The day my uncle turned off Faux News and called it annoying loud noise, I knew something was up.
I can summarize my uncle in one sentence and you will understand the kind of man he is. His largest regret in life is that he was unable to make it to the January 6th insurrection.
That day, the day he turned off Faux News, it was snowing out. Why is that important? Because he stood up and said, “I think I’ll go for a stroll, get some fresh air.”
I nodded and took the remote as he walked outside.
Our trailers were parked in a ‘U’ shape, forming a makeshift compound with the rest of the family.
The land is family owned. And every year the largest conflict doesn’t come from political talk. No, it always comes from everyone pitching in to cover the Goddamnn property taxes.
When the tax man comes, we all hate him.
“Fucking libtards—how many years has this land been in the family?” My uncle would ask even though he knew the answer. But like everyone in my family, he loved to tee himself up for a good old rant.
The answer was short. Since after WWII. That’s it. That’s how long it should take to answer. But not for my uncle or my family.
Back to January 6th. My uncle had planned to go. He was in his truck that morning. He even had my grandmother with him that morning, grumbling beside him, ready for trouble.
I love her. She’s a racist, mean old girl, but she’s the closest thing I ever had to a mother. And she was never really mean to me. Just everyone else. Even people that looked like her. She just had a long-standing intolerance for people. So whatever you were, she would attack.
That morning, his truck didn’t start. The gas tank was empty. He was too lazy to deal with it, so they didn’t go.
Laziness kept him home.
Which, oddly, is one of the rare things we have in common.
The morning he walked in the snow, he went to the edge of the wood line and extended both arms out.
I didn’t notice it at first. The slight steam. Nearly invisible. With each flake that touched his skin. My eyes lowered and tracked his footsteps back. He left a trail of puddles and dirt. I watched him stand there in the snow. Radiating something I couldn’t understand. His eyes were red.
I scanned the room and yanked a crucifix off the wall. It was a large gaudy thing. Jesus’ head was a handle, and a small latch gave way to a sheathed dagger hidden within.
I held it below the window. Not sure what I would do.
My uncle caught my eye, smiled, and waved. He walked back and entered the room, dripping. I held the blade and cross scabbard behind my back.
“Refreshing out there,” he grinned.
“Good,” I said.
There was a pause. “Well,” he stepped towards me. “What do you want to do?”
“Can’t do much outside,” I said without taking my eyes off him.
“Movie?” He asked.
My uncle hated movies, always claimed shadowy puppet masters controlled Hollywood—he never said who, just insisted we ‘do our own research,’ usually citing YouTube and Facebook.
I once tried to have a conversation with him about peer review and what it means.
Apparently, I am an entitled educated know it all.
“Movie?” I asked, hesitant.
He nodded.
“Do you like the Avengers?” He asked.
My fingers loosened on the Jesus blade. “I do.”
“Me too,” he smiled.
I blinked, struggling to reconcile this gentle tone with the man who once spewed slurs at the television from his recliner. My stomach tightened, unsure if this new warmth was a gift or a trap.
Well, I thought. Fuck it. This guy doesn’t seem that bad. He crossed to the recliner and plopped down. I put Jesus back on the wall and sat down next to my uncle and grabbed the remote.
Author’s Note:
Mixed feedback came my way on this one— just want to say the obvious, this story is satire. No offense intended. It’s a joke. If you don’t think it’s funny, then it’s a joke you think is shit. We all have those. On to the next one.