An Incurable Fever
“Dedicated to my Aunt Sandy, recently gone but always with me in spirit”
Back in ancient times, possibly before the Great Pyramids were mere whimsical thoughts in the pharaoh’s heads, it was the Year of our Lord 1982; I happened to be living as an eccentric 11-year-old boy with my favorite Aunt and Uncle, Sandy and Joe. It was the closest to a form of Heaven I’d ever gotten in my lifetime, and as often occurs, I never realized it at the time. Not until long after it was all over and I had already lost Paradise.
The house and environment were wonderful for a young precocious boy like myself. Uncle Joe was a local politician, and Aunt Sandy was a social worker, so we all wanted for nothing. They had two pets in the house. Brandy and Cookie were both long-haired large furry friendly doggies. During my short time living there they seemed to be pleased to be my doggies as well.
In the basement was a fully custom-made bar, actually larger than many small pubs. Fully stocked with everything, adorned with every neon beer light mounted upon every wall. With beautifully dark red lights projected from the center of the room; To this particular boy it was fascinating, like being inside the heart of a sleeping breathing dragon. It seemed a fantastic, mystical place, where dreams could live, and joy surrounded all.
When my birthday came around, most of my gifts were nice clothes, which I have always sorely needed, being a boy cursed with a sad poverty, and a Rubik’s cube, which I have adored and longed for, but never had prior to that time.
A fun present, but damned frustrating. We did visit my grandparents for a wonderfully tasty and fattening thanksgiving dinner, and my monstrous mother and her child-molesting husband were not invited and therefore were not in attendance; Since the mood would have been soured and certainly would not befit a fabulous family event worth attending.
Both my Aunt and Uncle had their own luxury cars, matching Cadillacs, except for the colors. When all of us went somewhere together, Joe usually did the driving, and I sat in the back playing with my new cube on that trip as well. Riding in the back of that giant car was an utter joy to the young innocent boy that I was. No responsibility, no demands, just watching and feeling the miles go by on soft leather in comfort.
My Uncle, being full of Polish descent, and substantially proud, had a quirky love for raucous polka music, which until I lived with them, I had never been exposed to. It was usually upbeat, surprisingly fast, and strangely addicting. I liked it, not as much as I enjoyed my own music, but I didn’t particularly mind hearing it on car trips. Polka music was fun to listen to, and pretty damned catchy, at any age.
That Thanksgiving with them was wonderful for me. All the traditional comfort foods were there, served to exquisite old-school perfection, as only old-time grandmothers and beloved aunts seem capable of achieving.
The classic foods were all present. Browned perfect turkey, stuffing cooked inside the bird, mashed potatoes done right with love. Fluffy, buttery, and utterly delicious, served with sweet potatoes as well. We even had green bean casserole, which I could enjoy because I couldn’t taste the vegetable, that was always the key to eating them for me. If green vegetables were present, and if their taste wasn’t there, my body had no issues, and I could consume them with impunity.
Once as an experiment Sandy had cooked fresh broccoli, and drowned it in liquid cheddar cheese, just to see what would happen. This was done totally for my benefit. I ate two full helpings of it, with no gagging problems at all, cheese being my lifelong weakness.
So my real issues were never really the actual content of green vegetables, but merely their taste. If I couldn’t taste them, I could actually eat them, and sometimes enjoy them. To this day, I drink V8 juice regularly, and I love it. No problems at all, and it’s one of my favorite drinks at home.
That particular holiday meal was amazing, to be remembered for the rest of my life, and the company I was with had a great deal to do with that. I loved my Uncle Joe and Sandy especially. She was like me, very smart and quite special.
Finally, my first Christmas came around while I still resided at my aunt’s house, and I loved it. The food was exquisite, of course, as it should be, and the atmosphere was upbeat and comfy. Of course, our Christmas meal was served in the fancy “showroom”, as I liked to call it. Nothing like eating under a fine chandelier, on a long expensive table, with real silver cutlery, in the very lap of luxury. It makes life seem not only tolerable but actually good for once.
I guarantee the wealthy people of America enjoy their lives, to the fullest extent possible. They may have drama, but they bask in their luxuries, which more than makes up for it all.
Throughout this work, I will speak only of America, because that’s what I’ve known, seen, explored, and experienced for myself for all my long years.
Yes, I know of the great unwashed masses of Mexico, and the uppity attitudes of Canadians, but I will talk only of who and what I know personally, the USA itself. Land of the seemingly free and greedy rich, and of course the homeless poor. They are always here, as I am.
That particular Christmas seemed a good one for a young boy enjoying existence. It was one of the happier ones of my entire life. Joe got presents from his wife that he adored including a new fancy gold watch. Sandy got a few that she enjoyed from him in return. Even the doggies got gifts that seemed to please them, bones and chewy toys including a rubber paper, the “daily growl”. I loved those furry companions, they were older dogs, but very happy. So enthusiastic about everything, and enjoyed a total run of the house, the only exception was the fancy showroom, we couldn’t have dog hair on the pricy elegant furniture, unacceptable.
I got more clothes (nice ones that I liked of course), but my favorite gift was something very special. Sadly I didn’t get to enjoy it as much as I could have, thanks to my Uncle Joe.
Back then, The video game Pac-man was all the rage literally everywhere, they even had a song dedicated to its charms(Pac-Man fever), it was such a fun and addicting game in the arcades. The Atari 2600 had an ok version, but not perfect. My Aunt and Uncle found me a physical small version, even shaped like an actual Pacman, basically a small arcade machine. It was both battery-powered and plugged into the wall as well. A very addicting yet small version, and maybe a bit too addicting perhaps. I loved it, and was very addicted too damned quickly, as it was designed to be. Sadly, my Uncle Joe tried it a few times that Christmas day, and became instantly addicted as well.
As it turned out he loved it just as much as I did, possibly a bit more obsessively, and started playing it constantly. Usually while seated at the kitchen table, plugged into a wall outlet, and obnoxiously playing with my personal Christmas present, far more than I ever did.
My Uncle Joe would play it for hours, obsessed, and literally seemed possessed by the Pac-Man demon. Chasing and being chased in turn by colored ghosts, and thinking of little else while he was at home. Even corrupt politicians were not immune to the digital charms of the addictive enemy ghosts, and the yellow roundish hero who ultimately fought them. Even at my requests, he refused to give it up to me, the boy to whom the gift actually belonged, and the pissed-off boy, as it turned out.
The few times I finally got to play with my own Christmas gift was damned fun, after Joe got finally would get tired, but my playtime was completely reliant upon his whims.
He played day and night, to my personal chagrin. My Uncle became 100 percent addicted; It would have been humorous if it wasn’t my favorite Christmas gift, but it was. I wanted to play it, badly and often, but it wasn’t really an option at the time, since Joe took it upon himself to rob my use of it in every moment he could.
He was in LOVE with my gift, maybe even far more than I could ever love it. My Uncle, the sleazy unscrupulous politician that he was, was infected with PACMAN fever!
He hijacked my game on a daily basis selfishly. American politicians and their ilk are very good at using things that don’t really belong to them. It’s like their way of life. I learned quickly of course. I’d wake up in the morning, grab my coffee, and he’d already be playing, ignoring his morning paper. I’d ask "Joe, can I get my game back now?" His unvarying response would be the same thing, “later Johnny." This almost became his mantra, day or evening, putting off my request to play my own game.
Eventually, I got tired of it, but as it turns out he was sadly getting tired of me as well, and my very existence in his house. Turns out there was another issue that he’d had with me being there, but it didn’t come out until after my first and only Christmas with them. My days were tragically numbered there. He called my presence a "disruption to his household and intolerable" as he told his wife, my Aunt Sandy. When I had moved on from their custody, my Uncle Joe had decided to keep my game. I've never owned that particular item again, if I'd owned it at all in the first place.
The End
