How did I meet Morgan? I suppose a better question would be how does anyone “meet” Morgan? I think it’s just something that happens one day, and you realize that this very interesting character has come into your life and that’s probably fine. Morgan and I hung out sporadically during our film school years. He was always more busy than I. When I lived in New York he stayed in Florida, moving further south to work at HSN. As my New York years got the better of me and I found myself retreating back to the swamp lands once more I contacted Morgan. I had quite the tale to tell him, involving Misty, Valerie, Chris, among many, many other things.
Our first time hanging out again we shared a smoke. He was happy to have someone to share a cigarette with and I was happy to have a cigarette. We had frequent drunken escapades, one involving the Quick Red Fox, where Morgan convinced me to go up and do Karaoke for the first time. Anyone who knows me now knows how much I love karaoke. And now you have someone to thank. Morgan stood to go to the restroom after a little too much whiskey that neither of us could completely put down. While there some middle aged woman approached me. “Hey.” She said.
“You see my sister over there?” I looked across the room and saw a younger woman staring and smiling at me. I smiled back out of courtesy. “She really loves your hair.”
“She says she wants to touch it.”
“Come on, it’ll be worth it. Trust me.” I was still relatively new to being single, so I hadn’t really figured out how to say no. Besides, it wasn’t like her sister was deformed or something. I approached her and her hand jetted to my head.
“Oh my God it’s so soft I love it!” She shouted over the DJ. I nodded.
“Well, glad to be of service, m’lady.” and turned back to my spot at the bar. I heard a faint “Uh, okay.” as I walked away.
I sat back down and Morgan followed soon after. I leaned to him. “You’re not gonna believe what just happened.” I turned to point at the woman infatuated with my hair, and saw that she was standing up and waving furiously at me, beckoning me back. “Hold on.” I got up and walked back to her.
“What was that about? Why’d you just walk away?”
“Well you said you wanted to touch my hair. I thought that was it.” She invited us to come sit with her and her sister, but I used the excuse that they were too close to the speakers. I invited them to come over and sit with us. She R.S.V.P.’ed immediately. She bought me drinks and before I knew it I was making out with her at the bar. How embarrassing. I still haven’t quite learned not to do that. She started to talk about how she’s recently divorced and just now getting back on the market. Ahhhnother broken one. She climbed on my leg and straddled me. She rubbed her pussy against my knee, rocking back and forth. Did I mention this was the middle of the bar? Morgan had engaged in a conversation with some stranger to his right. Smart move, I suppose. She tightened her grip around my leg with hers and pressed harder. She kissed me. She bit my neck. Then she shuddered. Then she stood and walked to the bathroom. A stranger had straddled me at the bar of the Quick Red Fox until she came. I turned to Morgan. “Don’t let me leave with this girl. No matter how drunk I get.” Speaking of, “Could I get a shot?” I asked the bartender. She laughed, pouring it up for me.
This woman returned to the table, glancing at my pants and biting her lip. Morgan patted my shoulder. “Well, man I’m gonna head out. You’re more than welcome to come with if you want.” Then he walked outside. The woman stared at me. She wanted to take me home. I told her that I had to go with my buddy and she gave me her number. I never called her.
Morgan had saved me from many a mistake. He was a good drinking buddy to have around. He was able to prevent me from going home with 40 year old biker women as well as pushing me to sing my heart out no matter what the mood is like. He was also one of the few friends to come out and visit me for a few drinks. Most of the time I had to drive an hour and a half every weekend to meet friends, but he came up one night, and we had a blast. Apparently some yearly beerfest was going on across the street from my favorite bar. It ended at ten and the place was flooded. People like Morgan and myself loved to mingle, and all we could ask for was a crowded bar. We jumped around left and right in a state of decreasing sobriety as we chatted with random folks here and there, one of which being Suzanne, and we ended our night with a trip to Ihop where I brought up past troubles and he threatened to break my hand if I kept talking about it.
Morgan and myself often ended our escapades with trips to breakfast diners. They were always my favorite part of our hangouts. Morgan had no regular breakfast. He always changed it up, but the one thing he was consistent on was leaving his strawberries when the complimentary fruit came. “Why don’t you eat the strawberries?” I asked. He began to explain that strawberries aren’t supposed to be ingested by males. He said that they were strictly a female fruit and not for the male anatomy. He insisted that was the reason he didn’t eat them.
I personally don’t believe that, however that’s what I love about Morgan. He has his principles and he’ll stick to them, no matter what. There are things he simply will not do, and one of them is eat strawberries. To this day when I see a strawberry I think of Morgan. I think about that time in the diner when I asked the question to life, the universe and everything and he answered strawberries are not for the male anatomy. It brings a smile to my face every time.
I hope to one day own a bicycle again. I would like to ride it around town and feel the cool fall breeze or the warm spring air on my face as I rear back. Given my luck with bicycles, however, I may pass by a person’s front yard farm. In the age of “Grow food, not lawns” someone may take the advice literally and have a nice long strawberry patch. The sight could take up a little too much of my attention as I speed downhill past the house. I might be a little too close to the side of the road, and the irony that is a stop sign would collide with my face, knocking me clean off the bicycle and slamming my head on the curb. I’d bleed out a strawberry red blood while my bike ran half a block unmanned, and I’ll die thinking of Morgan.