March 12, 2014
When things go south
in Paradise
Il y a des faussités déguisées qui
représentent si bien la verité, que ce serait mal juger que de ne si pas
laisser tromper.[1]
– La Rochefoucald
Actually,
I’m not in Paradise but one of its frozen suburbs. This is what happens when
you visit your Uncle Albert in winter, though it’s March and you thought by
then winter might be going, if not gone. As Uncle Albert likes to say, “Well,
that’s what thinking’ll do for you.” There’s no vocal emphasis on the “you”;
but you (meaning I in this case) can hear it nevertheless.
Uncle Albert is nobody’s uncle − I can
say that with confidence, since I know he’s an only child. He’s a cousin of my
mother, who also called him “Uncle Albert,” though he can’t be too much older
than she would be if she were still alive. That puts him somewhere in his early
nineties. He lives by himself in a little two bedroom house that was built for
summer. He bought it as a summer place a number of years ago, but then he sold
it. Then, he decided he was going to live up here year round and managed
somehow to rent it. It’s warm enough; he supplements the lousy baseboard heat
with space heaters. And he’s wired.
He spends half his day on the internet
and the other half watching Fox and CNN in turn. The other half he spends
sleeping. Actually, the internet and Fox/CNN half are the same. While he emails
his senators and representatives (state and federal) and members of their
staffs and anyone he thinks, as he puts it, “could somehow stick a firecracker
up the wazoo of the Koch brothers − or any of their ilk,” he watches Fox and CNN, switching back and forth at whim, giving me a running commentary and yelling
at both, equally loudly and joyfully. He loves both politics and powerlessness.
He worships FDR and frustration.
Despite all that he’s a giant pain in
the ass.
I’m
here this week, because my [expletive deleted] sister promised when she was
here that I’d come in early March. There are six nieces/nephews somehow related, and
we’re each supposed to come up twice a year and check in, so he won’t be dead more
than a few weeks before somebody finds him. I found him unremittingly alive.
I
don’t know how he gets along when none of us is here, because he’s completely
helpless when we are − at least, when I am. Yet he does. He manages to eat
without my cooking for him. He keeps his dishes, glasses, silverware, and tea
cups clean without my washing them. He drinks his five cups of tea a day without
my brewing it. He empties his own ashtray. He answers the phone. I don’t know
how, but he must do these things.
When I’m here, though, I do all of
them and more. He’s like a four-year-old in need of constant attention. If
yours wanders for a moment: “Hey, come look at this.” He’s stuck in his recliner under his lap
desk, looking at something on his PC, something I won’t be able to see even
when I get there because of the clash of light from the window and his lamp and
the angle of the screen. So, I grunt, “Uh-huh?” − knowing he’ll tell me about it.
“That’s that anal-exfusion[2] from
Kentucky.” I’m wondering which “anal-exfusion,” but I say, “Uh-huh?” “Says he’s a libertarian. Doesn’t know what
that means. Can’t want the government off your back on Monday morning and looking
over your shoulder by nightfall. Read that.” He highlights six or eight lines. All
I can see is the yellow. “Uh-huh.” “Right.
Idiot!”
I go sit down again. I have a cushion
in the middle of the couch between a pile of newspapers and a pile of magazines
from which I occasionally hand him something. “It’s the sixth one down,” he
says pointing to the papers. He’s always right. “Put it back where you found it, make sure,”
he says when he’s done with it.
Today,
the toilet didn’t flush. After I plunged it, we called the plumber, meaning I
did. He comes over. He’s pretty sure it’s the septic tank. And it’s ten degrees
outside. “Call Hummer,” Uncle Albert says. Hummer is the guy that owns the
house now. He lives in Detroit but he’s from up here somewhere. “His number’s
on the board by the phone. Tell him I’m going to need to move my ancient bowels
before the week’s out.”
I got here Sunday. My younger bowels
are rumbling. It’s Wednesday. “Rumble, rumble, rumble. Grumble, grumble,
grumble.” My plane leaves from the Soo Saturday afternoon.
W
(I’m
not wrong about this one.)
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