Uncle Aloysius

When Doctors Made House Calls

Exterior. Woods. Point of View- Looking down into a ravine from a bicycle.

The bicycle begins to move. Brush whips past, and a fallen tree comes into view. The log becomes larger and larger. Camera wobbles wildly. The ends of the massive log lift to and fro, from the perspective of the camera’s wobbling, eventually fluttering until the edges of the log are hard to distinguish. The log soon fills all view.

To Black.

To Grey. Interior. POV- Living Room Ceiling. To full light. Gelled lens.

Camera pans until DOCTOR comes into view, seated on the sofa.

Doctor: He’ll be alright now.

Doctor gets up from the sofa and walks out of frame.

Denouement

            Adults took note of every little thing in the paper, and the newspaper was delivered to every home. One small article read:

            “Uncle Aloysius, formerly head of sales at Rowe’s Shoes, has been promoted to Limited Partner.”

            What that meant is that I didn’t understand, and my parents barely did. So, the spin on the article became- “Uncle Al may be transferred to California”, then: “Uncle Al will be deported to California.” I still don’t know how that idea got into my head. I didn’t know from ‘transferred’, and ‘deported’, so it had to have come from an external source. It certainly wasn’t from Walter Cronkite. When he said something on the CBS News, things were crystal clear.

            Around that time, in mid-summer, we went to visit Uncle Butch and Aunt Joan. They weren’t really relations. We stayed there a few days, and I can remember being in downtown Industry late at night. A strip mall would have been more exciting, but downtown Industry was distinctive. It was pretty much an intersection with offices and shops on each corner, and that was it. Each entrance had cast iron posts, with the paint rubbed off where people had put their hands. With a group of kids, I watched through (from inside?) a building as a policeman checked that the door of the building was locked, with his flashlight sweeping about on the windows. We were quiet. He didn’t know we were there. If we were actually inside the building, it was ok that we were, because Cousin Chris was there, and Cousin Chris was Cousin Chris.

            He was the outside contact that I needed for answers about Uncle Al. He would tell it to me straight. I went fishing with him at the edge of a murky pond that seemed huge. Chris was going for catfish, and I was going for bass. I’d always go for bass, even when I wasn’t fishing, since I needed to move constantly. I was made for the cast-reel-cast-reel of bass fishing.

            “Deported to California? Who told you that.”

            “I dunno. Some grownup.”

            “I sincerely doubt that. California’s a state, and they don’t deport people just to another state.”

            Chris was shirtless and fair, with red blotches, and smelled like sweat and fish. I guess I did, too, but less like sweat, and no one cared about the blotches.

            “Jeeze. They didn’t say ‘extradite’, did they?”

            “Hm. No. That’s a very different word.”

            I finished reeling and plucked weed and algae off the minnow lure. Then I reeled it up tight to the tip of the rod for the next cast.

            “I wouldn’t think so.  Al doesn’t get into that much trouble. You go to California, and you become a hippie eventually…”

            I set my sights on a clear spot on the pond, and, whipping the pole, cast one like Tom Seaver.

            “…It’s inevit… Jeeze!”         

            I spun around and saw that the line led to Chris and the minnow lure was embedded in his shoulder blade. He calmly reached back, and with a “It’s in there good…” plucked the lure out.

            Then he taught me to cast sideways, which turned out to get more distance, and suggested that if I had questions about Uncle Al, I could always ask him myself. He wasn’t in California. He was in a camper on a lot at the resort nearby.

            Cousin Chris was ok after being hit with the minnow lure. His tetanus booster was up to date, and no iodine or mercurochrome was used. There was no need for sutures or even a butterfly bandage. No Neosporin, Tylenol, Advil, Motrin, or Aleve was needed as a palliative, which is good, since they hadn’t been invented yet. Or, they only had them for astronauts. I learned three things, though. One was how to cast submarine style. The second was that people fear me with a fishing rod in my hands. And the third was that I would never be a doctor. Doing harm was usually the first thing on my list.

            I found Uncle Al in his tiny camper on a tiny lot with an extension cord running from a post to the inside. That was used for a tiny black and white television he had in there. He was watching the Cubs on it. He gave me a Fanta in one of those new slim bottles. He was drinking Tab. Aunt Clarice was off making art in the clubhouse. I thought that was the funniest thing. So many things to do in the campground, and she was doing something that they made us do in school. I hoped, though, that it involved Elmer’s glue. If you let it dry on your fingertips, when you peel it off, your fingerprints are inside.

            “So, you’re a limited partner at Rowe’s Shoes.”

            Al’s Tab stopped mid-bend, and his cigar stopped fluttering in his hands.

            “Yes,” he said. “And what that means is no more candy for awhile.”

            He chuckled as I ran out of the camper. And hooted as I ran back in a minute later from the clubhouse with a bubble-gum cigar for each of us. It was a “two for one”, so it only cost me a nickel, which was only 1/7 of my daily vacation allowance. Uncle Al told me he would save his for later.

            Each one of those bubble-gum cigars has, like, ten Bazookas or seven Double Bubbles in them. That’s value. And they came with an extraneous cigar ring that you could put around your pinky and say “Lookit! I have a ring.” You could chomp off a third of the cigar and make the biggest bubble you’ve ever made once you chewed out all the sugar.