Larry the starfish guy
There was a place that was just for us. That’s important. That place, that special place. It doesn’t matter who you are, when you’re a teenager you need one. Five days a week you go to school. You pretend to care about your future, or not. You listen in class, or not. You do your homework or you play video games. You conform or you rebel. For five days a week. But Friday night you are no longer a student. If only for the next 48 hours you are yourself. You are on your time. You make your own labels. You can be whatever you want to be until Monday morning when you are once again an upstanding student or a trouble maker. And you have your place where you can be yourself. The little slip road in Larnaca that brought together Savino, Stone Age, Lounge and Indigo was ours. Our place.
It was a quiet weekend and there wasn’t much to do. Rachel stayed at mine, keeping me company for yet another night while my grandparents began adjusting to life in their new apartment. Hungry and uninspired by what could be delivered to us we headed out. After dinner we walked to Indigo for a few drinks. We weren’t sure who we’d bump into there but someone was always around. The beer began to flow and it wasn’t long before the word shots had come up. No one drinks shots unless they want to get completely and utterly wasted. You can’t enjoy a beverage that barely spends any time in your mouth. You don’t want to savour the flavour. You probably don’t like the flavour but its Friday night and you want the week to blur away. Your inhibitions start to fade and you can’t help but dance. People’s voices become muffled and all you can think about is your next drink. You have to keep mixing them or the buzz will wear off. You don’t want anything to wake you from your drunken haze, your little world. In your place.
The lights begin to swirl and your movements become more fluid. Everything feels weightless.
And then it hits you. You’ve drunk too much and you’re either going to be sick or fall asleep. Either way you’re going to fuck up everyone’s night. It’s never good when someone throws up. People suddenly don’t want to drink anymore. Their caring instinct takes over and they sober up immediately. Even if they’re still drunk they manage to act like they’re not. They feel the need to get this poor person some water. Maybe a hug. Everyone’s seen that sad image when girls hold each other’s hair off their face and rub their back to ease the wrenching. That’s always comforting and they know it. They want to be there for their friend in need. It’s a sure fire way to end someone’s night, to arouse their need to tend to you. And if you fall asleep you are also allocated a baby sitter to keep an eye on you.
So, I did the only thing I could. I excused myself and asked Rachel if she wanted to go for a walk. This is normally part of an unwritten code that depending on what is going on can mean several things. It can mean, “Someone here is irritating me and I want to bitch to you about it.” It can also mean, “I’m really into this guy and I need to get some mints.” Or it can mean, “I’m bored and need to get out of the smoke and noise.” Or in this case, “I’m drunk and desperately need some fresh air.” You know who your best friend is when they leave a good time to see to it that you’re not on your own.
We took a walk around to another one of our places. The far side of the fort, where the waves lapped against the side of the aged building. There were plenty of places to sit and it had become of somewhere of multiple uses. Young lovers used it as a nook to spend time losing their virginity and start rumours at school. Young drinkers such as myself took advantage of this concealed wall to drink cheap off licence booze and lark about. Tourists sat sunburnt and reflective of their time in Cyprus with ice cream or fishing rods. That night our worlds would collide in this one spot. Stumbling, still dizzy we walked around to the back of the fort. Barely able to lift my head up I stared bemused at the bright lights protruding from the floor. A new feature at the time, the lights would no longer work in a few months. Allegedly someone drunkenly cracked one of the lights in and then decided to pee into it. I thought that was unnecessary. I mean, the sea was right there. Maybe it was a physics experiment. I don’t know.
After I had gotten my all out of staring at the light I turned my attention over to Rachel who had been talking with some late night fishermen. They sounded American. I smiled and pretended I was listening. My mind wondered around as chit chat carried on in the back ground until I spotted something that could hold my attention. Lying on the edge of the path way before the foot or so drop into the sea was a little gray star. Without hesitation I picked it up. It was hard and cold. As I examined it with eager curiosity I could feel wet sand between my fingers. “That’s a starfish you know?” The American explained with a chuckle. The ‘be silent and they won’t notice you’re hammered’ approach had not worked. But they were nice enough to explain that it appeared lifeless until it was returned to the water where it would resurrect itself. “Can I keep it?” I asked not quite realising just how crazy I sounded. They laughed. I don’t even know if that was an answer but I walked away happy with my prize. I was going to carry him in my pocket until I got home and then I’d set up a tank for my new friend.
Rachel and I walked back to Indigo to find the others but it was getting late and they had gone home. We decided, having not had enough, to sit outside and have one last drink. I took our new company out of my pocket. I already knew I’d never forget that night. I had the widest grin on my face. Already in my head I was imagining my pet starfish and the fantastic tale of how he came into my life on that routine Friday night.
“I’m going to call him Larry.”
“Why Larry?”
“It suits him, don’t you think?” I said, beaming with pride.
Still fascinated by him, I began twirling him around in my hands. I smoothed away most of the damp sand and ran my fingers along the little grooves on his body. I couldn’t wait until I woke up the next morning to see him with sober eyes. The first time I had ever seen a real starfish and I was going to bring him back to life.
Just as my thoughts had gotten ahead of me, I started to feel something cold creeping across my hands. Instinct took over and in a fit of panic I heard a crunch. You do often react when you’re drunk. But more often than not that reaction tends to be the wrong one. Refocusing my unsure eyes I became certain. My new friend had died in my hands. I had broken off one of his legs. I was overcome with shock at what I had done. I was holding him one minute, sure to make him a home where he could be comfortable and live under the sea once more. The next he had been maimed by my own hand. As dreams of our happy future together faded I was overcome with grief. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. Stinging, alcohol induced tears began to fall down my cheeks and onto Larry, still in my hands, now more lifeless than ever. To this day I don’t know whether it was my tears or something that oozed out of Larry but I could feel it dripping down my hand. Disgusted and wondering why the hell I was holding a dead starfish, I snapped out of my drunken stupor. My eyes dried up and all thoughts of Larry vacated my mind. I dropped him into the nearest ash tray and Rachel followed my lead in walking away as quickly as possible. On the way home a strange thought came to mind, one that I would look back on for years to come. “Rachel, I wonder what the waitress who found Larry must be thinking?”
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