Larry Underwood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digyourman) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
all_inclusive2013-08-02 01:39 pm
digyourman) wrote in all_inclusive2013-08-02 01:39 pm
Entry tags:
We can only be captains of our own souls.
It was a tenuous acceptance, being in this place.
Initially, Larry had believed that nothing could temper the shock of divine relief that had carried him here, to the Nexus Hotel. (Heaven or Limbo, pick your poison.) The surety of that white-hot flash had made him the most buoyant he'd felt since he got that damned record deal a lifetime (or two?) ago, but in a way that had far transcended all of Old Larry's petty little triumphs. He'd expected it to stick, that elation, but supposed now that he should've known better. The centre, he knew well enough, cannot hold.
His satisfaction remained immovable, but as the days ticked by, that bright, soul-shaking joy was steadily bleeding out of him. A week in, he wasn't unhappy, wasn't ungrateful, but the more time that passed, the more keenly he missed a life that he should have, by all rights, been jazzed to escape. His thoughts turned again and again to Stu, bearing up under the weight of fate more gracefully than Larry could ever hope to do, to Glen and Ralph and unerringly to Lucy—He'd thought he'd come to terms with leaving her during that long trek to Vegas, thought he'd gotten past the guilt of witnessing her gut-wrenching acceptance, so in contrast with Frannie's histrionics, but he missed her as keenly as a missing limb.
(Larry was well-convinced this was a feeling he was entirely owed, but wasn't sure what the hell to do with it other than carry it like a knot permanently fixed to his heart.)
A city boy all his life, Larry knew shit about plants. His mother had kept some sort of vine perched in a faded red pot on her kitchen windowsill, and that was where his expertise stopped. He'd never even been to the conservatory in Central Park. Yet when he'd visited the hotel offices and looked at the list of available jobs, his eye had kept jumping back to the landscaping crew. It felt wrong, somehow, to choose something that kept him inside all day, and his hands needed something to do. Not a distraction, a benediction.
That's how Larry Underwood, New York City born and bred, more accustomed to concrete than compost, was now outside beneath a blue sky with dirt caked under his fingernails and the sun at his back, packing soil around lavender plants in an English garden. Somewhere, Larry knew, the Judge approved.
Initially, Larry had believed that nothing could temper the shock of divine relief that had carried him here, to the Nexus Hotel. (Heaven or Limbo, pick your poison.) The surety of that white-hot flash had made him the most buoyant he'd felt since he got that damned record deal a lifetime (or two?) ago, but in a way that had far transcended all of Old Larry's petty little triumphs. He'd expected it to stick, that elation, but supposed now that he should've known better. The centre, he knew well enough, cannot hold.
His satisfaction remained immovable, but as the days ticked by, that bright, soul-shaking joy was steadily bleeding out of him. A week in, he wasn't unhappy, wasn't ungrateful, but the more time that passed, the more keenly he missed a life that he should have, by all rights, been jazzed to escape. His thoughts turned again and again to Stu, bearing up under the weight of fate more gracefully than Larry could ever hope to do, to Glen and Ralph and unerringly to Lucy—He'd thought he'd come to terms with leaving her during that long trek to Vegas, thought he'd gotten past the guilt of witnessing her gut-wrenching acceptance, so in contrast with Frannie's histrionics, but he missed her as keenly as a missing limb.
(Larry was well-convinced this was a feeling he was entirely owed, but wasn't sure what the hell to do with it other than carry it like a knot permanently fixed to his heart.)
A city boy all his life, Larry knew shit about plants. His mother had kept some sort of vine perched in a faded red pot on her kitchen windowsill, and that was where his expertise stopped. He'd never even been to the conservatory in Central Park. Yet when he'd visited the hotel offices and looked at the list of available jobs, his eye had kept jumping back to the landscaping crew. It felt wrong, somehow, to choose something that kept him inside all day, and his hands needed something to do. Not a distraction, a benediction.
That's how Larry Underwood, New York City born and bred, more accustomed to concrete than compost, was now outside beneath a blue sky with dirt caked under his fingernails and the sun at his back, packing soil around lavender plants in an English garden. Somewhere, Larry knew, the Judge approved.