Uppey

A high school junior struggles with a family plagued by Huntington's Chorea

Uppey

Part I

   A doctor once told me that sometimes life is like the lottery--and that I hit the jackpot--right before he gave me a slap on the a*s and sent me out of his office. My grandfather (Uppey) always hated doctors--crooks he called them. When my mother asked him if he was afraid of dying, he just said, “you can’t win them all, or you’d be a millionaire.” Uppey was a sixth-grade dropout, and a high school janitor who put my mother through college. He had a one-track mind and called, Richard Nixon, a jerk off when his campaign ran through town. He was one of those people that were always trying to fight the world, because he thought he was being screwed. In September of my junior year, Uppey lost his license when he sideswiped a parked van, and on the first Friday of November, he led a police pursuit past my English class. We just finished reading some famous book--a book that made me wanna kill myself when I read it (I mean it), and I skipped class that day to go to the nurse. Apparently, old Mrs. Engler stopped mid-lecture, and the students congregated around the classroom window as the entire police depart formed a single file line behind a yellow Cadillac on a two lane, suburban street.

    “What the",“ Mrs. Engler said.

    “it must be a drug bust,” said a student. 

    I didn’t see it, but according to the report, Uppey was pulled over, and asked to leave the car. “Alright Al, we’re gonna need you to step outside the vehicle,” the officer said. “Up--pey, Get the hell out--ta here, a*s--hole,” he replied. The officer stuck his head into the car and attempted to shut it off, but not before Uppey took a swing at him. The officer then grabbed his hands and pulled Uppey out of the car with the aid of his partner. The police dropped him off at the local hospital, which released him three hours later.

     I took Uppey for breakfast the following day, and "that Saturday" I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

    It began when I pulled into Uppey’s driveway--his garage door was open. I left my car running and got out. Uppey’s garage was at the backend of a forty foot driveway, and in front of a white Cape Cod, which stood maybe twelve feet from a small, one-way road.

    Our town was as quiet as death and needless to say, the walk to the garage was uneventful. Uppey’s garage reminded you of a white barn with an automatic door. I knew Uppey was inside because, he never left the door open, unless he was.

    Uppey’s garage was always a mess, but in the last couple of years it really got bad: rusty tools littered the concrete floor, aluminum cans formed a pyramid on the top of a heavy wooden workbench, and black burn marks scared the unpainted, wooden walls. The florescent light bulbs on the ceiling had burned out years ago, and the place was only lit by the scarce daylight which entered from the open door. In fact, the place was so trashed and dark that it was almost suicide to navigate around the two cars and riding mower heaped in it.

     Uppey spent most of his time in his garage--blasting polka music and “fixing” a couple junker Cadillacs that he bought from a snake oil salesman. Once, he almost burnt the place down when he was toying with a propane torch. The neighbors called the fire department when they noticed thick, gray smoke carpeting their property--saving Uppey’s life and maybe the entire neighborhood. Yeah, Uppey was a menace. I mean it.

    From the door, I could make out two boat-like shadows, which I knew were the cars. I reached out, and held the rear of the car to the left and felt my way around the left hand side of the Cadillac; being careful not to step too quickly, and guiding my feet over God-Knows-What.

     “Hey! Pop!,” I said.

     “Up--pey, Help!” a voice called out.

     It sounded like it was coming from the front of the car. I made my way forward, taking baby steps over trash, and balancing myself on the side of his yellow Cadillac. When I reached the driver’s side window, I reached for a drop light which was hanging on the wall and clicked it on. I took the light and blanketed the space in front of me--nothing but rusty junk and beer cans. I lit up the back wall by the workbench, and saw a human hand on the ground, and in front of the left side of the car--it twitched and then raised one finger as if to say #1.

    “Uppey, He--lp me,” the voice said again.

   “Hold on!” I said, and slowly climbed to the front of the car.

    I took the light and peaked around the left side of the Cadillac, and saw Uppey on his back with a large, steel tool vault on his ankle. He squinted and looked away when he saw the light--throwing his hand in front of his face.

    “Uppey, you O.K.?” I said, completely forgetting that he didn’t know the name.

    “Up--pey, Help,” he replied. The reply was quiet and seemingly void of pain.

     If you need a map, my grandfather began every sentence with “Uppey”"that’s how he got the name. I threw the light on the hood of the car and made my way over to the tool vault. It took everything that I had to lift it off his foot. After I was done, Uppey awkwardly grabbed for the front bumper of his car, and raised himself up to a sitting position--done with lightning speed for a seventy-five-year-old. I hooked my arm under his shoulder and helped him the rest of the way. Uppey staggered forward. I caught him and then he straightened himself out.

    “You, O.K.?” I said, still in disbelief that he was walking after a 300 or 400 pound tool vault crushed his ankle.

    “Up--pey, ou--to--eat,” he said, and then hiked almost effortlessly through the dark trash pit. While, he was leaving, I picked up the light from the car and pointed it on the tool vault. When it fell, it landed on a pile of rubble, and Uppey’s foot was spared by a quarter of an inch. Then, I slowly made my way to the front of the garage and left the light on the rear of the Cadillac.

     When I got outside, Uppey was already waiting for me. “Let’s G--o,” he said, motioning toward my car. He took off--sometimes wobbling like a penguin, and before I even had a chance to tell him to slow down, he took a seat in the passenger’s side, and closed the door.

     The ride to J.B’s was quiet, and last night’s booze rattled in my stomach. I took glances at Uppey, the entire ride over, looking for some symptom of pain, but he never showed one--no crying, moaning, grabbing of the leg, or even a complaint. God, the guy, must be superman. I mean it. I was in more pain than he was. After ten minutes, we reached a small restaurant on the outskirts of town. We pulled into the parking lot, and I helped Uppey out of the car, almost vomiting when I did it, seriously. We made our way to the front door, and we were met by a sign that read OPEN.  We took a seat at the bar, and my mind drifted to the night before as it ran through my head like a drive-thru movie, only the condensed trailer version.

Part II

     It’s a long story, but it started when I hitched a ride with Dustin and Bradley. We arrived at Sarah’s house just before eleven. It was located outside of town, in the sticks. Sarah’s father made a fortune off narrating late night T.V. infomercials, and her mother managed a charity for an endangered species of grass. The family had class, influence, and a ski resort in Vermont. They left Sarah to babysit their mansion while they hit the slopes.

     The Brown’s enjoyed their privacy. Their house was the only thing in a four mile radius which had electricity, and at night, it could be seen from over a half mile away. The house itself was an impressive four-story stone structure, and their quarter mile long driveway had street lights illuminating the path in.

     We made our way up her driveway and parked in Sarah’s yard. The night was black, and the wind was chilly. As we headed to the door, I felt a surge of adrenaline and nerves. Dustin knocked, and a group of strangers let us in. The mansion was trashed. Red solo cups lay everywhere, and somebody threw up in front of the door. Beer cans and half full whisky bottles were mixed with rococo candles and strange, but modern bluish grey vases. Two suits of armor were placed on opposite ends of the door, as if they were ready to ambush anything that walked into the house-- only the one on the left had a used condom slapped across its face. I took a step forward and approached the strangers, almost stepping in the vomit.

    “I’m looking for Sarah,” I said,

     “She’s in the kitchen,” a man with long brown hair and an unkempt beard said.

    “Thanks,” I replied.

    We headed down the long, white hall, and in a couple minutes, we reached the kitchen. It was a royal mess, but no Sarah. The music got louder, and I decided to follow the noise. “This way,” I said.

     I made a left down another hallway, and we followed it out until we reached a room with a keg to the left of a bookshelf and two couches forming an L around a flat screen television. The room was crowded, noisy and smoky.

    I walked over to a group in the far left corner of the room. “I’m looking for Sarah,” Just then, somebody put their hand on my shoulder. I turned around, and the world went cold. Sarah had the body of a surfer girl with a small miniskirt that highlighted her dirty blonde hair. Sarah always made my world turn cold--and then she smashed it like ice. That was our relationship. She made my blood come to life, and then she bled it back out. Sometimes love is a curse--kind of like self-mutilation.

    “Hey,” she said"coming close so I can hear her.

    “Hey, back,” I said.

    “When did you get here?” she asked.

    “Not too long ago, Happy Birthday!”

    “Let’s do shots,” Sarah’s friend said and pulled her away. My world was ice. She turned around and smiled, as she left.

   “I'll be back,” Sarah said.

   “Yeah, me too” I replied.

    When she left the room, I turned to Dustin and Bradley and told them I needed a smoke. We headed back the way we came, and stepped outside. We smoked, bullshitted and Dustin winged a rock across Sarah’s lonely, rustic highway. “How do you know her?” Bradley asked taking a long drag from a cigarette. Only stupid people tell their friends anything. “We had homeroom together since freshman year,” I said. I took another drag from my cigarette and then flicked it away--leaving a red glow stare at me from the black abyss. The same people let us back in, and we headed for the kitchen. Sarah just finished taking a shot with a few friends, and I nonchalantly walked up to her and slouched on her six ton refrigerator.

     “You look trashed,” I said.

     “It’s my birthday,” she said and gave me a hug.

    “I need a beer,”

    “There upstairs,” she replied, “I’ll grab one for you.”

     Then with the grace of a ballerina and the fire of the war god, Sarah spun around and parted the crowded kitchen like Moses parting the sea. The kitchen emptied out when Sarah left, seemingly like a mob following their leader. When she left, I turned to Dustin. I was just dying to know where he got his stupid hat. My guess was e-bay. It was a red Yankees hat--I’ve only ever seen them on 90’s music videos, and I just had to know where he got it. The music was so damn loud though, that the only response, I got, was, “What!” Dustin was an alright guy. He was just slow--one of those athletic guys who got straight Cs. I thought after I said it twelve times that he would have been able to read my lips, but not Dustin. Eventually, I gave up and grabbed a whisky bottle from the granite counter-top. I made my way over to the large stainless steel sink and rinsed out three shot glasses, and then I motioned for Bradley and Dustin to join me. I set the glasses by the sink and poured three shots.

     “Here’s to walking on the edge of a knife,” I said.

     “What"“ Bradley replied.

    “Never mind,” I finished.

     Bradley was a horse. He lived across the street from me, and was one of those people who always did what they were told without ever realizing it. He went to church on Sunday, dressed smart and got straight As. I’m sure he was college bound, and  his mother already picked out his major--maybe even his career--I’m sure he’d make a good doctor. Of course, Bradley always convinced himself that it was everyone else who was “followed the crowd.” Trust me, I’ve known the kid my entire life. It took me an hour, just get him to come to a party. I can’t imagine what it would take to get him to change a major life decision. Bradley was a horse. A horse stuck in a barn with its head out a small opening--believing it was free.

     “No, seriously,” Bradley insisted.

     “To good friends, long life, and sexual gratification,” I lied and then the three of us took shots. I slammed my glass on the counter-top so loudly that I was surprised it didn’t break. Dustin broke in after the shot, “where are we crashing at tonight?” Bradley looked at me and then asked, “what about your place?” I leaned in toward the two of them and said “can’t do my place tonight, sorry.” “Yeah, I heard about your grandfather,” Dustin added, “I’m sorry.” Everybody always says they’re sorry--when what the mean is your fucked.

     I kept quiet. Truthfully, I had no idea no idea what to say. I looked to the left. Then I looked to the right"then up at the ceiling, and then back at Dustin. He must have known that he hit a sore spot because he looked away and then let it drop.

     People began filling back in the kitchen again. Apparently there was some inter-mansion rotation. I was afraid somebody would ask for their bottle back so I poured another round--just in case. After a couple of shots, I felt like a new man. I looked around the room for Sarah--she had to be back my now. I did the room a once=over, and Sarah was nowhere to be seen. I looked back down at the bottle of whisky, and it was almost empty.

     “One more round?” I said.

    “Sure,” Dustin replied.

     The third shot burned like molten pitch in the back of my throat. I grabbed a half-empty bottle of water and cleaned it off. Then, I chucked the plastic water bottle toward a trash can and missed wide left.

    I scanned the room for a second time. Did I see something? I had to look again. This place is so damn crowded and dark. I looked closer. It couldn’t be. No, that isn’t. Wait, it is. No, it isn’t. Well, it might be. Yeah, Yeah it is. It was Sarah face to face with a slender blonde-haired guy in the corner. He grabbed the side of her face and then kissed her cheek--then she grabbed his face and stared into his eyes for a moment before, kissing him. The rest got hot and dirty.  My world was ice, and Sarah broke it again, and what’s worse, I knew on Monday she’d refreeze it all over again.

     “I need some air,” I said. Then I grabbed a bottle of cheap vodka and headed outside. I found a picnic table under the front porch and curled myself in a chair. I lit up, and cigarette and then Dustin and Bradley sat down.

     “I think I’m gonna  get a tattoo,” Dustin said. I looked at him and replied, “Of what?’ “I don’t know, something tribal.” The guy with the red Yankees hat would get a tribal tattoo, but I kept that to myself. Anyway, I was too winded to speak--I felt like I just got kicked in the balls. The moon was orange, and the ground was covered with leaves. Normally I’d never pay attention to these things, but now they had some special significance. Dustin and Bradley shot the crap, while we passed the bottle around. I remained quiet and couldn’t tell you what they said for seventy-two virgins. Finally, Dustin brought me out of the trance, “so, where are we crashing at,” he said. “I don’t know but this place sucks,” I answered.  “My parents are asleep, and they have work tomorrow,” Bradly suggested. I couldn’t believe what I heard, but I guess he knew it was safe.

     “Who’s driving though?”

     “I’m good,” Dustin said. Bradley and I gave each other a glance. We knew that Dustin was beyond the point of driving, but we had no other way home. “After all, I am the only one who can,” Dustin said. Dustin had a red stick shift Mazda, and he was the only one who knew how to drive stick. “Take the bottle,” I said and we headed toward the car.

     The car ride home was quiet and intense. Dustin swerved off the road a couple of times--almost taking out a mailbox once, and I couldn’t stop scanning for police. By some miracle, we arrived at Bradley’s unscathed. We laughed, thanked God, and then went our separate ways. I headed across the street toward my house--with the alcohol keeping me warm. I crept toward the front of my house--with any luck both of my parents would be asleep.

     I found the spare key under the welcome mat and cranked the door. The door let out a sharp squeal when it opened. The house was dark, and at first I thought I was in the clear. I stumbled through the door and closed it behind me--squeaking like a poorly tuned violin. When it was shut, I turned to dart for my room. Then I heard my mother.

     “Where were you,” she said.

    “Look mom"”

     “You’ve been drinking haven’t you,” she said, “you’re turning into a bum"just like your Uncle Norman. No, you’re worse--you’re nuts like your grandfather. Did you dri"”

     “You’re always comparing me to Pop,” I said, “What are you afraid of? You know I don’t have it. Maybe you should get checked out. Maybe you’d be happier if you knew if you had it. Just grow some balls and get it done.”

     “We’re talking tomorrow,” I heard her say as I began to walk away.

     I never responded as I headed down the hall and shut my door. Feeling burnt, I sat up in bed, threw on some headphones, and fell asleep with my clothes on.

Part III

     I swear to god small towns are inhabited by aliens--spacemen who only look like the people you knew all your life. The old woman at the cash register looked at me like I was a ticking time bomb. She must be the alien version of J.B.’s wife because J.B’s real wife knew me since before I was born. When the trailer was over, I thought again about Sarah. Why did she never talk about running? It was all that I thought about anymore. Maybe I could squat in Yellowstone or build a cabin in Alaska-- or maybe I could build a submarine and cruise the Pacific. My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

    “I said, how about you son?” I snapped out of my trance, and I looked at J.B. He seemed annoyed. “Three eggs over with hash browns,” I said. J.B wasn’t a bad guy"he just had a loud as hell booming voice and posted corny Greek flags all over his restaurant. Booming as hell for nine in the morning. “How about you Al,” J.B. said, raising his voice. “Up--pey, S--O--S.”

    I nursed a black coffee which made my stomach feel as if I were nursing rattlesnake venom. I looked over at Uppey, and said, “I’ll be back.” He didn’t hear me the first time, so I repeated it again louder. This time he looked over at me and raised his coffee cup, “Uppey, Al--right,” he said. I made my way over to the bathroom and took off my coat. God, that was an awful bathroom to be sick in. It must have been the length and width of a washing machine and as dark as a vampire cave. I somehow sat down on the floor and grabbed the toilet. I must have kept it quiet because nobody ever checked in on me. When I was done I washed my hands and grabbed my coat. Then, I looked around --nobody was watching--so I made my way to the door and lit up a cigarette when I got outside,

     Another car pulled into the lot, and three guys with college hoodies slammed their car doors. They made their way toward me, laughing aggressively. The one in the front looked at me and shook his head as if to say hi. I nodded back and then sat down on a parking stop. I don’t know why, but I thought about texting Sarah. Calling her was out of the question. Calling people is personal--however, there’s just something different about texting. I mean you could text the Pope, and it would be Kosher but if you called the guy you’d probably get arrested. I wanted to ask Sarah why she  never wanted to leave town. She told me once that she could never see herself doing it. I wanted to know why. Girls in school were so phony to her. I mean they were polite to her face, but she got massacred behind her back. Half the girls in school called her fake, and the other half thought she was a w***e. One time, some girl videotaped Sarah making out with a guy at a party and posted it on Facebook--TEN BUCKS A THROW!!!!! I mean that’s cold blooded. Sarah didn’t seem to care, she just stopped inviting the girls from school over. I think that’s what pissed people--she never seemed to care what they thought. These rich kids, they seem to have an endless supply of friends. The guys at school weren’t much better--except when they were drunk. They called her "the Schlinger."  It’s no wonder that he stuck by Dustin and me in homeroom and lunch--it really isn’t. I pulled out my phone and searched for her name.

    Just then, somebody flung J.B.’s door open with violence. I mean it, it was done with authority, like a SWAT team. I heard a commotion by the door, and it sounded like the three guys that just went in, “That old man is disgusting,” I heard one say. I knew immediately what happened. Uppey spits like a cobra and drools like a Saint Bernard.  The taller, muscular one stormed outside first and after making two fists, he threw them down in anger. A skinny one with glasses and a tall sandy-haired bean pole followed behind him, laughing hysterically. “Hold up,” the skinny one with glasses said, still laughing. “No, I mean it--Hold Still! ” he finished. “What?” the one in the front said. “No, turn around,” the one with glasses said and then bent over laughing like somebody punched him in the stomach. The muscular one looked confused and after turning around, he said, “Ok,”. The guy with the glasses stopped for a moment and then pulled his sweatshirt over his right hand. He then broke out  laughing again. “You got something on you,” he said. Then he raised his covered right hand and knocked off a piece of potato. “Oh My God!” said the muscular one, “I’m out of here.” Visibly angry he walked to his car. The other two still laughing walked halfway and stopped before getting in the car. 

     I took a long drag from my cigarette, flicked it away, and headed inside. Uppey had the place a mess. He’d take a sip of coffee and then blow it all over the back wall or drool it on his plate, and every other bite of food came out of his mouth like pellets from a shotgun. The partially digested food flew everywhere: on the floor, the chair, his plate full of creamed chip beef and drool, and even on the wall behind him. The bar, where we had been sitting, was covered with coffee and food particles. His coffee had floating potatoes in it, and I had to look away when he drank it. I pushed my coffee away, as Uppey blew another load on the back wall. What amazed me was how polite restaurant owners are. I mean it, nobody ever vomited or threw him out of a joint. That amazed me; it really did. Uppey stopped for a moment and pointed to J.B., “Up--pey Good” he said. Then he blew more coffee on the back wall.

     I sat there in silence. This is how it went. Uppey drove for breakfast unless you took him out, just like two plus two made four. My father had Monday thru Friday, and I had the weekends. What’s worse, I knew when I got home I was fucked. I mean it, my freedom was done. My mother was never going to let last night drop. It wasn’t going to be a small conversation either--it was going to be one of those conversations where the entire family including my brother and dog were present, almost like an intervention. It wasn’t going to be a painless conversation either. I  was sure by the time it was over; even I would believe I’m an alcoholic and a bum.  I took a deep breath, sighed and then looked over at Uppey.

     He quit eating and was just staring at the wall, without blinking. He looked so peaceful in the moment, even noble from the side"even in the middle of his mess. “You O.K.?,” I said. He stopped and looked over at me, “What the hell’s a matter with you?” he said. I stopped speaking and just looked at him. What shocked me wasn’t what he said. After all, I just threw up in the bathroom and slept with my clothes on. What shocked me was how lucidly he said it. I mean there was no stumbling over words or even a pause in between them. “I mean it, what’s a matter with you? ” he said again. I remained silent for a moment and then said, “Nothin’ I’ve just been sick.” He looked away and laughed.

     I had to blink my eyes and then look away. I mean it, I thought I was hallucinating. He then told me a story, but I was too shocked to listen. It was something about the army and an island with Japanese. The only part I payed attention to was when he told me to “get in and get out.”  I felt awful about it, but it was a bit like witnessing Lazarus rise from the dead. As I stared at him, my mind went back thirty minutes ago to the old man who wobbled like a penguin and blew coffee like a firehouse. Then I thought about the day Uppey took the training wheels off my bike and when he told me to, “stay up and go forward.”  He always had a way of explaining things with five words. By the time I was back in reality, he had told me to “get in and get out” again.

     “You know you should stay off the road, “ I said staring into his bug blue eyes.

     Uppey looked at me and  took a sip of coffee"then turning around, he blew it over the back wall again.

     “Up--pey, I have a per--manent license, no--cop--can--take it away.”

     Huntington’s Chorea is a professional killer. It comes on fast, and then it puts you on your a*s. At least that’s what the doctors told me.  It’s a battle nobody can win. Ten weeks later, Uppey was strapped to a gurney with I.V.s running into his arm. One day he stopped speaking, and a week later he couldn’t move his limbs. One day he stopped breathing altogether, and he was put on a machine. My parents wanted to pull the plug, and I was given one last chance to say good-bye.

     “Rest Easy, Uppey”

   

    

    

    

    

 

    

     

    

 

   

   

 

    

   

    

Author's Note

The story is fictional.