Mindless Words & My Uncle
A young boy, at the cognitive age of seven, discovered that whatever he wished for, came true.
With spoken words or words echoed in his mind, the thoughts and ideas that followed: I wish; came true, to fruition, appearing in physical form wherever he deemed the location be.
Many toys appeared in his room. The race car bed was as red as he had imagined. The luxuries of life were at his disposal. Soon after, his parents accompanied him on the mindless wishing. The things that children have no interest in, appeared before his parents very eyes. The large house, the flashy cars, and the piles of green presidential cash. Within days of living in their new home, the young boy continued to wish.
Finally, his parents sought for control.
The mind can run its own race when not monitored carefully. The boy was disciplined and sent to his toy filled room. Without the slip of the tongue or any physical words, the voice in the back of his young mind wished for his parents to be dead. He instantly regretted the words that reverberated in his mind. The boy heard two bodies drop, smash and crash in the kitchen. He stormed down the fresh marble stairs and rushed to his parents; young and healthy, laid dead in their greedy kitchen. The boy scrambled for help. He was distraught, terrified at what the words had done.
The men came, the door knocked; it swung open, and the officials flooded in. The boy was taken away and the yellow tape was lined up and down. They consoled him for all the wrong reasons. It was he who killed his parents, and there was no way to explain it. The syllables, the phrases, the words that were released in his mind caused him a great deal of pain. The roads that he faced all led to never speaking again, living the life of a mute.
Then the solution came, and the young boy simply said:
I wish that I; did not care.
CHAPTER I : THE TIME MY UNCLE TALKED SOME SENSE INTO ME
‘Hey kid, look at you. So much change and it’s still not good enough. You’re even better than what you predicted you’d be, and you’re only halfway done. Halfway done. Always halfway because you barely even put in half the effort. Look how much further you’d have been if you put everything you had into it.
‘You should have kissed her; you should have fucking kissed her. Face to face, you could feel her breath you were that close. And you know she was just begging for you to make a move. She was begging you to be a man. Be a man and take a stand. Break that fucking irresistible pattern you hold onto for dear life thinking that it will protect you. The best bullshit repellent is spending days swimming through absolute shit. And when you reach the shore, you know that there’s no fucking difference between the shit in the ocean and the shit on land.
‘Look, I’m not gonna be here long. I’ve always told you that. You know I feel like I’m gonna die before my time. So, you better take my advice right now, because I don’t want to have to wait to tell you through a psychic.
‘Live your life as if you’re sitting behind a screen holding a controller, and anything that happens beyond that screen will never hurt you. You wanna know why? Because it fucking wont. A gun will, a knife will, and my right fist certainly will. You should have kissed her. You should have damn well kissed her you fool.
‘Find passion and never let go of it, kid. That’s the only advice I need to give your scrawny ass. Find it in each and every living thing, manmade or natural. Find the passion inside of it, grab it, hold it, and never fucking let go.”
Those were the words my uncle said to me. It’s probably the only passage I will ever remember, and it’s all I’ll ever need.
CHAPTER II : A STRAIGHT-TALKING MAN AND HIS SIDE KICK
My uncle always gave it to me straight. He knew how to live, and you always knew he could. Even if it were your first time meeting him, you could just tell. Not by any lines on his face, not by him telling you all the things he’s done that you haven’t so he can hide his insecurities behind a fragile ego. No. You could just tell that he had lived a thousand lives, and that he was doomed and blessed to live a thousand more.
He’s been gone for some time now, and I don’t know which is bigger; the boots I desperately try to fill or the shadow that I forever walk in.
My father never died, he just disappeared. And it wasn’t until I was fourteen that I started wishing that he would never return. My mothers’ brother, my uncle, was the greatest man to walk this earth. Of course, there have been people who have attained higher levels than him, but to me, none could ever keep up with him.
If you asked him who was the greatest person to ever live, he wouldn’t let you finish. His answer has remained the same since the eighties, when Mr. Nelson helped him seduce his first woman.
Prince, to my uncle, was the ultimate man, the ultimate musician, the greatest man to walk this earth. You could never stop my uncle once he started. To him, Prince could outshine any artist, any musician.
“Anybody.” My uncle used to say. “Anybody and everybody. They’d all lose to a man wearing high heels and leather pants.”
That was my uncle’s thing. When I was insecure about girls, he would say to me, "if a man under five-five wearing high heels and tight-fitting pants with fish netting as a shirt could get any girl in the world, then I could get some hottie now, loser later girl that went to my school.
Hottie now, loser later. Still makes me laugh.
CHAPTER III : THE JEFFEREY TALE
My uncle would always introduce himself as Jefferey. Some people would go months calling him that until someone else he knew would break the news.
I still don’t understand why he picked the name Jefferey. He always used to say that it just flowed off the tongue.
He wasn’t a liar; he was a jokester, a trickster without the deceit. Next to charismatic in the dictionary is a photo of him smiling, cigarette hanging from his lip, shades on and a look of him knowing that he was going soon, but that he was happy using the time he had left.
Time is the spice of age. Time can be found but never gained. Time is what I wish for on every birthday. Just one more time; his humor, his smile, his presence, his aura, his laughter, his love. One last time.
It’s sad, because with each passing day that turns into a week which reaches fifty-two, another part of him fades. His voice echoes behind my ear which brings a piece back, but only briefly. For he is forever lost from me and found to someone new. Someone probably more deserving, someone who needs him more than I. For I have that long passage that reminds me to live as if nothing can hurt me, because nothing ever will, not even my uncle's right hand, at least not now.