Picture Maker

Gramps was a Scotsman living just south of the Garden District in New Orleans.  He led the charge as my principle male role model, as also occasionally did my second cousin Robert, who was better fitting the age of a great-uncle than a cousin.  My memories consist of a few choice moments that pretty much wove the tale of my life as a youth left fatherless by a car accident at age seven.  These two men represented the end of the living bloodline from which I was descended, and the two biggest reasons for my neurotic outlook on life.

I wasn’t the only one affected by them, but I was the only one that couldn’t do a damn thing about it.  I was trapped.  At thirteen, I remember sitting in Gramps’ car as we were just about to leave for the bars to go drinking (Gramps always took me to the bars with him to watch him drink), when suddenly Robert pulls up, half blocking our way and yells out his car window at me in a thick Scottish brogue, “Crrraigh!  Get o’er here!  Yer commin’ wit me!”

Before I could even react, Gramps shoots a look and an index finger into my face and says in a life-or-death tone, “Dunt moove a muscle, retard.”

He called me retard because he thought that something wasn’t right about me.  I didn’t talk much at all, I ate too fast, and I moved too slowly for what Gramps considered “normal”.  Therefore, to him, I was retarded; and he was going to help make me normal.  So I sat frozen next to Gramps’ while my cousin heckled me to come with him.

Gramps shouted, “Ee’s not goon’ wit’ya, ya jackass!”

“Fuck if ee ain’t!” Robert yelled back.

There I sat with my two mentors cussing each other out over which one of them was going to get to take me with them to do something meaningless; neither plan being anything remotely of interest to me.  I was being slave-traded by two crazy old relatives who had nothing better to do.

Finally, Gramps sped triumphantly around my cousin’s car hoisting a rigid middle finger well above the roofline, leaving Robert stewing all alone in the driveway.

So off we went to the bars, and away went Robert back home to pick up his shotgun; and from there, he went out looking for Gramps and I.  He crisscrossed town looking for us at all the usual places.  But before he found us, a cop spotted the psychotic degenerate hauling ass down Tchoupitoulas Street with one arm on the steering wheel, and the other gripping the erect double-barreled muzzle of a twelve gauge sitting next to him.  Gramps was supposed to die at Miller’s Tavern that afternoon, but didn’t; all because Robert was just a little too crazy to get the job done.

Robert had always been crazy, and it seemed to stem from his being just plain morally bankrupt.  As a kid he was cruel and found for himself plenty of cheap entertainment by way of terrorizing other people; anyone.  An old blind woman used to live in the neighborhood, just down the block from Robert.  In the hot summer evenings, she would sit out on the steps of her front porch and relax; try to keep cool and have a soda.  One night, Robert walked over to her house, stood in front of her, unzipped his pants and peed on her.

Later in life, he collected Nazi memorabilia.  Now, there are obviously all sorts of ethical issues regarding the collecting of such things in the first place, although there are many people who do.  But Robert took the hobby to an all-time low.  He amassed his collection while soldiering in World War II; he stole all of his artifacts from the bodies of dead and wounded German soldiers.  I think that that alone was enough to curse Robert for the rest of his life.  On my tenth birthday, he gave me one of these scavenged objects as a gift; a Nazi ink pen.  Right in front of Gramps and my poor mother, I open this little box; and there was this relic from the Third Reich.

Mother almost had a heart attack on the spot.

Gramps was lit up; “Watt the fuck’er ya doon’ Roebit?!  Givin’ the retard a Hitler aink pin!  Roebit, yer goddamn insane ya are!  Tek that thing bek, raight away!”

This was not a good situation; a calamitous birthday celebration.  Robert and Gramps were going at it, yelling obscenities at each other.  Those two were always going at it.  They hated each other.  Soon, Robert left, but the Nazi ink pen remained behind.  Later, I had to beg and plead desperately to convince mother and Gramps into letting me keep my cousin’s present.

“Better me than Robert” I said, which seemed to make a lot of sense.  At ten years old, I couldn’t imagine a cooler gift than an actual Nazi ink pen, stolen from the body of a dead or dying German soldier.

Gramps faculties weren’t much better than Robert’s; not by a long shot.  And being Robert’s uncle, he was obviously the wellspring for all of our insanities.

Years later, Gramps would be shocked to learn that I was working on my Master’s Degree in photography, seeing as how I was a retard and all.

“Yer goon’ to skewl to learn to tek pikchurs?”  He says to me.  “How’re ya goon’ ta gait a job tekin’ pikchurs?”  “Ya tek pikchurs on vacation, not win yer at werk ya retard!”

Nevertheless, when I graduated, Gramps found it within himself to feel proud of me, and so he took me to get a whole new set of clothes so that I could look presentable when I went out on job interviews.   I couldn’t imagine this project going even remotely well, but figured maybe I could at least get a nice tailored suit or something out of the deal.  But Gramp’s idea of clothing, and dressing presentably was way different than mine (and that of most normal people).

The retired Scotsman golfed nearly every day of his life, and therefore old-man-golf-clothes were to him haute couture.  So off we went to “Sansabelt Heaven;” home of the belt-less trouser and coordinating polyester v-neck golf shirt.  Truly a nightmare; here was this old man running in and out of my dressing room handing me article after article of wrinkle-free leisure wear.  I settled on a pair of brown Sansabelt slacks with the six inch wide girdle waist band, along with a cream-colored poly-blend shirt and a light green nylon sport coat.

Inasmuch as the experience sucked, I figured that I ought to be appreciative of his kindness.  Gramps was just trying to do something nice for me.  I thought I can always return them, or give them to the Salvation Army in a few days without him even knowing it.  But Gramps wasn’t through with me just yet.  He had other plans for me and my new wardrobe.

As I proceeded to remove the stain-resistant, waterproof sport coat and change back into my old clothes, Gramps says, “Wut’re ya tank yer doon’?  Put thet coot baik on.  Weer goon’ ta dinner, so don’t chainge.”

I stood shell-shocked for a moment as the concept of this laughable attire suddenly changed from generous donation, to working wardrobe.  I had been distancing myself from the clothes, thinking that I will never, ever be caught dead in them- never, ever have to wear them again.  I had allowed the fashion rape to occur by putting my mind in another place, a safe and happy place; blocking out the wave, after wave of Muppet-fabric trousers consuming my hips, thighs and crotch, over and over again.  I allowed dusty nylon disco shirts to consume my torso, and “caddy shack” country club blazers to maul my back and arms.

“Thet’s raight, weer goon’ ta dinner o’er at Bill’s and Margaret’s, and Bet’s goon’ to be there too.”

The Solano’s are my Gramps’ neighbors, and Beth is their beautiful daughter who I had always had a crush on.

Any flame that I had ever hoped to kindle, any dream that I had ever kept alive, was completely and utterly extinguished the moment I arrived for dinner that evening.  Looking more like I was playing the lead role in a community theatre production of “Saturday Night Fever at Pebble Beach,” than a typical college graduate, Beth became visibly sick and excused herself to another part of the house for the rest of the night.  I think that her parents even got a little sick.

Mr. Solano just stared at me all throughout dinner, and I could tell what he was thinking.  He was thinking to himself, “Poor retard, doesn’t even know how to dress.”

June 29, 2015 | Categories: stories | Tags: humor, short story | Leave a comment