"Sprung Uncles" & "Inspecting the Damage" by Coleman Bigelow
- 3 days ago
- 6 min read
Sprung Uncles
“Oh shit, Uncle Cal. What’s the emergency?? Is my mom ok?”
The kid has a permanently dazed look, like he’s high or he was dropped on his head. Dropped on his head is more likely given his parental situation. Still, he’s gullible enough, which is all I need for today. I tell Tyler it’s nothing to worry about, just a fun little adventure I thought he wouldn’t want to miss.
“That’s a relief. I figured you might have come ‘cause someone died.”
It’s spooky how this kid is always asking about whether someone’s dead.
“Thanks for springing me. You know that phrase “springing”? Captain Jack Sparrow uses it in Pirates of the Caribbean. I love those movies, don’t you?”
Bambi lets the boy watch too much TV, but at least it keeps him quiet. I’m thinking about how to explain to Tyler what I need when he starts sneezing all over my dash. I just had the Corvette detailed and the last thing I want on the walnut inlay is a spray of the kid’s snot.
“Excuse me. Shit, I still can’t stop sneezing. Mr. Childress had me clapping out erasers and all that dust has been bothering my allergies. Childress didn’t even say “God Bless You”, he just shouted “Jesus! You sneeze like you’re being shot,” which is funny because he doesn’t know that I’ve actually been shot. Isn’t that hilarious? Remember when Becky and I were just 6 and 7 and she shot me?”
I remind Tyler that I was probably still locked up when that happened.
“Oh, well, she nailed me right in the calf and it hurt like a bitch but I sure didn’t make a sound like I was sneezing when I got shot. Anyway, that Childress guy is such an asswipe. He doesn’t know shit about shooting or sneezing. But you get it. It’s a good thing the school doesn’t know you’re not my real uncle…”
I cut him off to get into it. It seems like Tyler’s following, but it’s hard to tell what’s getting through. Between his dopey expression and the uneven bowl cut Bambi’s given him, he looks pathetic. If he wasn’t always cock blocking me when I’m trying to hook up with his mom, I might feel sorry for the kid. But, nope. It will be easier with him out of the picture.
“Yeah, sure. I know Gilbert’s,” the kid says, all proud sounding that he knows the place. “That’s the pawn shop on Glenview, right? That’s where Dad sold Grandad’s Civil War rifle so we could buy the second car. Wheels are more important than history. Amiright?”
This is just pathetic. His dad didn’t buy shit and I bet Tyler never even got a ride in that second car before his dad took off.
“Don’t you think that’s true, Uncle Cal? Gotta keep moving, right? I know I’m fixing to get out of this shithole. Ever since that college fair in the gym, I’ve been extra motivated.”
The boy is kidding himself if he thinks he’s going to college. Even if he could get in, there’s no one around to pay for it. I’d pitch in if he could go now, but there’s no way I’m waiting two years for him to graduate.
“Actually, could you drop me at the library?”
Jesus! This kid and his A.D.D. I remind Tyler we have a mission to complete.
“Ok. Yeah, right. No problem. You can drop me after the pawn shop.”
I do my best to describe the store’s layout and how he should walk in after me so we don’t look like we came together and then I start to tell him about the necklace.
“Oh damn. Diamond-encrusted. Sweet! Is it like one of them rapper crosses?”
I tell him to focus and try to figure just how badly the kid could screw things up.
“And it’s just resting there on the mannequin? Right out in the open?”
Tyler’s not the brightest bulb, but I catch an edge of nervousness in his voice so I lay it on real thick.
“Oh sweet. You’re helping test his security? That’s actually pretty smart… And it won’t be actual stealing? We’re just playing a little joke?”
I tell him to take the necklace off while I’m talking to the owner and slip it in his pocket and then head straight back down Main and not to stop walking south until I catch up to him with the car. No matter how this plays out, it’ll be a win for me. Tyler’s quiet for an unusually long time, and then I hear his nose whistle as he turns toward me.
“Sure thing, Uncle Cal. Sounds awesome.”
Inspecting the Damage
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Frank throws the car keys on the counter and yanks open the fridge. He stares at the military precision with which Pauline has lined up the milk, the almond milk and the low-sugar orange juice.
“Are you looking for something?”
“Do we have any beer left?”
“Do you see any?” Frank shrugs, but Pauline continues. “Did you buy any?”
“Don’t start, Pauline.”
“Well, what’s up? You come home, you don’t even give me a kiss, and you’re acting... strange.”
Frank turns to face her. Pauline is almost a foot shorter, but her force is undeniable. “Someone must have backed into me.”
“What!? Shit.” Pauline puts her hands to her mouth, and Frank notices she has a new nail color. The same blue as the liquor store’s neon sign that flashes Cold Beer. “Not the new car!”
“It’s hardly new.”
“You know what I mean. New to us.” Pauline slumps onto a kitchen stool. “Jesus. This is all we need.”
“It’s not that…”
“How bad, Frank?”
Frank pulls a half-drunk bottle of vodka from the freezer and fills a tumbler.
“So you’re just going to start drinking now?”
He takes a sip. “There’s a headlight out. Maybe some denting on the right-hand side.”
Pauline marches toward the door. “I’m going to see for myself.”
His wife had come across as soft-spoken, even fragile, when they’d first met, but Frank soon discovered the explosive anger that could power Pauline’s tiny body. After listening to her footsteps clomping down the stairs, he finds the joint he keeps in a Ziploc bag at the back of the kitchen cabinet. Standing on their condo’s balcony, Frank watches Pauline down by the car. She waves her phone’s flashlight across the mangled front, kneels for a closer look. Her blonde bob glows in the reflected light like a halo hovering over her skeletal body. As Frank pulls on the joint, the orange tip brightens and burns like the setting sun over their distant honeymoon. He wonders how much of the joint he can finish before Pauline returns.
The condo door opens and slams shut. Frank stubs out the tip of the joint on the balcony’s railing and stuffs the half-smoked joint into his pocket.
“Are you sure someone hit you, Frank? How would they have hit the front of the car if you were parked?”
“You know I like to back into my spots.”
“Was there any kind of note?”
A gust of wind whips across the balcony. “There was no note.” Frank tries to pass, but Pauline won’t budge from her spot in the middle of the open sliding glass door.
“What parking lot was it?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Someone could have seen.”
Frank drops the lighter, listens to its cheap black plastic bounce and scatter on the balcony cement. He leans over to retrieve it and stumbles. Lightheaded, he lowers himself into a deck chair.
“Are you alright?” Pauline kneels in front of him. Stares up into his sweaty face. A wave of nausea forces Frank to put his head between his legs. And then he feels it: Pauline’s bird-boned hand fluttering to rest between his shoulder blades. Her hand is deadweight. “What’s the matter, Frank?”
He wonders if there are cameras at that corner.
Frank buries his head in his palms, still hearing it, seeing it—the thud of the car, a muffled blow like the sound of a boxing glove hitting a bag, the rag doll body in the rearview, spinning toward the sidewalk.
He hopes the woman who stepped out - that woman whose startled black pupils keep flashing in the headlights of his mind - he hopes that woman has as much fight in her as Pauline.