Losing in Gainesville (9781940430331) (37 page)

The server is one of those insanely unreal polyethylene types you find in almost every restaurant in Orlando, trained to pretend like the very idea of serving you your food and reading lines from the script dictated from Corporate is putting her on the verge of the greatest orgasm of her life. Hot sauce on the table with names like “Sandman Unsane's Tex-Mex Weapon of Ass Destruction” and “Colonel Capscium's Dirty Dawg Poblanogeddon.” Lite alternative rock on satellite radio. Walls of televisions, literal walls of televisions making laser noises as they go from one sports highlight to the next, reported by some smug douche from the Northeast. This dining area, one of countless autopiloted nightmares masquerading as a good-time party atmosphere here in Central Florida.

On the back of the menu, “El Statement del Mission.” Ronnie flips his menu over, points, says, “Here. Read this. Everything you need to know about Orlando is right here.”

The chips and salsa are served. Ronnie, Portland Patty, and Roger read “El Statement”:

“Jalapeño Larry's is an Acapulco-style cantina del fiesta specializing in distinctive frozen drinks. These drinks are created by an expert team of experienced bar operators and are hand mixed with pride.

“The décor of Jalapeño Larry's is designed to inspire laid back thoughts of an amazing tropical environment. The beautiful faux roof around the bar is reminiscent of sitting on the porch of a Mexican bungalow, and the mix of tropical colors and light woods creates a relaxing and welcoming feeling. Tongue and cheek warning signs about the potency of Jalapeño Larry's frozen drinks add humor to the walls, along with photographs of partygoers of the past and present. Lighthearted Acapulco-inspired artworks cover the downstairs dance floor walls as well as the balcony upstairs. With over 55 televisions, a sound system, and a state-of-the-art intelligent light show, Jalapeño Larry's is the perfect location to have some drinks and dance until morning.

“For lunch or dinner, la cocina at Jalapeño Larry's can't be beat. Our tacos, burritos, and quesadillas are made-to-order, and for the health conscience
[sic]
, there are many vegetarian options, including our world-renowned Caeser
[sic]
Salad.

“While you are sitting at the bar you will notice the famous wall of frozen drinks. Perhaps the most well-known (and well-consumed) of these celebrated concoctions is something we call “The Suicide.” With five liquors and five fruit juices, you have never experienced a frozen drink like this.

“Although Jalapeño Larry's is an easygoing hangout spot, by nightfall the nightlife party atmosphere in Jalapeño Larry's can rival any local entertainment venue. Whether it's “fantastico” food, “loco” DJs, drinking games, talented local musicians, unique frozen cocktails, famous drink specials, titillating servers and bartenders, or just a place to have a drink, Jalapeño Larry's is what you're looking for.”

“I was thinking about maybe getting a distinctive frozen drink from the famous wall—and maybe even having the unique experience of drinking ‘The Suicide,' ” Ronnie says, “But that sign over there says, ‘Slippery When Wasted,' and I don't want to hurt myself.”

“Relax, Ron,” Roger says. “It's a tongue and cheek sign. That means you won't—
really
—get slippery when wasted.”

“Yeah, Ronnie,” Portland Patty adds. “Relax. You should be inspired to have laid back thoughts by the design.”

“You're right,” Ronnie says. “I'm a little worked up here, but who can blame me? I'm in anticipation of the intelligent light show. I'm so sick of light shows that are a little bit on the dumb side, if you know what I mean.”

“Who isn't?” Portland Patty says. She's never been to Orlando before. It seems like the type of place where irony was your best defense. “For my part, as a vegan and therefore health conscious, I want my only option, the, uh, See-zer Salad.”

“But the dressing probably has anchovies,” Roger says, “and it has paramesan--”

“Yeah, I know,” Portland Patty says. “Guess I'm guacin' it.”

As they talk like this, their “titillating server” arrives, announcing, in the loud sportscaster tone of the Very White, “Alright, Señors y Señorita! Here are your implausibly extreme frozen drinks!” Ronnie receives his plastic cup of Rebel Yeller, described in the menu as “A muy loco blend of FloCo, SoCo, Margarita Mix, with a dash of casselberry juice.” Roger receives his plastic cup of Fun y Spontaneity, described in the menu as, “Jalapeño Larry sez: ‘Me gusta this intoxicating mix of Everclear, Lime Gatorade, and Absolut Nectarine vodka!' ” Portland Patty receives her plastic cup of Hace Mucho Calor y Frio, described in the menu as “So cool, it's hot, so hot, it's cool, this certifiably awesome blended drink combines Crème de Menthe, Crème de Cacao, vermouth, tequila, and a few secret ingredients from our ‘Instituto del Bebido' that is guar-olé!-teed to leave you in an ecstasy of sweats and shivers.”

Ronnie raises his plastic cup, smiles. “To Gainesville,” he says.

“Cheers,” Roger and Portland Patty say, pressing their cups into his.

“So why did you take us here?” Portland Patty asks after a wincing sip from her Hace Mucho Calor y Frio.

“What?” Ronnie extends his arms, looks around. “You don't like it?”

“It's fine, I guess,” Portland Patty says. “I don't know, I'm thinking there has to be better places. Does this have sentimental value for you?”

Ronnie looks away, to one of the unavoidable TVs. What he doesn't want to talk about is, how when these stupid drinks kicked in, how hard they would laugh, how every volley back and forth between Ronnie and Maggie was some kind of comedy gem in a language only they could understand. They were the kinds of inside jokes where they would choke and howl and snort and cough and gasp, so funny to them and only them. Ronnie isn't going to discuss it.

“Ronnie hates Orlando,” Roger says. “He thinks he's some kind of dissident, or like an exile, living in Gainesville. There are plenty of places we could have gone. There's a strip of Vietnamese restaurants here that are awesome, but Ronnie would rather find a place that proves his point.”

“Oh, touché,” Ronnie says, sneering, booze already kicking in. He grabs a handful of tortilla chips, throws them at Roger's head. Roger laughs, tosses the chips aside, combs out his hair.

“You think you're an exile?” Portland Patty says. “Try living here when you're from Portland.”

“People always come to Gainesville from Portland,” Roger says. “It's like a whistle stop on the Trustafarian circuit.”

“Whatever,” Portland Patty says. “Anyway, none of this,” and here, she extends her hands out to the décor of Jalapeño Larry's, out to the concrete beyond the restaurant, “is Gainesville. We can agree on that, right?”

“No,” Ronnie says. “It isn't.”

“I've been everywhere,” Portland Patty continues. “Not much out there is better than Gainesville.”

“That's fucking depressing,” Roger says.

“Maybe it is,” Ronnie says. “I mean look at this.” Ronnie points at the menu. “Even these menus. This desperate striving idiocy of these United States.”

“You shouldn't be so cynical,” Portland Patty says.

“Only when I'm here,” Ronnie says. He turns to look her in the eyes. “Normally, I'm a lot of fun.” And here, ok, there's something in the way Ronnie Altamont says this which makes Portland Patty start thinking that maybe Ronnie is really and truly different, and not the different of all these other guys hanging out and hanging around on the streets and front porches.

“Gainesville's meaner than you think,” Roger says. Ronnie laughs. By “mean,” Ronnie assumes Roger means all the gossip and inevitable petty horseshit indigenous to every small town.

“I'm serious,” Roger says.

“It's not that bad,” Portland Patty says. Ronnie notices, really notices, her smile. It's never triggered by anything in particular, but by everything in particular. “People are always talking, but you don't have to listen.”

“You'll see,” Roger says. Ronnie and Portland Patty look to each other. They both start laughing. It's nervous laughter, seemingly apropos of nothing.

“Excuse me,” Portland Patty says, standing up, a little wobbly, as Ronnie notices. “My muy loco drink is making me have to use el baño, comprende?” She giggles. Ronnie giggles. She walks away.

The moment Portland Patty is out of earshot, this is the moment when Roger leans in, whispers, “She's a total acid casualty.”

“Really?” Ronnie says. “She seems alright.” The food arrives, a tamales dinner for Ronnie, a taco salad for Roger, and guacamole for Portland Patty.

“I heard she's tripped hundreds of times, dude. Thousands.” Roger leans back in his chair, speaks louder, “So you don't get any ideas. She's not a, you know, punk rock nnnnugget, and I know what that means to you.”

It is too late for Ronnie not to get ideas. Sometimes, the entire state of Florida seemed like one big acid casualty, the way people talked about spending their entire high school and early college years on daily acid trips. If Roger is trying to get Ronnie to think twice, he's failing.

“What about Maux?” Roger adds.

Ronnie shrugs. When Portland Patty returns, it's Ronnie's turn to excuse himself. He can only imagine what Roger is about to say about him. He'll probably bring up Maux. Asshole.

Inside the door marked “CABALLEROS,” Ronnie washes his hands, breathes in, breathes out, tries not to look in the mirror, tries not to think about anything. He is in love again, the way he always thinks he's in love again. He thinks he knows what is next. He isn't worried about Roger. All he needs to do is get back to Gainesville, and it will be alright.

“How's the food?” Ronnie asks when he returns.

They both shrug.

“I need another drink,” Roger says.

Another round for Roger and Portland Patty. Ronnie switches to water. Rather than trying to get the girl drunk, as so many other dipshits do, Ronnie wants to get his roommate drunk. He'll talk and talk, and get increasingly surly, all of which finally culminates, as Ronnie knew it would, in him standing up and announcing over a quarter-eaten taco salad:

“Let's leave this dump. I need to get back. This place sucks.”

“Alright,” Ronnie says, smiling. “Let's go.” He picks up the bill, glad to, just once, actually take care of a bill.

Through Orlando's inexcusable early rush hour traffic, they eventually make it back into the countryside, in the light of a grape and honey hued sunset. Roger talks, and talks, and talks. Turning back to Portland Patty, he talks of screenplays, of films he's seen, of films he wants to see. He goes on lengthy tangents, following every thread of his thoughts, devoid of filter between brain and mouth. Roger is going for it, using everything he has—his brains, his thoughts, his intellect. Ronnie has tuned him out; Portland Patty throws out the occasional “Really?” or “Oh,” and this encourages him. Roger is drunk. He gets drunk easily. Ronnie knows this much about his current roommate. Two cups of Fun y Spontaneity, and he's in blotto speech, telling it like it is about film, about films, about film criticism. He goes on, and on, and on, until the halfway point of the trip—in beautiful Leesburg, Florida, while passing an orange juice processing plant, he turns and immediately falls asleep. When Ronnie sees he's asleep, he looks up in the rearview mirror, to Portland Patty, who smiles at him. Ronnie smiles back, makes the “whew!” gesture of a right hand wiping imaginary sweat off his forehead. Portland Patty laughs at this gesture. The Meat Puppets get them home, back into the beauty of North-Central Florida.

Ronnie drops off Roger first. He wakes him up. “We're home, buddyboy!” Ronnie says.

Roger opens his eyes, makes that jolt-gasp sound people make when they wake up on travels to find they've arrived at their destination. “Oh! Here!”

“Yup. Home. See you soon.” Ronnie says.

Roger looks to the backseat. Portland Patty is still there. “Bye, Roger,” she says.

Roger looks to Ronnie. Ronnie gives a barely perceptible nod, as if to say, “Time to go now. Time to go.”

Without a word, Roger opens the car door, steps out, slams the door. Ronnie immediately puts the car in reverse, leaves NW 4th Lane for Portland Patty's house, north on NW 13th Street, past the high school, the Wal-Mart. She lives in a brown duplex. Ronnie pulls in the driveway, about to ask her out, when she looks at him, in the rearview mirror and asks, “Do you want to come inside, listen to music?”

Ronnie shuts off the car.

Music is always the catalyst for getting the boys and girls into each other's homes, the ostensible, weighted, lines you read between. The wine helps—in this case, a jug of unlabelled Chablis poured into
Empire Strikes Back
collectors' glasses from Burger King—Ronnie sipping from a Boba Fett glass, Portland Patty from Lando Calrissian.

Music. Drinks. It was the only diplomatic way we knew how to get to sex.