Uncle Richard

A short story about the black sheep in my family

My Uncle Richard was a wheeler-dealer. He liked to show off his business cards which

 

 read:                                                                                           Richard McFarland

Scotch-Irishman

Sales

 

It was printed on white cardstock with a green shamrock in the corner. Whenever I saw him, he would bend down next to me, his suspenders stretched tight over his giant belly, clasps desperately clinging to the waistband of his stained Levi’s, and he would pull the card out of his wallet with grubby, trembling hands.

“How ‘bout that?”, he’d say, slapping his knee and laughing.

The thick stench of chewing tobacco would linger in the air as he’d shove the card back into his wallet, spit, and wait hopefully for a response.

“That’s great, Uncle Richard,” was the usual refrain but you could tell it didn’t contain the enthusiasm he was seeking. The card always went back into his wallet; I never saw him give one out and even if he had, there was no phone number, address, or any other means of contact listed. He had a few jobs over the years but none that ever paid anything. He once got a job sitting behind a counter at recycling center, weighing bags of soda cans but he quit after a week because it required too much mental effort and the sitting hurt his back. Mostly, he had schemes. Schemes like buying a truckload of lettuce for a dollar a head and then selling them on the side of the road for 50 cents each.

            An uncle by marriage only, Richard wasn’t a frequent fixture in my early life. He was married to my dad’s sister, an angry alcoholic who believed everything she read in “National Enquirer.” They lived in simple squalor hundreds of miles away in Arkansas. We lived in California, an hour’s drive to the beach and fifteen minutes from Disneyland. My mother had plans for my younger sister and me that weren’t compatible with the Arkansas lifestyle, where 18^th birthdays were celebrated by going down to the welfare office to apply for food stamps. Twice we visited Arkansas. The first time I was 5 and I liked Uncle Richard immediately. He helped me make a salad out of weeds and flowers and we presented it to the rest of the family on a Frisbee platter. I wore a swimsuit that was a little too big and Uncle Richard worked diligently to keep his eyes on it, adjusting the top over my chest and patting my behind to keep the bikini bottom in place. We visited again I was 12; my cousin Christy asked me to switch places with her at dinner because Uncle Richard always wanted to put her hand in his lap so his napkin would stay put.

            The next time I saw Uncle Richard was when I was 14. We had moved from costly California to buy a house in Arkansas. Uncle Richard visited us within a week. He wanted to offer my dad an opportunity. This opportunity had to do with buying old, outdated computers from a local medical clinic that was closing and selling them for what Uncle Richard called, repeatedly, “A whole mess of money.” My dad, having no interest in computers or tying his finances to anything Uncle Richard was involved in, politely declined.

“Well, ya’ll are missing out,” he said as he pulled a half empty can of Copenhagen out of his back pocket and popped a pinch into the side of his mouth. My mom passed him a bowl to spit into and when he left she pitched it into the garbage.

That year, on Thanksgiving, my mother got up early to put a 14-pound turkey into the oven so it would be ready in time to serve our family of four along with Uncle Richard and the rest of his family of 6. My dad had invited them a week earlier in a moment of uncharacteristic geniality towards his kin. We sat around our dining table, a bulky mahogany piece that was much too large and ornate for the dine-in kitchen with peeling gold linoleum and wallpaper depicting baskets of eggs and roosters in which it was placed. Halfway into my second helping of mashed potatoes, Uncle Richard sat his fork down on his half-eaten plate, placed his elbows on either side, clasped his hands, and cleared in throat.

“Well ya’ll, I’ve got news,” Uncle Richard looked around the table expectantly, waiting for spoons to silence, chewing to commence, and conversation to dwindle. He continued, “I’m going to get circumcised.” I turned to my mother, she was always the one to engage with my uncle about his wild plans but this time she sat silent, a glob of cranberry sauce dangling from her fork. My sister and cousins started to snicker; my dad breathed heavy out of his nostrils, his lips clamped tight.

 “Nobody wants to hear about that,” said my aunt, breaking the silence. She scowled at him and left the table for another beer. Uncle Richard opened his mouth to protest but, noticing the horrified faces of his family, he picked up his fork and resumed shoveling a hunk of turkey into his mouth.

“Good dinner, Vic,” he said to my mom through a mouthful of candied yams. It was the only social cue he had ever taken and we never discovered the outcome of his surgery. My sister would later admit that she hadn’t known what circumcised meant so she had looked it up in the old, beat up dictionary my mom kept on a hall shelf. The mental image had burned so deeply into her mind, she would forever associate Thanksgiving with Uncle Richard’s anatomy. She never ate turkey again.

 

Reviews

[EHope]

I'm from and in Arkansas right now, so I almost wanted to take offense, until I thought about the people I wish I did not know. This was fabulously written. I saw Uncle Richard. I have probably met Uncle Richard. I think there is a good reason that he was the black sheep of the family, and I immediately got over almost being upset about the Arkansas mentions when I figured out why. I would love to read more things written by you because you made me laugh and cringe in such a short story. Good job!

[Melanie Dickens Sharp]

Thank you. One thing I do love about Arkansas and the south in general is wild cast of characters who live there (not so much the Uncle Richard's though).

[LeeCB]

This is hilarious! I feel like I know the guy (though thankfully I don't have an Uncle Richard in my life). You just paint such a vivid picture. I love the way you deftly mix darker subjects with humor. Was definitely not expecting that ending. I haven't looked through your other pieces yet, but I hope you have written more personal essays.

I will say, I'm also from and in Arkansas (clicked on your piece by happenstance) so I'd be careful about conflating a whole state with "simple squalor"--we've got some quality people and places too! I think it was this line that could rub people the wrong way: "the Arkansas lifestyle, where 18th birthdays were celebrated by going down to the welfare office to apply for food stamps"

That said, I loved this. Excellent writing.

[Melanie Dickens Sharp]

Thank you for your feedback. It's very true that Arkansas has much more to it than Uncle Richard. In truth, I love the south. I will have to write more about the positives like sweet iced tea and fried catfish.

[Samuel Dickens]

Ha! Great job, M. You tell just enough about the deplorable one to establish his character (or lack of) and do it with very good writing skill and story-telling ability. It's great to see you here!