Meat My Uncle

Meat My Uncle

By Erez Y Bailen and Tom Foster

Chapter 1

My name is James Jones, and this is my story. Well, it’s a story, I don’t know if it’s just mine, but everyone always says ‘it’s mine’ when they’re talking about stuff that happens to and around them. So I guess it’s mine, since I’m the one talking about it. But I should probably talk about the people that will make their way into the story eventually, since if I was the only one in it that might be a little boring, right? I have kind of a fantastic life, but that doesn’t mean that it’s completely awesome. The people on TV and in the movies have awesome lives, even if they don’t look awesome or sound that way.

But their lives aren’t real. Mine is real, I think, since sometimes I can see past the world I enjoy, the world that makes sense to me, to the real world that everyone else lives in so often. It’s easy to think that a lot of people live in their own worlds sometimes, especially since some people talk to themselves and end up being put in big buildings where people are supposed to get help, even if a lot of them don’t come out. I’ve heard that a few kids tell me that I belong in there because I’m not like them, I’m not normal I guess. But my mom always tell me that they’re full of…well, a word I’m not supposed to say. But it rhymes with hit, spit, kit, bit, and a lot of other words that I can say, and it means something that stinks. I guess people can be full of it, but not all the way full, because…

I did it again. I kind of ramble when I talk about things that don’t need to be given that much attention. Sometimes other kids and people that don’t understand my condition, I have Asperger’s Syndrome by the way, don’t understand why I don’t act like other kids my age. My mom says to not worry about it that much. Mom tells me to just focus on what I want to focus on. My mom even tells me to focus on my friends, because they’ve known me so long that they understand me. They even understand the world the way I do, even if they don’t always believe in it. My friends are great, but sometimes they say they need a break, which I’ve finally come to understand means they need a break from me.

That kind of hurts my feelings, or it did. It’s taken a few years to get used to it, but my friends are still my friends. They just need time to themselves, kind of like I do when the world gets a little confusing. They’ve been very patient with me over the years, and I really appreciate that they’ve stayed my friends. It was hard though, and my mom had to tell me over and over that they didn’t hate me. Mom told me more than once that they were still my friends, but they had to live their lives too. My mom has been there for me in a lot of ways, and I love her for that.

My mom is peculiar too. She doesn’t identify as a ‘she’, and mom does have a wife, or had one at least. That’s the reason I’m able to write this at least, since mom got his wife pregnant, or so I thought until he told me different. If not for that, I might have gone to wherever unborn people are sent, if that’s a thing. I’ve asked my friends and my mom about that, but they don’t know either. I could talk about that for a while, but a lot of people have become a little irritated since it’s a circular conversation that doesn’t end for a while. I think I’ll talk a little more about my mom instead.

My mom likes men and women, which makes people call her bisexual. I don’t know why it sounds weird, but it does because her name is Jake, and goes by he and him, and his I guess.

Another weird thing is that he won’t tell me where I came from since his wife, I thought, had given birth to me. I don’t resemble her or dad though, so over the years I’ve wondered who my real parents were. Mom has never told me where I come from, and he doesn’t like it when I talk about this that much.

I have a friend who’s adopted, his name is Tobias Mumford, and he sometimes tells people that they have no idea what it feels like to be adopted, and says that his life is a giant question mark. I guess his parents told him that he was adopted because they thought he could handle it. Most of the time he doesn’t talk about it, but he’ll bring it up when someone says they hate their parents, which I think is kind of bad since I don’t see how hating your parents makes sense. I get angry at my mom sometimes, but he’s still there to take care of me, even if I act like a jerk, like my uncle calls me. I’ll talk about him in a minute, he’s not important right now.

Sometimes, when Tobias starts talking about how tough his life is (it really isn’t but he says it is) I like to imagine that maybe Tobias and I both came from a secret location that our parents aren’t allowed to tell us about, like some far-off place where kids are kept, not to be hurt or anything. I’ve seen pictures and videos about kids being trafficked…I’m pretty sure that’s the word. My mom won’t let me watch a lot of that stuff, he says that it’s too disturbing and that it will give me nightmares. But I think that it’s better to know, even though it is really disturbing to think that people actually steal kids and do all sorts of horrible things with them.

I’m rambling again, aren’t I? Shoot, I don’t mean to do it but I just get going and… Anyway. I like to imagine that Tobias and I might have come from some top secret

location where they keep kids until they’re able to be adopted, or maybe trained to take down the

bad people in this world. One problem with this fantasy is that there are bad people all over the world that still get to do what they want, so it’s obvious that it wouldn’t be real. But I like it anyway, since it sounds cool to think about a secret organization that might train people from the time they’re kids to protect other people. But it would be better if they were taught how to be regular people too. But that might be a problem too, wouldn’t it? What kind of regular person would want to stay in a secret facility all their lives to train for something that wouldn’t work anyway?

Some of my friends say that I’m too logical, that I tear apart any fantasy that people think of by asking really logical questions. I can’t help it sometimes. I like fantasy and science fiction, I like writing my own stories and making them into something cool. But my brain still forces logic on everything, even when I don’t want it to. I guess there are a lot of logical ways to look at fictional stories, but sometimes my mind won’t let me just enjoy it. My friends have learned to deal with this, but my mom doesn’t like it when we’re watching TV or a movie together and I start asking questions about one thing or another.

He doesn’t yell at me that I’m being stupid, but he does say that I need to learn how to ‘think around corners’ and not be so literal. I’m nine years old, I know what a lot of what he’s saying means, but I don’t know how to shut off my brain sometimes and just enjoy things. When I’m on my own I think I can do it, since my room becomes a different world when I want it to, and the world around me becomes different when I’m on my own. But some people don’t appreciate this. Even my friends feel that I’m a little weird, but they play along and ask me what I see when I look around.

Sometimes they enjoy it.

When I think about Tobias and myself, my mom doesn’t like it when I say me and Tobias since it’s not proper grammar I guess, I like to imagine that fantasy of coming from a secret location. It’s a place high in the mountains somewhere, funded by a shadowy government agency that, I dunno, wants to raise kids to be government spies, or special agents, or something. But they don’t make everyone into spies, or agents, but instead they let some of them become adopted, if they’re wanted, and stuff. I need to work with this idea, but it’s a cool one I think since it could be a good story that Tobias might like, I think. I don’t know, I start thinking about ideas like this and then I find that I kind of lose interest now and then.

But my mom has told me that I can put things ‘on the back burner’. I’m not supposed to do much with the stove when mom isn’t around, but he lets me cook when he’s home, so that’s fun. But mom has heard this idea of mine about the story, and he’s said that he supports my writing, and that makes me feel good. I just wish I was better at it.

Mom says I do fine, but I need to ‘flesh out my story’. That sounds kind of gross, but I’ve learned that it means to build things up and to make sure the story has everything it needs. It still sounds gross, but I get it at least. Mom is always asking how my writing is going, and I always tell her what’s going on, since he cares enough to ask. Plus, my mom gives me tips and points about writing sometimes, and that helps. It’s been able to help me come up with an idea to name the shadow government the Cradle, because they take in unwanted babies and train some and adopt others out.

Maybe with the adopted ones they place a tracker in them to keep an eye on them, to maybe see if the kids that they allowed to be adopted end up becoming awesome later, or have

some great ability that they figure they can use to their advantage. Yeah, I like that, and I think Tobias might think it’s cool.

That’s a big part of who I am, I’m a nine-year old kid that loves to write, and I can’t think of anything greater. I do like other stuff, since I enjoy playing video games, especially adventure games that take hours and hours to complete. I also like playing fighting games, but only if they have other options to them. A fighting game without any adventure or story mode is kind of boring I think, but my friends don’t think so. It feels like I’m rambling again, am I? It’s hard to tell sometimes, but I guess maybe I am.

I’ve been called imaginative and creative for most of my life I guess. My mom says I’ve been writing stuff since I was old enough to talk, which was age 2. I don’t remember a lot of it, but I remember one of my first big stories, which means like over 5 pages. It was about an elf that was forgotten by his people because he was different, but eventually became a great warrior and a leader. You might see where I’m going with that, right? My mom saw right away, but my friends had to ask me when I told them.

The elven warrior was me, or is me. Or, I mean, it’s what I would like to be. I’m not an elf, but I think they’re cool. My mom knows I like fantasy and he’s bought me comics and books and he’s taught me how to read for years now, and he’s even helped me with words and concepts I didn’t understand at first. My mom doesn’t understand everything I like, but he still supports me, he-

“J.J. lunch!”

I gotta go for now. I’ll talk more about this later I guess.

* * *

James grinned as he rose from his seat, leaving the black screen of the iPad in front of him to dimly reflect the objects that could be seen reflected in its dark surface. The world around him shimmered in James’ perception as the world he’d created for himself faded out, hiding behind the real world as he tended to see it, until he was ready to bring it forward again. He could smell a mouth-watering aroma from down the hall, the scent wafting in his direction from the kitchen, probably because his mother was doing what he always did, which was to fan the aroma in his direction so that he would come running.

He almost lost his footing when making his way from the carpeted floor of his bedroom to the hardwood flooring that ran the entire length of the hallway and into the kitchen, where it was cut off by the plush carpet in the living room just beyond. This was routine though, he almost always lost his footing when dashing from his room to do anything in another part of the house. His mother knew that this kept him entertained and had instilled a need for James to wear his socks whenever possible, provided that it wasn’t too warm for such garments.

James didn’t really care for the feeling of his bare feet on the wooden floor, especially since he couldn’t glide as easily as he did in his socks. But seeing as it was still early January and deep into winter, he grinned as his socks allowed him to slide nearly to the opposite wall, his right hand reaching out to grasp the left hand side of the door jamb that bracketed the opening of his mother’s room. From there he pushed off and was still smiling as the world around him shimmered and dissolved into a familiar scene as the wood beneath his feet became a deep blue icy plain, and the walls and ceiling grew lumpen and misshapen as the cavernous surfaces enveloped his home.

This was common, and his mother had failed to understand it at times, but he didn’t question it since this kept James happy and content. The single push had him skating forward as he pumped with his legs, moving side to side as he’d seen ice skaters do on the internet. As he began to pick up speed the scent of lunch continued to strengthen in his nostrils, almost pulling him forward by smell alone as the frosty surroundings gave way far too soon to the warm, inviting kitchen that was revealed as he came sliding into view.

“Hey, there’s my intrepid explorer. Ice caves again?”

“Yeah,” James said, nodding his head as he bellied up to the kitchen island that stood in the middle of the room. His mother noted the slightly disappointed look on his face, but smiled anyway. This wasn’t the first time that James had been let down by his own fantasies, but as mother told him, fantasy could do a lot to keep the real world at bay, but it wasn’t a cure-all for anything other than boredom. James still didn’t really know what that meant, but he had an idea that it was supposed to keep his head out of clouds, as a few of his family members had said to him over the years.

“How’s your story coming along?”

Mom popped a chip into his mouth as it crunched loudly between her teeth. James’ mom was beautiful to him, and to others that had come around. His mom didn’t see a lot of people since he’d once said that if they couldn’t get along with James, then they weren’t worth the time and effort it took to find a nice person. A couple of people that James had met, when mom brought them home, had been less than nice when he’d been out of the room. One of them had even asked James if he was a retard, but had made the mistake of saying this when his mom was in earshot.

His mom had asked the person, a rather pretty younger woman, to leave without hesitating. Mom had a few faults, more than a few really, but James was learning to not judge people too much, but he loved James, that much was easy to see. Plus, he enjoyed James’ stories, and always gave helpful criticism and hints that James tried to use in his next story.

“It’s okay I guess. I don’t know if I want to tell my story. It feels kind of boring.”

His mom clucked his tongue as he shook his head, “For a kid that just skated down an ice tunnel to get to lunch that doesn’t sound accurate at all.”

James grinned. His mom was always ready to cheer him up.

Lunch was a grilled mac and cheese sandwich on plain wheat bread with the corners clipped off, as his mom liked to say. There were ham bits in the mac and cheese, he knew because his mom always made his sandwiches this way. But they were inside the bread where he couldn’t see them, otherwise he might not be able to eat them. They tasted good, and they really made a filling meal, but looking at them made him sick. His mom had figured this out and made it a point to do what he wanted.

There had been a time or two in the past when his mom had grown frustrated with his need to keep everything as it was, but things had gotten better after that. He liked things the way he liked them. Some people said that made him selfish, and that was when he tended to escape into his own world where people couldn’t touch him, or at least, where he didn’t have to see or hear them. But his mom had learned, and was able to do things the way that James liked.

“I was writing down my story, and I was getting to a good part when you called me for lunch. I think I’ll get back to that part when I’m done.” James paused, “Is that okay?”

He was still getting used to speaking to others in a way that wouldn’t make them mad or upset with him. James had been told more than once that when he spoke he sounded too demanding, or arrogant, like he was full of himself. It wasn’t like that though, he just knew the way things needed to be, and the way he liked them. But he was getting better, and he was taking the feelings of others into account when he spoke.

Mom nodded, “Of course J. But thank you for asking.”

James didn’t waste any time on another word as he picked up his sandwich, closing his eyes as he bit into the warm, toasty bread and felt as well as tasted a flood of cheesy goodness squirt out, the ham and noodles within adding a salty and slightly cloying element to the sandwich that he loved. He tended to close his eyes just in case anything spurted out the other end of the sandwich, but as far as he could tell, nothing had. His mom knew how to make his sandwiches, and she knew what he liked.

That was the way it had been for a while, and that was how it worked.