Family Man
By: Sam Logan
I waited on the front porch of my grandmother’s house for over an hour before I gave up on my great uncle showing up to take me to the movies. Another broken promise. I should have been used to it, but the sting always came hard and fast. Tears trickled along my cheeks and left streaks in the rosy blush. Long blonde hair brushed back and tucked behind my ears to let the wind dry my face. Home for the summer from college, I looked forward to spending the afternoon with him even though I should have known better.
When this happened, which was often, I always wondered whether I’d ever see Uncle Russell again. He always warned me that there were people out to get him. “If I disappear, don’t look for me,” he said. I assumed he was referring to the pit bosses and other card sharks at the casino near the city. He counted cards at the poker and blackjack tables until he got blacklisted. Invite-only games in back rooms and basements were the only places he could find any action.
Pulling my denim jacket tight against my chest, I headed inside to escape the swirling leaves of a changing season. My grandmother wasn’t home, so I decided to flip through some family photograph albums to pass the time. I didn’t know much about Uncle Russell. He always popped in and out of my life throughout my childhood. We’d make plans, but he only followed through with them once in a while like a rat that randomly gets a food pellet after hours of pressing a lever. The dopamine hit of success was enough to overcome the disappointment of failed attempts.
But when Uncle Russell showed up, it was an absolute blast. Arcades. Bowling alleys. Miniature golf. I landed on a dusty photograph of him in his Navy uniform. He never talked about his time in the military. I’d have to ask him about it someday.
Uncle Russell loved to talk about his wife and children in Hawaii. One of his kids was named after me. He gushed over how beautiful his wife was, and how she was a personal trainer. He promised that one day he would take me to Hawaii to visit. I didn’t hold my breath.
Come to think of it, I’d never been to Uncle Russell’s apartment. My grandmother wouldn’t be back for a while, so I decided to check on him. Most likely he lost track of time in some dimly lit room placing bets and fleecing the rest of the table out of their mortgage payments. I checked the address book my grandmother kept next to her recliner and headed out into the frigid twilight of dusk.
I parked at the apartment complex. The brick building was crumbling in shambles. Cracked sidewalks. Overgrown grass. Broken patio furniture strewn about. I could hear squeals of laughter from children playing from behind the building. It didn’t take long to find the faded “6” on the ground-level unit.
Knock knock.
No answer.
KNOCK KNOCK.
No answer.
I almost turned away and gave up, but something pulled me back. A nagging notion to try the knob, see if it was unlocked. I turned and pushed open the door as far as it would go.
“Uncle Russell?” I called out.
No answer.
The stench of rotting garbage hit my nostrils like a punch to the nose. The door was stuck on a stack of newspapers about waist high. Stacks and stacks filled the living room. Stepping in, I saw the kitchen sink piled high with dirty dishes. The counter served as overflow for the dreck that could no longer fit in the garbage can bursting at its lid.
My feet padded along the caramel brown carpet. A small but bulky cathode ray tube television set with antennae like rabbit ears sat on the floor. The bedroom door was ajar, and I peeked in with hesitation— afraid of what I’d find.
Uncle Russell was asleep, shirtless and lightly snoring. His saggy skin falling off his bones like it was hanging on for dear life.
On my way out, a fit Polynesian woman on television was leading viewers through an exercise routine. Then I knew, and it crushed me.
He was alone. Always alone.
Sam (he/him) emerged in 1984 from the depths of the Chesapeake Bay off the Maryland shore. He made it to Oregon where he is a university professor in kinesiology and teaches courses about punk and body horror. Sam lives with his partner, kiddo, and Dune the dog. He has stories in Mouthfeel Fiction, Punk Noir Magazine, Divinations Magazine, Major 7th Magazine, Underbelly Press, and Wallstrait (forthcoming). Find him at samloganwrites.comX