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Independence Day at Uncle Bill's
by Brandon Diehl "Sorry to hear about your girl," he says, adjusting his apron, pointing at me with a spatula covered in chunks of tortured cow. "Want a hamburger? You'll feel better." "No, thanks," I reply. My uncle has a beer-gut. And something about it makes me feel like a child. Maybe it reminds me of Santa Claus –– or brings me back to the days when Santa Claus existed. Of course, that was long before you waltzed into my life, bewitching me with your wardrobe of magnetic masks, wringing me dry of my smarts –– then handcuffing yourself to my heart, swallowing the key, shitting it out, and flushing it away to the sewers of Hell. I keep telling myself that it's not Independence Day. I can't appreciate "independence" when I know you stole mine. (Ever since you left, I can barely even dress myself. I can barely even answer a phone or write my own name. I keep telling myself that it's not Independence Day. But right now, in the Southern Hemisphere, the streets are booming with Christmas-in-July celebrations. I've stolen this tradition and locked it in my brain. So…watching my uncle on the grill, his beer-gut bouncing with every movement he makes, I'm ignoring the heat. I'm ignoring the far-off sounds of M-80 blasts. And when I start hearing screams from about a mile away, I even stop myself from wondering if some kid just lost a hand. "Want a hamburger?" I'm asked again –– this time, by my aunt, approaching me from nowhere with a beer in her hand. "No, thanks," I repeat, mentally dressing her in elf slippers, erasing the blue from her red-white-and-blue t-shirt, replacing it with green, casting snow in her hair. "How about some sausage?" "That's okay." "Well, then…let me go grab you a hot dog," she says, disappearing into the house. And then my uncle throws a curveball, nearly knocking the teeth from my stupid grin: "Hey, by the way, I saw your ex-girlfriend today! She was at the liquor store with a group of MEN! What a SLUT, right?! HAHAHAHA!" Suddenly, he no longer looks like Santa Clause –– just an overweight guy with his liver out of time. Another firework explodes on the other side of town –– this time, too loud to ignore. And when my aunt comes back, shoving a hot dog at me, all I can see is her red-white-and-blue. "Would you like some ketchup?" she asks. "I'm not really sure," I mutter, staring at a brown patch of grass between my worn-out shoes, pulling out a cigarette, and giving in to the itch of wondering who you'll be fucking tonight. |
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