I scrambled out of my parents' beat up Mazda hatchback, slamming the door forcefully behind me. Mom's voice broke through the squeaking of the window of the car, making its way down slowly.
"Don't go to bed late and don't eat with your eyes, Yaritza!" She looked up at the grimy apartment and yelled, "EDWIN! EDWIN! Open the door! La nena is coming up!...EDWIN!"
By then I was climbing up the dirty tile stairs up to my uncle's latest apartment. The fifth one in the last 3 months. Tugging on the straps of my overstuffed backpack, I tripped on the final step...just as my uncle opened the door, saying "Be careful, Frijolita". I dusted my knees off, and gave him a hug. Dad honked as they drove away, with my uncle waving them off and grabbing the backpack off my back. I stepped into the hermetically sealed flat, looking at my home for the next few days like some sort of dusty museum of the random. I ran to the balcony and stood on the ledge looking down at the cars passing by the narrow street below, one flip flop falling off my foot as I balanced myself. "Yari! Are you crazy!?", I heard my uncle yell after me as he threw my bag on a corner of the couch and hurried to grab me by the waist, pulling you down from the ledge. I looked up and smiled as he put his giant hooded jacket on me, zipping me up while gnawing his lip...concentrated.
"We're going to grab dinner, pimpollita." Pimpollita means, literally, little bump or boil. I never knew why he called me that. "But tío, it's hot out, I don't need a jacket." "Yari, it's almost nightfall and we're walking a mile to the Chinese food place. I don't want you getting sick when it gets colder at night." So, out the door we marched along...in the 'cool' Puerto Rican eve. By cool, I mean low 70's and me sweating my tiny behind off the whole way to the restaurant for take out and back to the apartment. The whole walk went by with my uncle gripping my hand tight, till both our palms were uncomfortably sweaty...dragging me along the narrow streets downtown. He'd walk quickly, half muttering words to himself or making small noises with his mouth, popping his lips, sniffling his nose like he had allergies, gripping my hand tighter every few steps and tugging his shirt collar over and over. Once back in the apartment, we'd sit quietly on an old dinning room set for two in his poorly-lit kitchen. I'd look over at the sink while we ate, and count the coffee mugs waiting to be washed.
“Tío…”, I’d pipe up from my side of the tiny table. “Hmm..?”, he’d acknowledge without looking up from his plate, gripping a balled up napkin on his left hand, almost like one would hold a rosary while saying silent prayers over and over. “When’s the last time you did the dishes?”, I’d ask carefully, trying to not make him feel judged. He looked up and methodicallyuncrumpled the napkin he had been clinging to, wiped his mouth over and over and pushed whatever ball of food he was chewing on at the moment to his right cheek while he answered. “Those are from today. I felt like drinking coffee. Just used a clean mug every time”, he said looking into my eyes and winking at me. I smiled, thinking he looked like a chipmunk holding his food in one side of his mouth, cheek puffed up. The rest of the dinner went by quietly, with my feet dangling from my chair, toes slightly scraping the cool marble floor.
As soon as we were done, he’d grab our take out boxes and throw them in the trash. I watched, waiting for the routine. My uncle was a living routine. At least that’s what I thought…Uncle Edwin sure acts funny sometimes.
The trashcan was already empty before he put our take out boxes in it. Two small boxes in a completely empty trash bag. He’d reach under the sink and pull out the air freshener, bug killer spray and a new bag. He’d spray the freshener inside our trash, over and over. Sweep, spray…sweep, spray. Cover the freshener, check on the lid, check on the lid, smell the bag, uncover the freshener and spray again, cover the freshener, check on the lid, tug on the lid and put the freshener on the counter. Pull the bag out of the trash can, tie it once…twice…three times…tug on the knot…tie it once more, shake the bag, tip the bag, check for leaks, inspect the floor around the trash bag. Grab the bug spray, spray the bag, cough, Yari coughs, spray the bag, ask Yari to cover her nose with her shirt, cough, shake the bag, spray the bag, spray the trash can, ask Yariif she’s ok, cough, spray the bag. Put the bag on the tip of his shoes, so it wouldn’t touch the ground, and cover the bug spray. Tug on the lid, check the lid, check on the lid, uncover the spray, cover it again to make sure it clicks, again…check on the lid, tug on the lid, check on the freshener one more time, check the bug spray again, put both under the sink and announce he was taking the trash to the dumpster across the street.
I ran to the bedroom window, which let you see the stairs and the alleyway he had to cross to throw the trash. I was to keep an eye on him to make sure nothing happened…in this quiet part of town with no traffic or pedestrians. He walked down the stairs, stopped halfway and checked his pocket for his keys and looked back at the door. He climbed back up to the door, tried the key out to make sure it would open it, then locked it again. I felt him jiggling the handle a few times then try the key once more. Opened the door, closed it. Locked it. Walked down the stairs, checked the pocket for keys. Moved the keys from back pocket to front pocket and sighed, calling out my name “Yari…don’t open the door for anyone, oiste? I’ll be right there.” “Okay, I’m watching you. There’s no cars coming, hurry up so we can play Risk”, I yelled back. He shushed me, and headed down the rest of the steps, continuously checking his pockets and pulling the keys. He jogged to the dumpster and threw the bag in, closed the lid. He turned around, walked a few steps…then went back to the dumpster and rattled the lid. He then opened it and looked inside, then slammed the lid. Walked away, looked back...and I could tell he was struggling against his need to go back another time to make sure the trash was inside the dumpster, where he left it. I watched him dart up the stairs and lock the door a few times once he was back inside.
By now, his ritual had taken up most of our night...I looked up at the clock on his grimy wall and it was already 9:15 p.m. I sighed, and waited for him to say the words that would bring our night to an end...a long, drawn out end. "Charito, I'm gonna get the restroom ready so you can shower and we can go to bed. Go get your clothes ready. Your bag is on the top bunk bed". Yes, my 34 year old uncle slept on bunk beds. Anyways, I ran off and while I was gathering my pajamas, I heard the unmistakable sound of a chancla smacking against the bathroom wall or floor...killing a roach. I cringed and waited for him to get the shower going. He came out and told me to hurry up before I used up all the hot water. I went in and gave the bathroom a quick inspection, making sure the deceased was still squashed on the floor and hadn't reanimated to seek vengeance when I was mid-shower. After my shower, I got into my Batman pajamas (yes, they were boy pajamas, don't judge) and climbed to the top bunk to untangle my mane of curls. Through my curls I looked at my uncle do his thing...again.
He looked for his clothes. Stared in the mirror. Took out his contacts. Looked at the mirror for a long time. Opened the drawers, remembering he already had the clothes, closing the drawers. Looking in the mirror. Securing the contact lenses case over and over. Sniffling his nose even though he didn't have allergies. Excessive blinking. Licked his lips, bit his lips, cleared his throat. Look out the window. Look in the mirror. Check his drawers for clothes, look at the bottom bunk and seeing clothes there. Sitting on floor and taking off his sneakers and socks, placing them perfectly against the wall. Sniffling his nose. Biting his lip. Clearing his throat...looking up at me "I'll be right back, frijolita". Once in the restroom, I knew it would be at least an hour before he came out...so I laid in the top bunk, staring at the ceiling that ended up being entirely too close. I scanned the edges of the ceiling for spiderwebs...or worse...spiders. Nothing. Cars zooming by. His throat clearing. The shower going. Clock ticking. Cars zooming. Silence. The banging of him dropping the soap. The sound of him throwing said soap away and opening a new one. Clearing his throat. Mumbling. An hour later, the door opening and the smell of Irish Springs flooding the hallway, into the room.
He was dressed in jeans, a Lacoste polo and a belt. It made no sense to me...any of it. He was going to bed...so why dress up? But it was my uncle Edwin...who always had something "off" about him. We were taught to just accept it. It is who he is and he never harmed anyone by being himself. Either way, he stood in front of the mirror...nose sniffling, clearing his throat and grabbed the hair brush. I counted...he had a pattern, of course. He'd hold his forehead skin while he brushed his hair roughly 15 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then put gel, then brush it roughly 20 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then comb it to the front...then to the side...then to the other side...then his fingers through it...then his bangs...then comb it back...then brush...(you get it). After 15 minutes of hair brushing, he'd put clean socks and his sneakers back on. Why? Why? Don't ask Yari, just watch. He looked in the mirror...and at my reflection from the corner of the mirror and make a funny face. I giggled, eyelids heavy...exhausted from watching him. How did he do this every day? How did he ever get anything done? He fixed his polo collar, tucked in his shirt and fixed his jeans to cover the top of his sneakers...and pulled his jeans up and spent 10 more minutes rolling up and pulling down his socks until they 'felt right'. Then jeans back down, over his sneakers, then brush his hair...look in the mirror and gnaw his lip. Finally...Lord...finally, he crawled into the bottom bunk bed and turned on his cd player with T-Rex or The Beatles on. I smiled, tapping my toe on the wall to the beat..and waited for it.
He would yawn in an exaggerated way, clear his throat loudly and say, in a goofy voice "Goodnight, Ren". I grinned in the dark and, in the same voice, said "Goodnight, Stimpy".
...If you've followed me this far on this post, I commend you. It exhausted me to think of his ritual, and utterly drained me to type it. But, hang on. There's a point to the back story, and its this:
When I was a bit older, I went on a trip to visit my family in Pennsylvania, and my uncle Edwin came with us. If you haven't guessed by now, he has severe OCD and slight schizophrenia. Manic depression. Name every possible mental health issue, and he probably has it. He hadn't traveled outside his hometown, since he moved back there from NY when he was 7. He only left his house for work or a quick errand. He never slept away from his house. So, needless to say, this trip to PA had him more on edge than usual...but with much persuasion from my grandmother, my father and other aunts...we managed to get him on board.
We were scheduled to stay for 2 weeks at my aunt's house in Allentown, PA. It was my parents, my grandmother (dad's side), my uncle Edwin and yours truly. We arrived on a Tuesday evening, around 10 p.m. and after the typical 'catching up', everyone trickled to their rooms for some sleep. I was sharing an empty bedroom (my aunt had just moved in, didn't have furniture) with my uncle. We were in sleeping bags and a tiny heater in the corner...it was winter. I woke up at around midnight, to quiet crying. When I opened my eyes, my heart leaped a few times when I saw my uncle, knees cradled against his chest and leaning his back against the wall...mumbling to himself and kind of crying. "Edwin...", I whispered. He looked over at me...but didn't really see me. It was the scariest thing I'd ever experienced. I didn't know if he had snapped...what do I do? I'm 10.
I slowly slid out of my sleeping bag, and walked out of the room. I got my Dad, who was incensed that Edwin (whom he teasingly called "Sassy") couldn't just be normal and let us have a decent night's sleep.
"Leave him alone, Carlos. Be soft with him...", my aunt whispered as she walked behind him to go help defuse the situation.
Dad barged into the room, I was leaning against the hallway wall outside. "Sassy. What's wrong? Why aren't you asleep?"
"I can't sleep unless I'm in my bunk beds. I can't sleep. I want to go home. Take me home. I don't want to be here. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds...", my uncle cried over and over.
"Edwin, you freaking idiot, you don't need your bunk beds to sleep. And why are you sleeping in your jeans and sneakers? How are you supposed to relax with all that clothes on? Who the hell do you think you're going to meet at night that you're dressed like that?", Dad barked. "Millie, are you seeing this? He still sleeps with his shoes on. This is Mom's fault. She never made him take them off as a kid. Edwin! Stop crying!"
"Carlos, don't be so rough with him! If he wants to sleep dressed like that let him!", my aunt Millie yelled.
"Don't call me Sassy in front of the nena, Carlos!", my uncle Edwin whined back...referring to me.
"I will call you Sassy. Because you're a Sassy little girl. Pansy. Why can't you just go to sleep? I'm not taking you home. You're here for two weeks. Get used to it! Shut up and go to sleep, Sassy girl", Dad snarled.
"Don't call me that!", Edwin yelled. "Carlos! Leave him alone!...Edwin do you want to sleep on my bed? Is that better?", my aunt said softly. Edwin started mumbling about his bunk beds over and over and over. Non stop. Rocking back and forth.
"What's wrong with Edwin...?", my grandmother's voice came from down the hall.
"Nothing! He's being a baby. This is your fault, Mom. Look at him! You let him do whatever and indulged his weird habits and look at him now!", Dad yelled.
"Carlos! You're worse than he is making this scene! You're supposed to calm him down!", my aunt yelled.
"Well does anyone need coffee and a sandwich? I'm already up and in the kitchen making one for me...Edwin, quieres cafe?", grandma screamed from the kitchen. "Yari, here have a sandwich and coffee..."
"Mom!!! Stop feeding her all the time! It's 1 o'clock in the morning and you're giving her coffee!", Dad said while coming out to the hallway...face red...eyes agitated..."Yari! Don't you dare eat that sandwich this late at night! Your Mom's gonna kill me for giving you food all the time! Mom! MOM stop making sandwiches!"
"Carlos, please lower your voice I'm getting a migraine...", my aunt whispered.
"I'm leaving. I can't sleep here. I want my bunk beds. Carlos take me to the airport right now!", cried my uncle from the doorway.
And in the sea of finger pointing, resentment and coffee...I spoke up.
"Edwin, do you want to sleep on the couch? I'll lay on the floor next to you and it'll feel like bunk beds. You'll be higher and I'll be lower, right next to you...", I asked carefully.
Edwin paused for a second...and smiled. "Okay, frijolita. But be careful that I don't squash you".
So...the crowd dispersed...and I brought my sleeping bag to the living room floor, next to the couch. My uncle settled on the couch. The lights turned off. The apartment got quiet. He twist, he kicked, he turned, he sighed...The digital clock in the living room now read 2 a.m. He twist, he kicked...he was having a hard time. I reached my hand up and rubbed his forearm and said "Goodnight, Stimpy". He sighed and I could almost hear him smiling..."Goodnight, Ren". Sleep.
The next morning my grandmother, aunt and parents left to go sight seeing. Edwin, the hermit, refused to go...so I stayed with him. All day...
My family got back to the apartment at around 4 p.m. that afternoon...my dad slowly opening the front door into the living room.
"Oh..my...EDWIN! WHAT DID YOU DO?!", Dad yelled.
"Oooooh myyyy GOD. Edwin...are you insane?! THIS IS MY LIVING ROOM! Oh my God Oh My God my head...Oh My GOD!", my aunt said...a pained expression on her face...grabbing her head.
"What's wrong?! Is Edwin ok?? What's wrong?!", asked my grandma, still outside and unable to look into the living room.
"YES, MOM, Edwin is FINE. Look! Look at what he did!", Dad screamed. "Are you freaking crazy, Sassy?? You bought a BUNK BED? You bought a bunk bed and set it up in a living room?? Of someone else's house?? Edwin what were you thinking?!"
"Ay Dios mio, Edwin but where did you get a bunk bed?? How did you set it up! Yari! Why didn't you stop him from buying it!?", my aunt sighed.
"I'm going to make coffee...I can't handle this right now...", my grandmother sighed, making her way to the kitchen and taking in the scene:
Edwin and I, sitting on the top bunk. Both of us in pajamas and eating a huge bowl of Cheerios...watching cartoons...
My aunt walked away. My dad stared at us, shaking his head..."Yari, eating a huge bowl of cereal? Your Mom's going to kill you...or me. God dammit, Sassy."
...It's 3:13 a.m. Goodnight, Stimpy.
No comments:
Post a Comment