Larry the Lover

By Ross K. Bagwell Jr.

These are the adventures of Larry, a totally worthless individual. Larry lives off a trust fund and avoids work at all costs. His two passions are golf and women. Larrys other attribute is that he sees a different person in the mirror almost everyday and to some extent takes on that personality, i.e., Steve McQueen, Humphrey Bogart, etc. The old saying that an idle mind is a devils workshop is true because into Larrys world comes demons. To escape these demons Larry travels the world, and this is the story of his adventures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 17, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469100272

Book preview

Chapter One

All of the feelings waited outside the condo. Not taste nor feel nor sight, but hate and love and all those that are mixed in a French puree of emotion. Outside in a ratty sports car, Loneliness and Fear sat in the front seat with Lust, Joy, and Apprehension squeezed into the back. Loneliness munched on a burrito, while beans and salsa dripped down his chin and onto his Tee shirt.

When’s he coming out? It’s a good golfing day, Joy bounced in the back seat.

Hell, he’ll be out soon enough, Loneliness belched.

Oh shit, the Cops! Fear and Apprehension screamed as one.

Alcoholism and Drug Addiction tapped on the window, Hey Guys, can we have a ride?

Full up here pals, Loneliness rolled the window halfway down, but there’s a bus coming along soon enough, and besides, you guys suck, so take a hike.

Is Larry up? they asked.

Oh, he’ll be up soon enough, the cops are here.

Loneliness took the last bite of the burrito and threw the wrapper in Joy’s face in the back seat.

The police knocked at Larry’s door.

He said, Oh rats ass, as he rolled off his ‘love you forever, now get lost,’ newest girlfriend.

When he opened the door, the cop shone a Maglite flashlight in his face. Let me see some ID, Napoleon Himler Attila the cop ordered.

ID, I think not, Larry looked down at his nakedness.

I said, sir, step out. We’ve had complaints about the noise.

Larry leaned on the door jam, with his arms crossed over his chest. I live here, this is my house, and I’m not stepping out. Do you know who I am? What complaints? Larry’s stereo blasted Desolation Row by Bob Dylan.

The music is too loud, sir.

It’s my morning song. I play it every morning. What time is it?

5:15am, Sir.

Well look you, I got a golf game in four hours, and I don’t need this shit. Get off my property before I call the cops.

I am the cops, Sir.

Well, you can just kiss my ass, you little son of a whore.

Handcuffed in the squad car, Larry watched the sun come up. They didn’t book him; they never did. Why book a fixture. His friends would just bail him out, and his father would fix it with the judge. But, they did make him call somebody to come over to pick him up.

Oh shit, Brian, this is serious. I’m at the G-D police station, come get me! Larry paced back and forth at the end of a phone line tether. The rat bastard pulled me out of the house. This is really serious, hurry!

Brian came, throwing his hand over Larry’s mouth to choke off the stream of obscenities.

In the car Larry opened a Coors Light beer, I tell you one thing, I hate cops, especially the damn cops around here; like I’m a threat. They should go out and fight crime. Where’s my wallet? Give me a cigarette.

Nazis, they’re all Nazis. Brian opened a beer commiserating.

The guys cruised into the locker room, quickly shaving and changing, shouting to the locker attendant Walker for more Stoli vodka Screwdrivers.

Out on the first tee, they argued about the bet. I get a stroke on the par fives, ten bucks a hole, birds double, Larry pulled out his Callaway Big Bertha golf driver.

No way! Brian, Joe and Dave spit as one.

Screw you all . . . that’s the bet . . . I don’t feel well. I got arrested this morning, so lighten up, we’ll adjust at the turn. Larry slammed the ball 275 yards straight down the middle of the fairway. God, I’m good, Larry turned smiling to the group.

The group was four guys who played golf together every Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. This did not leave much time for work, which was fine by them. Larry worked the least, which was not at all. Brian Coldwell had an investment business with his brothers who worked hard. Dave France, an adhesive expert, charged a lot of money for very little time. Joe Rosco’s wife was president of a large food distributor, and he had a small heating and air-conditioning company with a good manager. George also filled in when somebody had to do something, most likely appear in court. George sold pumps to cities and Arab countries. Dave would move away and George would become a regular fixture in the group, except when Dave came back in town, then he was promptly thrown out.

Hole after hole they cursed, threw clubs, and called each other vile names. At the turn, or after the first nine holes, it was time for lunch. They sat at the clubhouse bar drinking from frosted mugs, and munching on cheeseburgers.

I’ll tell you fellows, Larry belched, I’m getting strapped for cash, I gotta have a relative die soon.

The group chuckled.

No, no man, I’m serious, the bad thing is none of them are sick; all healthy as horses. How am I supposed to live in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed to without an infusion of cash? I need some death.

The bartender was a girl named April.

Larry asked her, "Hey April, get me another beer, a Snickers candy bar; and, you wanna come over to my house, I’ll cook steaks?"

You know I’m married, she said.

Do you cheat on your husband?

No!

Well, you just lay there, I’ll do all the cheatin’. The group laughed, it was an old joke. Larry used it on every attractive attached woman he encountered.

On the back nine, Larry and partner Joe missed three crucial putts to lose a grand total of $160. They called each other, Loser! They told each other their respective golf games, Sucked!

Back in the clubhouse of the country club, they showered, steamed and shaved again. Larry foamed his face thinking, ‘Oh what shall I get into tonight?’

"Hey, wanna go to Harry’s bar? Brian suggested, Tonight’s oyster night. I could eat me a couple of dozen."

I’m sick of that place, Joe said from a toilet stall, "let’s go to Tavern by the Lake restaurant. They’ve got lettuce wraps; and I like those."

Dave spoke up, "No, no, I say Chantilly’s restaurant. They’ve got a chick playing piano."

Larry rinsed his face looking at himself closely in the mirror. Why not all three? That Larry, he could always come up with a solution.

Larry saw a different person in the mirror almost everyday. Humphrey Bogart, Tom Cruise, . . . Brad Pitt. Perhaps that was his great appeal to women, although quite normal looking, a bit balding, and a bit overweight. Larry saw himself as very good looking and projected that confidence.

Europe

The American Express credit card bill sat on his desk as fat as a tick and bulging like Jiffy Pop popcorn on the stove. He was afraid of what was inside . . . oh the untold charges. It started with that trip to Atlanta, the Golden Cheetah Club strip joint, the private room with the three, or was it four, private dancers. He vaguely remembered the price for genital shaving, but waking up on a flight bound for Rome, Italy with one of the dancers was vague. The room at the Excelsior hotel was a blur. How much was thirteen million lire for dinner for two? Or Euros, what the hell was a Euro worth? Hmmm, he pondered, not wanting to open the bill. That was Rome, he saw the Coliseum and the Forum from the taxi heading for the train station. The stripper wanted to see Paris, so why not. She wanted a Channel handbag, figuring you could really save some money buying Channel merchandise in Paris.

Larry sat in the bar of the Hôtel de Crillon drinking a double vodka tonic. The hotel sits on the Place De La Concorde. Outside you can see the Eiffel Tower and the gold dome of Napoleon’s tomb. Larry figured if he wanted to see some sights, he’d buy a postcard. It was 3:00 in the afternoon, so he was just up. The maid, having rapped at this door five times, finally drove him from his bed. He’d lost the girl somewhere during the night, the stripper from Atlanta. He figured the French cab driver understood enough English to know what, Oh screw her, meant and also figured she’d find her way home. Strippers and homing pigeons . . .