drunk-dialing in the new millennium

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[in case you're interested, this post was the result of an idle google search which proved to me once and for all that you can truly find anything on the internet.]

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i've mentioned my uncle don, right?

the thing i most remember about my father's younger brother is how open, easy and fun he once was. whenever don and his new wife, pat, would come down for a visit in the early days, ours was always a happy house--pallets on the living-room floor and people sleeping everywhere, neighbors over for parties, music and laughter until the early hours, and my dad actually smiling for a change.

one of my earliest memories is of my proud uncle scooping up his 4-year-old nephew and taking me down to the university of houston, where he had been a star quarterback in his college days, to show me off to all his old teachers and coaches. seemed like he knew everybody we passed, and they were all thrilled to see him. [he bought me a mickey mouse watch that day--had a shiny red strap. no idea what happened to it.]

back in those days, don was up in dallas, playing pro ball for the texans [a team which would later defer to its cross-town rivals, the cowboys, move to kansas city and become the chiefs]. i remember one weekend we drove up for a game, and in the locker-room he presented me with a large, flat cigar-style box which, when its lid was raised, opened up in 3-d style like a peacock spreading its feathers to display a full array of trading cards, one for every member of the team, each autographed to me [again, no idea what happened to it--i could kill my mother sometimes.]

when his football career ended, don was left with a wife, a few memories and fewer prospects--this was long before the days of multi-million dollar contracts for pro quarterbacks. after an abortive attempt at selling insurance, he ended up in oklahoma, back in the family business--oil--working for skelly and barely scraping by.

i remember we'd go up to visit 'em--their little house in duncan was much smaller than ours--and, again, it'd be pallets on the floor, chaos and lots of fun. i always loved going up there, spending time with don, pat and, by then, the first of their four kids.

i remember that rainy april day after my dad's funeral, don sat down at the piano in my mother's brother's living room, where we had all gathered--a gorilla at the keyboard, i remember thinking--and banged out a credible version of "buttons and bows" in an attempt to distract us kids. i had no idea he could play--i remember at ten years old being struck by the contrast between the gaiety of the music flowing so effortlessly from my uncle's fingers and the look in his eyes as he did his best to smile.  much later, pat would tell us he carried his brother's muddy work-boots around in the trunk of his car for seven years, until she finally made him let 'em go.

don's trip to the top was relatively quick, as far as success stories go--or maybe that was only our perception. one day he was a struggling grunt, next day a mid-level executive, and the day after that, we looked up and he had made it--an oil company with his (and our) name on it, company plane, the works.

i remember him telling me once that he'd have given anything if his mother and older brother had lived to share in his success.

he and pat would still come down to see us, but by then the close intimacy of pallets on the floor had given way to the distant convenience of hotel rooms. easier for everybody, right?

[more often in those days, we'd go up to see them--their tiny house in duncan had given way to a series of increasingly-ambitious homes, culminating in a gorgeous, sprawling, modernist custom job in the "we've arrived" area of tulsa.]

and god knows he and pat never forgot us--even before they had it to freely give, there was a steady stream of cars and money whenever we needed it.

but regardless of all that, once don hit the top, everything changed.

partly because he changed--the older and more successful he got, the more cold, closed-off and intimidating he became, to the point where you didn't even wanna be around him if you could avoid it (except when he was handing out checks, of course).

and partly because we changed--suddenly we weren't equals who could call him out on his shit anymore; we became instead the poor relations who learned to ignore his slights, smile to his face, tuck his checks in our pockets and cravenly bad-mouth him behind his back.

an actual phone call from don was a watershed event, not only because such a thing almost never happened (pat was the eternal intermediary), but because when it did, it was pure torture--stiff and uncomfortable, like you were on trial or being interrogated or something.

unless, of course, he was drunk--then he'd be like his old self again, only sloppy.

it'd go something like this: we'd be sitting around watching tv, the phone would ring, my mom would answer, get this wide-eyed expression on her face and be like, "don, is that you? my god. well, hi, honey...yeah, we're all here...oh, don, that's so sweet; no, you have nothing to apologize for--we know you love us, and we love you too..."

and on and on it would go. and then he'd insist on speaking to each of us kids, slurring his words, telling us over and over how much he loved us, how sorry he was for being shitty, how proud he was of us, how proud our dad would've been of us, etcetera.

eventually the call would end and we'd all look at each other and say, "god, why does he have to get drunk to tell us how he really feels about us? why can't he just be like he used to be?"

i remember having no answer to that question--i mean, all this pent-up feeling pouring out of a guy who, if you called him at his office the next day, he'd be all like, "what do you want?  why are you calling?"

i didn't understand my uncle don back then--but boy, i do now.

because i've turned out just like him.

[okay, maybe not just like him--when i, mkf, am sober and forced to interact with people, i at least try to be sociable, but i'm willing to admit that may only be because i haven't yet amassed as much fuck-you money as he had back then.

oh, and i don't drunk-dial--i drunk-comment.]

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inspiration for this post? i had a couple stiff ones, got a hair up my ass to do a little googling and was unexpectedly rewarded with the following hit from an obscure trading-card website:

of course, i snapped it up immediately--autographed or not, for a lousy $35 plus shipping, i wasn't gonna let the memory get away from me this time.