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, forgetting 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 awesome 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 Julianna 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 prospector 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 w
anted 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 inevitability. 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, slippin, 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 Julia
nna’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.
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