#crouchingnephewhiddenuncle

[crouchingnephewhiddenuncle]

Nephew Entry - Herm Grows Weed

Dear diary, 

It took Uncle Butch a while to figure it out, but I've got a weed plant growing in our backyard. The dumbass goes back there every morning and picks out a tomato for his afternoon salad, yet doesn't notice that right next to it is a big giant nice bud of leaf. It took him a while to notice it, but I think he knows now. I saw him staring pretty heavily at it when he was by himself in the yard yesterday. He stood there around it, unsure of what it really was, his head tilting from one way to another. It's a weed plant. Delicious indiga, the kind that makes you smooth and mellow. I bet he'll smoke it and feel like he's back in the 70s and in his prime again. I'm waiting for the right time to smoke it, like when I get a girl to come over after a date. We'll have a spaghetti dinner, and take it back to my place, and I'll crack open a bottle of wine and we'll turn on a hip flick, and I'll take her outside to show her something and then talk about it with her and how I got it and what I've done to nurture it to become what it is now. And then I'll say"Do you wanna smoke it?"

And we'll both nod our heads and break it up, roll it into a joint and get high while watching cartoons. Nah, fuck it. I'll probably smoke it with Uncle Butch tonight. The guy was the first one to get me high, so I can't go hiding it from him. I've noticed he's been a little annoyed about something lately, like he may be disturbed I'm holding out on him. It may have hurt his feelings. He's quite the guy, I tell you. I'm gonna get high with him again and see what kind of crazy nonsense he's going to talk about this time. Maybe he'll tell me he's gay or something. Or that he used to fuck horses. I could see that. He seems like a guy that fucked horses. And then one day Bessie got the best of him and he had to retire. He seems like he was devastated by a horse. He seems like the kind of guy who got arrested for being out too late at a farm, jerking off one of the chickens, and then the police rolled up on him and took him to prison. Then he did hard time and had to go through a lot of shit in prison being known as the guy who jerked off the chickens. That's Butch, alright. That's Butch.

I'm going to use this as leverage in our relationship. Gonna see if I can get more info out of him. If he has a dark past. Some sort of history that he's been hiding. Some motives as to why he has stayed here so long and what he really wants from us. I could see this getting interesting. Or I could see nothing happening from it at all. It could just be Butch getting high and burping and talking about shit incoherently.I'm gonna tell him tonight. I'll surprise him with a freshly rolled joint. When he's by himself in front of the TV I'll drop it right on his lap and say "I got you something fresh from the garden." Maybe I'll put it next to his salad tomorrow afternoon.

[crouchingnephewhiddenuncle]

High School graduation Part 3

Dear diary,

. . . With Herman’s right-hand, he squeezes from the roots of my ever thinning P. Tail; his wrist is throbbing, accumulating dirt and sweat, nose just inches from my muffler, body dragging along the 25 yard line.

By this point, most parents in attendance are standing; some of the very old men and women are shedding tears of pure fear; and there's even a fat  black woman, suffering from a case of cartoon-like obesity, vomiting in the shadows, underneath the bleachers. What can I say, I'm an observant uncle.  

The pigs, still trigger happy as fuck, send indiscriminate shots buzzing over my shoulders . . . Can the Back To The Future aspect of this Dolorean kick-in, please. God damn. In four seconds, my ass is headed straight for the goal post. And at 88 mph, the impact would kill me, and, possibly Herman, as well.

To my relief (and Herman’s) a light-purple myst materializes in the end-zone, inviting me, rewarding me; in fact, after all, how many nephews’ on this planet can say their uncle provided them the luxury of time travel. (You’re welcome, my dear nephew. You will thank me often in the near future, and you'll refer to me, in a subservient tone, as "Husband." I can no longer tolerate, Herman, the boy of my dreams, calling me by the name "Uncle." Don't get me wrong, I rep the "late-night-sneaky-uncle Credo like a boss. And, look, I'm honored to be given the opportunity to be an "Uncle" in the first place. 

Moments before I enter the time portal—loudly, as though there were a miniature man, living inside my ears—I hear the eccentric, somewhat feminine, high-pitched squeal of Roger, the actual owner of the Dolorean. “That a boy, Herman. Hold on tight, young boy. And Butch . . . Fuck the police.” Very cool dude, that Roger. But, as “Fat Earl” (a felon whom I worked with while living in Atlanta) once told me: “Butch, you’re morally bankrupt. And you don’t give a fuck about nuthin.” And he was right; I spent time in the break room, when no-one was around, shaking his bottles of seltzer water, furiously; and would occasionally hide his car keys deep in trenches of wildly active fire-ant hills. (I stopped doing this when, to his great success, would be given permission to leave the garage, early in his shift, crying-on about severe allergic reactions to the ant bites).

Overflowing with the spirit of “Fat Earl (Fat Earl died in 1995, after watching the movie "Water World"), I gazed into my rearview, catching an unfocused glimpse of whom appeared to be Roger, and threw up my middle-finger. 

After a few moments of loud, gong-like sounds, and blinding light (I could not discern the colors), Herman, still clenching the hair god gave me—and myself, were spit back out into the perceivable space known as “reality.” 

I couldn’t see a damn thing; tall blades of glass consumed every angle of the car. Our speed decreased rapidly, and we came to a stand-still. Shit. Turns out we’re still in Ledyard, on the very same high-school football field. I know this because I’m looking at the Colonel’s scoreboard, which seems to be, from my current vantage point, the only vestige of humanity.

Faintly, in a whiny, listless tone, I hear “Uncle Butch. Uncle Butch.” And after a few, might-filled yanks at the ponytail, Herman, bloody, with succulent scabs from head-to-toe, appears, hunched, struggling to maintain balance, reaching out to me like a cheesy, 80’s action villain begging for mercy while dangling off the ledge of a cliff.

Immediately (call it “Uncle Instincts”), before any motives could be processed, I remove my Bone Thugs And Harmony T-Shirt I'm wearing, and I wrap his face with it--absorbing the blood, puss, and other moist contents . . . The boy is leaking, for goodness sakes.

Herman falls over my shoulder and loses consciousness in my arms. His weight is too great for my old, dope-sick shoulders to bear, and Herm lands on a pile of glass in the backseat.

  “Ohhhhh, Uncle Butch, I’m hurting so bad. So bad, uncle butch. 

Shit. What’s an Uncle like me to do in these moments of crisis.        

[crouchingnephewhiddenuncle]

Nephew Entry

Dear Journal,

Tonight after graduation and after my dad went to sleep, my uncle came into my room and cracked open a PBR and handed to me. "Now that you've graduated, it's time to start drinking beer," I had already been drinking, but I played it off like it was my first and took a swig like I didn't know what to expect. "Tasty isn't it?" Yeah. I still don't like the taste, but I acted like it was all good. "Let's take this party elsewhere." I hopped in his delorean, which I have no idea how he got but somehow I didn't ask any questions. We took a cruise over to the high school football field. We were lucky enough that they left the lights on, so we sat at the 50 yard line and tossed the pig skin around and had words over beer. I had a few, he had a few. I started to loosen up around him and felt comfortable talking to him after awhile. After all, I need someone to talk to. I don't have a lot of friends and my dad has always been the type of guy to keep me focused on grades and hasn't really trained me to socialize well. My uncle is real cool, and one of those dudes that seems to get along with a lot of people. He has a quick temper, sure, but besides that he seems pretty savvy. We tossed the football around a bit, a lot of times he threw it too hard and it hit me in the face. He started yelling at me like he was my gym teacher and corrected me on my throwing form. Then he started ordering me to do pushups and situps, and since I wasn't going fast enough he decided to play a little "motivation" from the jukebox. It was some bullshit jock jams album. I got to hear music from the 90's blasted in my ear while I went up and down doing pushups and sweating doing jumping jacks. Fucking miserable, I tell you. The dude seems like a real psychopath, I just keep him around because I'm lonely. After all, he's kinda weird, and kinda funny. I can see why so many people like him, despite his rare appearance and pentiant for snapping on people who fuck with his lizard. I had a decent time, not gonna lie. It wasn't my cup of tea, but I made it work, and I tolerated it while I could. Dude didn't say anything creepy, that was probably the first time he hasn't said anything creepy in a while. I think I may be started to understand him better. Oh well, fuck that motherfucker, I got other shit to focus on. Like college. That dumb fuck has no idea what that's all about. I don't know what his deal is anyways, I think he failed out of community college after high school and became a car salesmen. Alright, another day spent, another milestone. I graduated, and learned how to throw a football. Later.

Chat Conversation End

[crouchingnephewhiddenuncle]

Uncle Entry - High School Graduation Part 2

Dear Diary,

I often wish I owned a Dolorean. I’d a picked my nephew up from school when he was in Kindergarden; (Kindergarten, or Kindergarden?) we’d hit 88 MPH; I’d drive Herman to his 18th birthday (he’d be of-age).

Why was I so infatuated with Camaros? It was the Dolorean that could’ve given me what I desired. Today, here, right now, this is the culmination of 18 very long years. And to think, I could’ve bypassed all the waiting; the weekends at Chuck E. Cheese, where I would see how long I could hold my breathe at the bottom of the ball pit (27 hours straight); all the cold nights spent chugging Dubra at the hand-ball court, laughing, stumbling around with my pants around my ankles, a Bic lighter shaking in my hands, desperately trying to light my own farts—anything to stop the cruel, unrelenting bite of the southern wind; and, of course, perhaps the very worst of those 18 years waiting for Herm’s growth, the nights I spent—completely sober—in the middle of the street, screaming his name, “Herman. Herm, baby!!! (Falsetto) Herrrmaaaannn!!!”

Oh, shit. I been saying’ this aloud; binoculars really take your mind from reality. 

OLD MAN WITHOUT BINOCULARS: “I don’t know what sort of relationship you have with this Herman, nephew of yours, but it’s sweet . . . And, by-the-way: I own a Delorean. Right there!”

God, have mercy on my soul; he ain’t lying. 

ME: “How long till the ceremonies begin? . . . You can have the binoculars back.

OLD MAN WITH BINOCULARS: “Ohhhhhhh - we have six or seven minutes.

ME: “Perfect. I’ll see ya round . . . 

OLD MAN WITH BINOCULARS: “ . . . Roger”

ME: “Uncle Butch . . . Rog, hey, did you drop a cough drop over here in the grass?

Rog is bent over: Now!

I crouch, sneakily, like an uncle should, and reach into Roger’s back pocket. Hello, Dolorean Key.

OLD MAN WITHOUT DOLOREAN KEY: “Where at, now?”

And like a fart to a flame, I’m out with the quickness. 

Scanning the parking lot—Sunfire, Eagle Talon, Skylark . . . Marty!!!

With my pretty little beak behind the wheel, it’s time to be a real man, a real “uncle.” They say an uncle’s job is to give his nephew the attention his father fails to provide. 

I just stole a Dolorean at my nephew’s high school graduation—need I say more. 

Luckily, Roger has a CD player in this thing . . . Initiating my favorite song, and it’s fitting for the occasion: Age aint nothin but a number, by Aliyah. Volume up, all the way. 

I slam the gas and head toward the Ledyard High Football field, where the ceremonies are underway.

Now just feet from the field, I take a deep breathe. I picture myself in a wedding dress. I picture Herman in a wedding dress.

With the petal-to-the-metal, I slam in to the fence, flattening it like a waffle-house pancake, and cut through the grassy football field.

Everyone is panicking now—standing, covering their mouth, being all over dramatic: Ya’ll act like you never seen an Uncle before!

A half-dozen pig cars, sirens blazing, come plowing down the 50 yard line, towards me. I accelerate fast and cut the wheel, swerving around the pigs with relative ease.

Hitting the brakes hard, I skid to the bottom of the bleachers, where all of Ledyard High’s soon-to-be graduates are located. 

The Aliyah is bumping too hard; I need a respite from all this big, booming bass. 

After lowering the volume, I hand-crank the driver-side window and poke my head out (a la Ace Ventura). I see Herman, head in lap, eyes closed. Hanging out the window I yell:

ME: “Herman. I’m here, boy. Get in.”

Herman: “Uncle Butch? What are you doing?

ME: “I’m here to fu . . . Forget about why I’m here. 

Smash. Glass from the rear window cascades onto the backseat of the Dolorean, Bullets are flying; these pigs’ mean business.

ME: “Get in the car, Herman!!!!”

HERMAN: “Why?”

ME: “your graduation gift: a high-speed chase in your new Dolorean. 

A shot rips through the passenger seat. Two speeding pigs approach. Herman freezes with fear. I have to peel outta here. 

I step on the gas. The pigs are too close to my tail—pony tail, that is. Speaking of Pony-Tails.

Doing 88 Miles Per Hour, with the pigs gaining on me, I launch my Pony-Tail out of the passenger side window; it lands inches from Herm’s lap

ME: “Grab on, Herm.”

To my surprise, he grabs hold. 

He’s in store for one hell of a ride (if you know what I mean?). 

To be continued . . . 

[crouchingnephewhiddenuncle]

Nephew Entry 07/21/14

My uncle and my dad had it out tonight. Big fight over whether or not my uncle should start paying rent or not. A lot of shit came out and things got real heated. My dad grabbed the lizard and threw him across the room. The lizard made it okay despite the strong impact against the wall. Still shit everywhere afterwards and seemed as calm as can be. Meanwhile things are real quiet in the house. Not sure what's going on. I'm all alone, wondering who really cares about me more. I heard them mention my name and my uncle try to claim that he'd be a better man in my life than my dad would. Things got silent. That's when he farted. I think they heard me listening through the crack in my door and I went back into my bed. They seemed to realize that they are both assholes and need to stop making so much noise while I try to sleep. And that's that. Goodnight journal

[crouchingnephewhiddenuncle]

Nephew Entry - High School Graduation

Dear Diary

I graduated from high school today. Can't believe the day came and went. My dad came. And so did my uncle of course. He had his iguana with him, which was stupid. I'm not sure why he thought it was okay to bring the iguana into the ceremony, but he did. It didn't get loose, but it shit on the floor and people kept their distance. He was walking around, slightly inebriated, talking to all of the graduates. Even my friends. It was embarrassing. He kept talking to them about me and how "Proud" he is of me. I don't think he has anything to be proud of, he barely even knows me. It's like he's trying to claim me as his own when he hasn't ever been a part of my life. The most I've heard from him was a letter in the mail here and there, birthdays and Christmas. Now all of the sudden he's my best friend. Graduation was as boring as could be. I waited until they called my name, and they did, and then people held their applause until the end. At the end of the ceremony my uncle screamed at the top of his lungs, I saw my dad's face as he was doing this, he was just sitting there quietly, not sure how hard to clap, looking uncomfortable as can be. After graduation we had lunch at applebee's. My uncle was asked to leave the restaurant when he refused to leave the iguana in the car. He demanded extra celery and threw a fit when he didn't get it. He said something about how his lizard loves celery and it's a crying shame that Applebee's claims to be a neighborhood restaurant yet they wouldn't let a "friend of the neighborhood" inside. My uncle is very close to his lizard, apparently. He claims him as his own and will snap at the second anyone shows the slightest disrespect and does not show the lizard the same respects as they would a human being. Oh, and did I tell you I graduated?

[crouchingnephewhiddenuncle]

Uncle Entry 07/20/14

Dear Diary, 

Sometimes in moments of defeat, victory appears, nudging you closer and closer to the happiness you’ve always wished for.

My damn boss, Earnie Preston. Let me just say, Jose has been using copious amounts of methodone, and I don’t see no pink slip in his hand. Jose ain’t even American. These hands (my hands) have been responsible for getting more Camaro’s back on the road—than Nascar culture, or any fuckin’ one else for that matter. 

Catch me drinkin’ a six pack a Busch Light and wanna act like I killed Jon Benet Ramsey. 

It’s all good though. I’m a new man, an unemployed man, but a new one. I got the top down in my Camaro, hair dancing in the wind, my pet Iguana Walter on my shoulder, and a nephew (that just turned 18) graduating from High-School. 

I’m doin’ damn near a buck twenty, ziggin and zaggin down long, curvy New-England roads. 

I’ll be at Herman’s graduation . . . Now. Shit, parking is a bitch in this thing. High School graduation, god damn. 

A ha, there’s a parking spot for me. Wait. Should I take this parking spot, or do some burnouts in the parking lot and show these mother fuckers what kind of awesome uncle I really am. Papa Roach, Last resort—cranked as loud as I can. Woo hoo. Smoke is all over the place, brother. Oh, a pig. Slam the break.

Pig: “What ya think you’re doin’ there, guy?

Stereo: (Still crank): “Would it be wrong, would it be right . . .”

Pig: “Turn that . . .”

Me: Yeah, sorry . . . Nephew Herman is graduating tonight. Drove all the way here from Atlanta. Still a little pumped from the journey, I guess.

Pig: “Just relax.”

Me: “Yes, sir.”

Fuckin’ Pig. Let me cruise around to that empty spot. Noooooo!!!! Ain’t that a bitch—Geo Tracker in my spot.

Pig: (yelling) “Ya gotta park at the fire house down the street.”

Me: “Where’s that?” 

Pig: “Bout a half-mile away.”

(Time Cut: 15 minutes)

Slammed Walter in the trunk. Blue Jeans, check. No Fear T-Shirt, tucked into my Blue Jeans, check. Got my boom box . . . Uncle Butch has got a graduation present for ya Herman: ME!!!

After a little sprinting, and a lot of walking, I made it—Ledyard High Football Field. Proud Moms and dads, waving, smiling—some of these poor saps are even crying; they think they love their sons and daughters—not as much as I love Herman. 

Old man with binoculars.

Me: “mind if I take a little peek-a-roo?”

Old man with binoculars: “Huh?”

Me: “your binoculars . . .”

Old man with binoculars: “Oh. Absolutely.”

(Binocular vision)

Oh. Great. Now I can really scout the place out. Lemme . . . There’s my shit head brother, Paul. Wearing a sleeveless turtle neck, like always. Paul never could shake off his Devo phase.

Moving on.

Old Man who has no binoculars: “How long ya gonna be there, Chief”

Me: “Why don’t you go play some Jax or something old man?”

I tune the old man out by cranking my boom box. 

That’s when I see him . . . Oh, Herm. Butch is here, baby. 

Acne covered face, braces, long, thick black hair—ahhhh, to be young again. 

To Be Continued . . . 

[crouchingnephewhiddenuncle]

Nephew Entry 7/19/14

Dear Diary,

My uncle and I have been having it out lately.

Little spots of tension here and there. Glances. Looks. He keeps giving me strange looks. Finally felt like it was time I break it to him, or break the ice, say something, at least, about what's going on between us. We haven't really talked much but I think it was time we got together and hashed out our feelings. I know he has some sort of feelings for me. And I'm not really sure how I feel about him but I want to at least get to the bottom of it. It was late at night, I was up listening to my favorite Bone Thugs n Harmony album, East 1999 and Eternal. He walked into my room unannounced, and cranked the music up and started dancing. It was then when he pulled out a plastic baggie full of what I assumed to be marijuana, which it was confirmed that it was. I couldn't believe it, it kind of turned me on and made me excited, that this grown man would bring marijuana into a house that was before not allowed to have any sort of paraphernalia, drug, or alcohol included. My dad would kill me. It made me realize that he's a real man and he's past those sort of limitations that have been placed on me. He's a weed smoker. And I kind of want to try it myself. I heard it's really fun, and despite how creepy and weird he is it makes me want to smoke with him and find out what he's all about.

I told him to put it away, that my father would kill me. As he was rolling a joint I grabbed it out of his hands and told him stop. And he did. But he made me promise that I would smoke with him one day. We arranged a trip to the forrest, where we would get high and talk about life. And so it is. This weird, mustached man and I are going on a trip. Just the two of us. And we're going to get high as shit.

We drove a good four hours before we got to a place that I hadn't recognized or seen before. Through turns and swerves, I noticed that if I ever had to call the police or 911 it would take them hours to get to where we were. I don't even know how to describe the location. Foresty. With woods, and animals. He drove his SUV and had a tent in the back of the trunk. The car ride was quiet and full of tension, not really sure what to say. I don't know what he wants from me. I don't know if I say something he'll take it as an innuendo. He's kind of a pervert. I'm not sure if I like that or not.

We set up camp and he made a fire. We made some frozen dinners over the fire. I had Stouffer's macaroni and cheese, took it out of the box and poked it with a stick, held it over the fire until the ice melted and the mac and cheese were ready to be eaten. I ate the overcooked noodles and the melted cheese and tried not to make a mess of myself. As I was taking a bite and the cheese was dripping down my chin I noticed my uncle gazing across the fire, he seemed turned on by what was happening. I quickly finished my meal and asked when we could get high. I was ready. I had never smoked weed before in my life. I didn't picture it to be this way, but I suppose you can't really plan things like this.

He already had a nice blunt rolled, a big fat blunt, the green leafs surrounded by the crisp chocolate paper. I watched hip as he rolled it tightly and licked to seal it. I tried not to make eye contact with him as he did it, for fear that he would think I was suggesting I was into that sort of thing.

He took a couple hits and blew the smoke out of his mouth in one of the coolest ways I've seen. He blew a smoke ring and let the smoke flow slowly out of his nose. It was the first time that I felt he actually looked cool and not stupid, like he usually does with this ugly face and mustache.

He passed it to me and asked me the question I feared most.

"You ever get high?"

"No,"

I responded.

"How come?"

My father would kill me.

He paused and stared off into the fire.

"You know what kid, when people tell you not to do something, that's a damn sure sign that you should fuckin do it."

You're right.

I accepted. And took my first hit. I didn't feel anything at first so I took another one right after. I kept taking hit after hit, really enjoying the taste. Minutes and hours must've passed before I passed it back to him, I found myself deep into a conversation about hash browns and cherry lollipops, and the meaning of the universe, and that's when I realized I was high as shit.

"You gonna pass that back?"

I laughed, and he laughed. We both laughed together and couldn't stop laughing. I kept hitting the blunt and finally passed it to him before it got to the half way point.

I couldn't control myself from talking after that. I felt so good I must've spilled all my business to him. All of how I felt about my father and how I felt cooped up in that house like a caged bird. That's when he opened up a letter out of his pocket and read to me the poem "Why the Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou. Shit got real quiet and he started coming to tears almost, and that's when I told him to stop acting like a punk bitch and pass me the blunt. I was ready. I was a champion. I was a real weed smoker. I had gotten past the initial high and gotten over the feelings of euphoria that you first get when you smoke weed, and I moved on and started smoking that shit like no other. I felt great.

There came a point when I felt like I may have smoked too much and I lost the ability to talk. I felt my uncle gazing at me very hard and I took every comment he made as an innuendo, I wasn't sure he if he was trying to get me to lay with him or not. I mentioned something about taking a shower and he told me to feel free to take one with him so we save water. That disturbed me and I retreated to the tent and tucked myself into the covers and slept like an infant, my knees almost touching my chin and my arms holding myself around my body like I was being rescued from a drowning ship.

I don't think he tried anything on me that night, at least I don't remember. And despite all of his creepy suggestons I feel like we made some sort of connection. Something we could talk about moving forward. Something we could wink at each other about across the dinner table, with my father having no idea. It was me and him, on that night. The first night I had ever gotten high. With my uncle.