she was. Larry swooped in to save her.

“Excuse me chap, but this here is my prize fighter, and I can’t have her fraternizin’ before her big bout.”

The Bobby-Hot-Shit exchanged a fuck-you glance with Larry. Larry’s seven inches and 60 pounds very well could have been the reason that no words were exchanged. While the two stood there glaring at one another, Pam wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him deeply. The Bobby walked off, and Larry firmly exchanged the pleasantry.

“Holy shit,” she proclaimed as her wayward eyes went to the bar surface.

“Christ, I thought we settled on 5:30, give or take!” Larry could tell that she was a resounding three sheets to the wind. They both had a firm desire for the sauce, but early drinking on a Wednesday was baffling.

“It was the damndest thing. On my way to class this fucking force pulled me to JoeBa’s. Like a Goddamn magnet. Almost sucked me clear out of my shoes. It wasn’t negotiable. Wasn’t gunna fight it. So, I let the fucking thing pull me. Pulled me all the way to this fuckin’ stool, it did.”

Larry cracked a rye smile as the bartender, Clayton, asked for his order. Knowing Pam’s state and sensing the shitstorm he was about to power through, he did the only sensible thing.

“Beam double with a Busch Light back.” While he stated the beer portion of his directive, he placed his flat right hand about 30 inches above the bar, indicating a tall beer.

“So what’s the trouble kid?”

Pam didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes were still adrift in oblivion, and she swigged deeply from her traditional vodka tonic.

“Two shots of Silver Patron, chilled,” she barked at Clayton, though his back was turned while managing Larry’s order.

“Kodachrome….. gives us the nice bright colors, gives us the greens of-”

“Pammy, If I wanted Paul Simon lyrics I would go back in a time machine and fuck Art Garfunkel in the ass while asking about the most memorable thing his daddy ever told him. With that, tell me what’s on your mind and tell me quick, because I’m gunna have to shit within the next seven minutes.”

Pam offered a slight smirk to this.

Larry gripped his fresh Beam double, drank its entirety, and caressed the top of his chilled 24- ounce glass with his lips.

“Well, you see, I found myself in a difficult situation this morning. Jane called around 7:21.”

Jane was Pam’s mother who lived some 450 miles away.

“Jane says…. I’m done with Sergio…. Ok, shit, fuck, no more lyrics, sorry… Well Jane says that Gimps got hit by a truck this morning. That Goddamn rip-roaring redneck that flies by our house every morning going 30 miles over the speed limit. Fuckin’ blasted him about 20 yards and didn’t even slow down or stop afterward.”

Larry couldn’t believe the words. Gimps was the family Labrador that was always getting into shenanigans on the family farm. Pam talked of him non-stop; his exploits were famous in many circles. He was the true love of Pam’s life, so Larry believed. She was drunk enough at this point where she could deliver the news without flinching, being almost totally void of emotion.

By this time, the two Patron had arrived. Larry grabbed his immediately and tossed it into the air in a toast.

“To Gimps.”

Pam immediately raised her glass and poured the drink down. This process went on for the next six hours and two minutes. Stories of Gimps dominated the session, but various statements about classes, people, haircuts, music and movies were also included. Drinks were violently tossed down throats, trips to bathrooms were made, and homework was not completed. All the while, nobody in JoeBa’s mattered except for Larry, Pam, and Clayton. Larry and Pam were so engrossed in each other that the bombing of Dresden could have occurred just outside the door of JoeBa’s, and neither would have noticed.

Larry and Pam finally stumbled out of JoeBa’s at 11:46. They made way towards Larry’s apartment, though several extra steps were taken on account of the stumbling.

Upon the arrival at Larry’s front door, he dropped his keys while attempting to unlock it. Twice. They both laughed wildly at this, almost to the point of tears being shed.

Once inside Larry went directly to his record collection and quickly grabbed the one he’d been thinking about all day. He delicately placed it on the antique player, and put the needle in the perfect position. From the oversized speakers, Laughing by The Guess Who started. Larry extended his hand to Pam, and with a wide smile, she accepted it. With Larry’s apartment door wide open, they began to dance.

Promptly, at 11:59:59, it turned to Thursday, and Larry’s Wednesday was over.

Tags: Larry Story

Nov 11, 2009 • Literature and Fiction