Hairy Larry and the Trailer Trash Kid

by Dana Starr

The Gauntlet

A bell rang at the end of the school day at Plainview Junior High. A barbed wire fence, a biting dog, and a bully stood between thirteen-year-old Sophie Nolan and her house. She had ten minutes to get home before the start of Dark Shadows.

            She sprinted across the barren field behind the school. Half a hotdog in one hand and her science book in the other, she squeezed between the prickly wires of the fence unharmed. Sticking to the left side of the street, she walked briskly and hoped to avoid the bulldog that always nipped at her ankles when she chose to take the shortcut home. No such luck. The dog darted from between a row of hedges, barking and gaining on her from across the street. She squelched the urge to run, maintained a steady pace, and counted to three before dropping the hotdog. She kept walking and the dog stopped barking.

            At the end of the block, she glanced over her shoulder. The bulldog was enjoying the hotdog. She smiled and picked up her pace. She wasn’t going to miss a minute of her favorite TV show. Barnabas Collins, the handsome vampire, was finally going to kiss Dr. Julia Hoffman; Sophie was sure of it, and she had no intention of missing the big moment. She was almost home. The sign at the entrance of the Whispering Pines RV Park was only half a block away.

            “Hey, Trailer Trash.” A wiry, young woman smoked a cigarette on the front porch of a house covered in peeling yellow paint. “What’s your hurry?”

            Sophie did her best to keep her eyes on the trio of pines painted on the sign at the entrance to the RV park.

            “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” the woman shouted.

            Sophie’s foot slid on a rock. She almost fell. The woman laughed long and hard and flicked her cigarette at Sophie. “Tell your mom she still owes me ten bucks.”

            Sophie ran the rest of the way to the Airstream trailer parked in space number thirty. She dug a key out of her pocket and let herself in the door.

The Hole

            She tossed the science book on the couch that was also her bed. She kicked her shoes off and turned on the portable black and white TV. Her stomach growled. She’d only eaten half her hotdog at lunch, but it had been worth it. When a commercial came on, she got up and went to the kitchen for a Fudgsicle. On her way back, she noticed a fist-sized hole in the wall by the front door. The hole was almost perfectly round. Staring at it made her stomach clench with dread. She was contemplating what the hole meant when her mother walked through the door. “Turn off the TV and get in the car,” Maggie said.

Sophie licked chocolate off her thumb. “What are you doing home already?”

            Maggie ignored the question. She walked around her daughter. “We don’t have much time. Do what I told you.”

            “But why?”

            “Because I said so.”

            Sophie turned off the TV. She finished the Fudgsicle while her mother muttered and slammed drawers in the bedroom. When the noise stopped, Sophie walked over to the hole. She was poking at it with the Fudgsicle stick when her mother entered the room holding a suitcase.

            “We have to go,” Maggie said.

            Sophie pointed at the hole. “Did he do that?”

            “Yeah,” Maggie replied. “We need to get out of here.” A car door slammed. “Shit.” Maggie dropped the suitcase and ran to the window. She reached to yank open the curtains, revealing a large bruise the color of thunderclouds on the back of her arm. The neighbor’s dog barked.

            Sophie couldn’t move. The dread in her gut formed a hard knot, tight like a fist. She wanted to throw up.

            “It’s not him,” Maggie said. She let the curtains drop and turned to her daughter. “It’s just the neighbor.”

            “What happened to your arm?”

            Maggie pushed the sleeve of her waitress uniform down and picked up the suitcase. “I, uh, hurt myself at work. Let’s go.”

            Sophie tossed the stick at the hole. It landed on the floor near her shoes. She slid her feet into the Converse sneakers, briefly debating if she should bend over to tie the laces.

            “Get a move on,” Maggie said. Sophie left the laces untied. She grabbed the book off the couch and followed her mother.

            They rode in silence in the old Pontiac. Sophie hoped they wouldn’t spend the night in the car. It wouldn’t be the first time. The silence was smothering. She turned the radio on to relieve a little of the tension. Johnny Cash’s voice filled the car with the lyrics to “Folsom Prison Blues.” 

            Sophie stared out the window. They passed the tire swing hanging from an oak tree in the middle of the RV park. A little boy was swinging and laughing. A woman hanging wet clothes on a clothesline waved at them. Sophie waved back. She might never see the woman again.

Sophie wanted nothing more than to just keep going—away from the hole; away from the flat, mean, dusty oilfield town; away from the angry stepdad who smelled of brown liquor and took his frustrations out on her beautiful mother.

            The car stuttered and stalled. “No,” Maggie said. She mashed the gas pedal. The car stuttered again. Maggie steered it to the shoulder of the road before it died. With a shattered look on her face, she turned to her daughter and said, “We just ran out of gas.” Sophie had to look away. She couldn’t stand to see the devastation in her mother’s hazel eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sophie.”

            With a certainty beyond her thirteen years, Sophie knew her mother wasn’t apologizing for running out of gas. Maggie was sorry for their sorry life. Sophie knew her mother never intended to raise her in a tiny travel trailer with a man who didn’t want to be a good father or a good husband. Her mother had two failed marriages and she was only thirty-two years old.

Sophie softly rested her hand on Maggie’s arm, careful to avoid the bruise. “It’s going to be okay, Mom.” She said it but she didn’t really believe it. She loved her mother more than anything else, but she wanted Maggie to be like other mothers. Sophie’s friends—Diane, Connie, and Lisa—had mothers who sold Avon, taught Sunday School, and played bridge. They didn’t pour endless cups of coffee and flirt with truckers for tips at the diner near the interstate like Maggie had to do.

The Veteran

            “I’m going to ask Larry for help,” Maggie said. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Maggie walked across the manicured lawn of a mobile home parked in space number one. She weaved between lawn furniture and climbed the steps that led to a covered porch with a barbecue grill. She knocked on the door of the nicest residence in the RV park.

Sophie hoped that Hairy Larry wasn’t home. She couldn’t stand the man who owned the RV park. All the kids called him Hairy Larry because of the stringy, long hair hanging in his bearded face when he chased them off his grass. He walked with a cane and seemed to always wear a frown.

Hairy Larry answered the door and smiled when he saw Maggie. Sophie didn’t even know he was capable of smiling. He talked to Maggie on the porch for what seemed like an hour. Sophie frowned when she saw him pull a wallet out of his back pocket. He handed money to Maggie. She stuffed it in the pocket of her uniform.

Finally, her mother returned to the car. “Larry’s going to go get us some gas. We’re going to wait in his house.”

Sophie immediately shook her head. “I’ll just wait in the car,” she said.

“No, it’s not safe,” Maggie said.

Sophie knew better than to argue. She tied her sneakers and followed her mother across the forbidden lawn. Hairy Larry put a gas can in the back of his truck, waved at them, and left.

Maggie sat on the couch. Sophie looked around the trailer that was massive compared to the Airstream. “When are we going home?” Sophie asked.

“We can’t go home,” Maggie replied.

“We can’t stay here. Hairy Larry gives me the creeps.”

“Please don’t call him that,” Maggie said. “Larry’s a good guy. He was wounded in Vietnam and he’s doing us a big favor.”

Sophie inspected the overflowing bookcase. “How do you know so much about him?”

“He’s my friend. He eats in the diner all the time.” Maggie picked up the Look magazine off the coffee table.

Sophie spotted a huge guitar in the corner of the room. It was beautiful. She wanted to touch it, to glide the palm of her hand along the sleek curves. The instrument was almost her height with a deep scratch near the scroll at the top. She ran her index finger over the wound in the wood, and then trailed up, and around, around, around the ornamental scroll.

Sophie glanced at Maggie who was thumbing through the pages of the magazine, pretending she didn’t have a care in the world. Sophie could cry but her tears would hurt her mother more than Maggie was already hurt.

Sophie looked back at the instrument and strummed the strings, producing a deep, rich, sad sound. It didn’t sound like the guitar her stepdad played. She thought it sounded like Johnny Cash singing about Folsom Prison.

“Leave that alone,” Maggie said.

Sophie picked a book out of the bookcase and joined Maggie on the couch. “What is that thing? It doesn’t sound like a guitar.”

“I think it’s a cello,” Maggie said.

“A cello.” Sophie liked the sound of the word.

They read until Larry walked in the front door. “Okay, you’re all fixed up,” he said.

Maggie gave him an awkward hug. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“No hurry.” He looked at Sophie. She had trouble meeting his gaze. “You can borrow that book if you want. Treasure Island is a great story.”

She forced herself to look at him. “Thank you.” He had kind eyes. “Are you a musician?” she asked.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You have a cello.”

“Oh, I traded for that with a guy who couldn’t pay his bill last month.” He leaned on his cane. “I’m going to take it to the pawn shop tomorrow.”

Maggie said, “See you later, Larry.” Sophie followed her to the car.

Maggie drove to the Dairy Queen and bought cheeseburgers and fries at the drive-thru window. They ate in the car, pretending everything was fine. They were practiced at pretending. Sophie told her mother about the symphony orchestra that was forming at her school. “Diane and Connie are going to play the flute.” Sophie bit into a french fry and continued with a full mouth, “Lisa likes the clarinet.”

Sophie chewed and waited for her mother to ask what instrument she wanted to play. Instead, Maggie said, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Struggling to swallow around the greasy lump of anxiety in her throat, it dawned on Sophie that they had no extra money to buy an instrument for her. They didn’t even have enough money for the essentials. Pretending wasn’t going to change that fact.

“Are we sleeping in the car?” Sophie asked.

            “No, at least not tonight.” Maggie drove to the Desert Inn and rented a room with the borrowed money. The tang of stale body odor smacked Sophie in the face when her mother opened the door to room eight. Sophie stood in the doorway, hesitant to walk into the cheap motel smell.

            “Shut the door. You need to get started on your homework,” Maggie said.

            Thirty minutes later, Sophie sat on the bed labeling the parts of a flower. Headlights hit the half open blinds, creating streaks of light on the stained bedspread. Her mother walked out of the bathroom and looked out the window. Maggie had showered and changed out of her waitress uniform into tight jeans and a blouse. Trying to figure out the difference between a stamen and a pistil, Sophie was startled when Maggie picked up her purse and headed for the door.

            “I’m going out for a little while. Lock the door behind me.”

            Sliding off the bed, Sophie said, “I want to go.”

            “No. Finish your homework.” Pausing at the door, Maggie told her daughter, “Don’t open this door for anyone.”

            “Where are you going?”

            “I’ll tell you later, darlin’.”

            She watched her mother get in Larry’s truck. He grinned at Maggie like he’d just won the lottery.

            Alone in the shabby room, Sophie locked the door. She finished her homework and read Treasure Island until she fell asleep. She woke the next morning with Maggie nestled next to her, snoring in her ear. Sophie scooted out of the bed. She was headed to the bathroom to get ready for school when she saw the scarred cello propped in the corner by the grimy window.

The Fourth of July

            Maggie brushed Larry’s hair off of his face, exposing shrapnel scars on the skin around his left ear and down his neck. He was always self-conscious about the scars and tried to hide them with hair. They’d been married twelve years. It took Maggie three tries at love, but the third time was the charm.

            “Honey, help me sit up,” Larry said. “I can’t see the TV.”

            Maggie adjusted the recliner for Larry. Multiple sclerosis made movement difficult for him. She turned on the TV and sat in her own recliner next to her husband. They saw Sophie sitting in the prestigious first chair of the cello section for the Boston Pops Orchestra. The conductor stood on the podium, raised his baton, and gestured for the musicians to begin.

            The rousing sound of “Stars and Stripes Forever” filled the living room. The television camera zoomed in on Sophie working her bow from side to side. The scroll with the scratch was visible just above her left shoulder. She didn’t take her eyes off the sheet music, but she smiled for the camera.

            “That’s our girl,” Larry said.

            “I’m so proud of her,” Maggie said.

            The audience sitting on the Charles River Esplanade in Boston erupted in cheers at the end of the song.

Maggie and Larry enjoyed the rest of the concert. When it was over, Maggie turned off the TV. The sounds of celebration—loud music, laughing, and firecrackers popping indicated that the holiday celebration continued for the people living in the Whispering Pines RV Park.

Maggie was helping Larry out of the recliner when they heard someone knocking on their door. Maggie turned on the porch light and opened the door. A woman with a black eye stood on the porch holding a toddler with a pink bow in her hair. Maggie recognized the woman from space number twelve.

“Will you help me, please?” the woman said. “I’m in trouble. My husband just left but he’ll be back, and he’s been drinking.” The little girl touched her mother’s face. “We have no place to go.”

Maggie reached for the woman and her daughter. She steered them inside and shut the door.