I had two days to clean out my grandmother’s apartment. A lifetime of belongings stuffed into an economy living space. It wasn’t always like that.
Years ago my grandmother did what she pleased. Her fingers were always adorned with diamond rings, her schedule was filled with luncheons and tennis matches, and when she bought a new car, she paid for it with cash. I didn’t really know that she had money. I was a child.
Two days, to try to sort through everything and to try not throw out anything of extrinsic or intrinsic value; an impossible task. With only two days, it was more than likely that we’d fail at that. I didn’t think it was necessary to go through her jewelry. My uncle and his whores already took everything of value. They rifled through her room while she slept, but often, she handed over the pieces willingly. She would do anything to keep her son quiet because she didn’t want anyone on the outside to know the truth, though many of them already did.
She didn’t believe us the first few times we saw his name in the newspaper. Arrested for petty theft, stealing baby formula, and being caught with paraphernalia. Then it happened again and again. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Sixth degree larceny. Eventually, out of state family members started to call. They’d seen our local paper from their newly-far-away homesteads. “What’s going on?” They’d ask. And then when we’d tell them, they wouldn’t believe us. Then why did you ask? I’d wonder. They couldn’t believe that my uncle would do such things but I could.
My uncle was a salesman, an actor and a liar. I always knew it. From the time I was five years old and I asked him to race me up the driveway. He ran so far ahead of me; so far that he couldn’t have even pretended to lose by even by almost, even by inches. Aren’t you suppose to let children win? I saw how fake he was to the distant cousins and relatives. Some of them saw through him but some of them were too stupid. Maybe they didn’t want to see through him. Maybe they were like him too. No. Nobody was like him.
I could go into more stories I heard and suspected of him, things that are crimes on par with murder. Is it ironic that we suspect that he is also not only a rapist but quite possibly an incestuous one? I thought about it. How odd it was for me, a survivor of rape to be so closely related to a perpetrator. Not my perpetrator, but a perpetrator nonetheless, a rapist. One word: disgusting. To have someone like that in your family; to be related to him. But then again, there were people who had even worse people in their family; people who had family members who were their rapists. I had reason to believe it and not only because one of the last times I saw him my rhetoric pissed him off so much that when he passed by my chair he “accidentally” rubbed up against my shoulder.
I ran my hand along her smooth mahogany jewelry box. I opened it and looked at a few of the gold chains. They were either marked “Monet” or “Avon.” Suddenly I had a vision. Of him and his whores, girls that were younger than me, going through the box. I could see what he saw. In my vision, he scoured each chain, and quickly threw back the pieces marked “Monet” and “Avon.” I found it comical that when you give an old man like him, a man who knew nothing about jewelry, some heroine, he suddenly becomes a jewelery expert. I slammed the box shut, disgusted. There would be no inheritance, no paying off my student debt. The family’s money: money that did not only belong to her though she squandered it like it did, was gone. It had gone into jewelry for herself and then what was left of the jewelry and the money had gone up his nose and into his veins.
Not long after relatives started to call us, I heard on the news about a drive by shooting in an neighboring suburb. It stuck out in my mind mainly because it was the first time I’d ever heard of something like that happening in that town; a usually peaceful community. It was not until the following day, when the story was posted in the local newspaper, that I learned the gunman was driving my grandmother’s shiny new Cadillac.
Drug rentals. He lent it out on drug rentals, something he did to get drugs when his whores weren’t around, a way many desperate addicts get them: by prostituting their cars- or in this case, their elderly mother’s car. I don’t believe in Hell- or at least, I didn’t. From what I’d seen in life, I figured I was already living there, however, after seeing what I’ve seen my uncle do in the past few years, I cannot help but believe that there must be a punishment for someone like him; a punishment that surpasses any unfortunate lifetime incarnation on Earth. I am pretty sure there is a special place in hell for him. In fact, I would wager that they’ve been expecting him for a while and that he already has reservations. “Miller party of one? An eternity of damnation coming up. And you thought prison was bad?”
My grandmother’s car was in a drive by shooting. What is this — improv night at the comedy club? Nope. That statement and news like that has been the wall hanging of my life for the last two or three years. The statement when told as a fallacy is laughable. When told as a fact, it’s unbelievable. But alas, this is my reality, ’tis true, my grandmother’s Caddy was used in a drive-by. Well how’s that for the ultimate drug rental? Not only did the guy get to drive a new Cadillac, but he used it to procure a drive-by shooting! I hope the guy my uncle lent it to gave him at least a brick or a bundle for his trouble because it’s not only a car some gangsta used in a drive-by but also a car that will never be seen again. Nope. It is a car she will never get back. It has been forever locked away by the law enforcement with all the other evidence of crimes that they collect.
The police took great strides in effort to make sure that my grandmother’s Cadillac, an important piece of Americana was safe, never to be seen again, while people like my unlce and his friends who shoot up not only heroine but neighborhoods (if the mood strikes them) roam free in some 21st century suburban Gansta’s Paradise.
Possibly Related Posts:
Hayley,
I felt your anger and sadness and there seems to be one in every family.
HUGGGGGGGGGG
Yea one bad apple in every bunch huh