This was a piece I wrote last year around the last week of September. It’s an autobiographical account of the events of that week surrounding my uncle’s relapse into alcohol addiction. If you have been looking for an autobiographical account of a Jerry Springer episode, you’ve just struck gold. Enjoy.
For the first nineteen years of my life I lived in Illinois. Up until moving to Kentucky and living next door to my Uncle Rickey I never knew how extreme his issues with alcohol were. I probably didn’t even fully understand what a real alcoholic was. The side of my family in Illinois who I had been around my entire life NEVER drink. Nobody on my father’s side ever had a sip of alcohol around me. They all seemed to be obsessive control freaks who would be greatly embarrassed to be caught a little buzzed and not in complete control of their emotions.
My aunt on my father’s side claims she would never drink alcohol because she knows she would be the one hanging from the chandelier at the party, a common trait among people who never drink thinking they’re going to go have a drink and turn into Bluto from Animal House.
Even when I visited my mom’s side of the family every now and then my Uncle Rickey was either not nearby or not drunk. It wasn’t until I visited Kentucky a month before moving down here that I seemed to see him in quite a drunken state. He was sitting in front of his television set with a short white beard and looked quite frail and fragile, like Samuel L. Jackson in Unbreakable.
It wasn’t until I had been living in Kentucky for a couple of weeks that I got a taste of how badly my uncle had it with alcohol.
I remember there was a night when I forced myself to go to bed around eight or nine, something I was not used to when I was typically staying up until four in the morning.
I had slept for about three hours when I woke up around eleven o’ clock at night. I remember sitting up in bed and about to get something to read when I heard a pounding at my front door and my Uncle Rickey moaning my name.
As you can imagine, this scared the fucking shit out of me.
I sat in the darkness for a few moments until I was certain he was back in his trailer before moving.
My uncle was so drunk he had no idea that it was the middle of the night.
During the winter of 2012 and going into 2013, my uncle had quit drinking. The change was almost instant. Sure, he was still smoking hand rolled cigarettes most of the day and drinking non-alcoholic beer throughout the day, but he wasn’t bombed out of his skull. In the summer he was in his yard working nonstop on broken lawn mowers he collected and kept up on his yard and truck. For how crippled up I had once seen him, it was mind blowing to see how mobile it was.
It was also quite impressive to see a man who had been drinking since whenever his father let him get a taste of alcohol before puberty put the beer down.
Everything was going quite well for him up until fall of 2015.
My uncle while quitting drinking never stopped hanging out with the deadbeats in town. At best, they were a cast of characters you might see in some story or show that took place in a dive bar. At worst, they were pill poppers and heroin addicts.
I believe he was hanging out with some drugged out females half his age when he relapsed. Then again, who knows how old they were since you never can tell since pill poppers in their early twenties look like they’re old enough for a senior discount.
If I’m to believe what I’ve heard from other family members about these sketchy bitches, they somewhat seduced my uncle into drinking once again and getting him bombed out of his skull in order to use his disability check for more alcohol and pills. It sounds about right but I put the same amount of blame on my uncle.
My uncle’s relapse was discovered at the time when some pill popper drove him home, either to get money he had in his room or the pills he sells. He had been doing his best to sneak around away from the sight of my mother since she was going to chew his ass out for being a deadbeat once more.
The day arrived when my mom caught his car pulling in and stormed over. After seeing him bombed out of his skull, my mother went to her go to when she catches my uncle drunk with a pill popper talking advantage of his drunken state and asked the shriveled whore what she was going to do when my uncle started pissing and shitting himself in her home. My uncle is not able to control his bowels when he’s in such a state and also tends to have seizures when he’s sobering up after abusing his liver.
Why he hangs out with these washed up pill popping whores I’ll never know. There’s no way the man could get a hard dick without Cialis and Viagra being injected into the vein of his prick. It all feels like a Jerry Springer noir story that ends without even the little side payoff of getting your dick wet before meeting your downfall.
At a certain point my mother and my Uncle Dave searched through my uncle’s car and found a little bit of heroin in the backseat. Something a white trash version of Mimi from Rent was greatly missing no doubt.
It was during this that one night my Uncle Dave knocked on my front door around nine o’ clock on a Saturday night. I clearly remember listening to The Future part of Frank Sinatra’s Trilogy album and being pissed that I had to deal with this fucking bullshit.
My Uncle Dave shares a trailer with my Uncle Rickey and rarely if ever bathes. The man is a pretty nice guy with a heart of gold, but it can be hard to ignore the reanimated corpse smell.
So Uncle Pig-Pen knocked on my door and tells me that my Uncle Rickey just showed up and needed help getting out of his car. Luckily, he was in the passenger seat and some lady of the night if you have the right pills drove him home and soon retreated into the shadows.
So I walk over to his car and open the door and he’s slouched over practically dead with his eyes rolling into the back of his skull, a level of drunk you really should have out of your system by twenty two.
Completely over all this bullshit from the god damn man child, I barely held him up and guided him over to the steps of his back door. Instead of walking him up the staircase, I practically threw him over there and let him walk on all fours up the stairs like an old dog. I barely wanted to touch the man because I assumed he wasn’t showering and probably pissed himself at some point.
Sure, the man’s body was in a pretty rough state from being hit by a car so many years ago while walking around drunk, but if he didn’t have the ability to care I sure as fuck wasn’t going to either.
I then went back into my house and asked the female I was talking to at the time why I have to deal with such a dumbass deadbeat Uncle on a fucking Saturday night?
After taking a ride or two in the ambulance because the hard alcohol was ripping his insides apart, my uncle found sobriety once more.
But, since he had the brain of a scarecrow, my uncle didn’t stop hanging out with alcoholics and drug addicts in order to avoid the temptation of making his liver look worse than it already is. There was a police officer who was shot and killed on a rough side of town last year and my uncle later told my mother he was actually in the neighborhood (which I assume is worse off than Mortville from the film Desperate Living) when that happened.
So it wasn’t any surprise to me when I was told that a year after his last relapse, my uncle once more fell off the wagon.
This time, it was discovered he was drinking again when while drunk he decided to drive twenty miles with some deadbeat to my grandmother’s house and show off that he had fallen off the wagon. Keep in mind, my grandmother is a Jehovah’s Witness and for whatever reason really loves my Uncle Rickey. Sure, I love the guy too but she is always standing up for him and cheering him on, so this fucking idiot decided to drive twenty miles to give an example how blind she is or at least was to his bullshit.
And so I thought this was going to be just yet another episode in my Uncle Rickey falling off the wagon for a brief period before sobering up and more than likely doing it all over again.
And maybe that’s what would have taken place if he didn’t now have a tendency to drive around drunk this time.
Like I mentioned before, the fucking idiot drove twenty miles drunk. Somehow he was not caught. It could very well be because there are so many horrible drivers in Kentucky that I have no idea how police officers can tell who the regular drivers are and who the drunks are.
Apparently some officer in Richmond, Kentucky can tell the difference because this past Monday, my uncle got a DUI and was in jail temporarily.
At around nine o’ clock that night, one of the deadbeats my uncle hangs out with was at my front door.
As far as I know her name is Vicki. She was once Ms. Estill County which I personally believe is a gateway drug to being a drunk and popping pills more than weed is. She’s around thirty five and currently in a relationship with a seventy year old man who drives her around and pays for her own apartment. She is either a lady of the night or a huge Dolly Parton fan judging by her wardrobe. When she left the first thing I thought was….
“With as much mileage as there is on her, I think she’s due for an oil change.”
She was at my fucking front door slurring about how my Uncle Rickey could be released if someone was willing to go down there and sign him out. I certainly was not about to step out of my pajamas and go down there to release Mr. Piece of Shit 2016 just so he could go back to an apartment across from a Salvation Army that all his deadbeat friends hang out in and celebrate getting out with an endless amount of beer.
“They won’t listen to me because I cussed them all out.” Vicki slurred every thirty seconds or so as if it were a catchphrase and she was the star on a poorly written sitcom on CBS.
Finally she made her way out, bumped her face into a metallic pumpkin I had hanging on my front door and retreated into the shadows.
While speaking to me, she held her cigarette out the front door, assuring me that she wasn’t getting any smoke into my apartment. I’m not sure why she thought this was a concern of mine when I live in a basement apartment and the people upstairs smoke like Nat King Cole recording a song in the studio.
I went outside later to make sure she wasn’t hanging around in the shadows and I saw a can of Busch Light in the middle of the street, not knocked over but standing up as if someone gently placed it down.
My uncle may claim a disability check after being hit by a car while on a drunken night out on the town years ago, but after having this worn out whore at my front door all I could think about was running the dumb fuck over.
Later that night at two in the morning my uncle was apparently let out of jail. My mother and my Uncle Dave found this out the next day while in the process of getting his car back to the house since it costs one hundred bucks a day to have it parked where the local authorities parked it. After about an hour of waiting to get it back and being informed they would have to go to the other side of town to get it, they were then informed they would have to get my Uncle Rickey to sign it out, who was let out and had probably been drinking since his release.
My mother and uncle dragged him out of his deadbeat hangout and had him sign to get the car out. Afterwards instead of coming back home, he begged my Uncle Dave to drop him off back at the apartments so he could get drunk without any further judgement.
And so that seems to be the end in the latest adventure of my uncle the drunk.
I tell ya, hearing about alcoholics is really entertaining when it’s a Eugene O’ Neill play or a show starring William H. Macy. At least for a guy who has no plans of having children, having a drunk in your family is really fucking annoying.
My mother is currently convinced that my uncle has completely lost the will to live and just wants to die. If that is really the case, I hope he never leaves the apartment he’s currently hanging out at alive and avoids adding further drama to those who actually give a shit about him.
Just for the record, I have no sympathy for this stupid fuck. His relapses could’ve been easily avoided if he didn’t spend every waking moment around the biggest deadbeats in town. But it is a bummer to see the way it affects my mother, grandmother and my Uncle Dave.
UPDATE #1: On the night after writing this, my Uncle Dave brought my Uncle Rickey back home. My mom assumed that my Uncle Rickey had called Dave and asked to bring him back home in order to grab his stash of pills he sold to his fellow deadbeats.
While at work, my Uncle Rickey had found the keys to his car hanging up and took off. Uncle Dave, whose intelligence is right up there with his hygiene, just had them hanging up on the wall instead of carefully hidden.
My Aunt Becky and mother that night went out to the apartment my Uncle Rickey was boozing at and dragged him back home. Apparently at the time they arrived he was swerving around near a graveyard with a fellow drunk.
UPDATE #2: Today is Friday and this week has taken an even more dramatic turn towards the worse.
I was at the park walking around when I got a phone call from my aunt’s husband. He had called to inform me that my Uncle Dave was dead and I needed to come home because my mother was in hysterics.
I then ran to my car, something I rarely did while at the park and with how out of breath I was realized was now something that would have to be more regular with my park visits.
After getting to the car and catching my breath, I prepared myself for how stricken my mother was going to be. About eight years ago when we lived in Illinois, my mother got a phone call from my Aunt Becky who asked where she was. My mother told me she was in her car about to approach my grandmother’s on my dad’s side and my Aunt Becky then told her to call back when she was there and sitting down.
Although a very short journey, my mother was already somewhat in hysterics preparing herself for the horrible news my Aunt Becky was about to deliver.
When we got there, I remember going to the room where my grandmother’s computer was while my mother called my aunt and was instructed to give the phone to my grandmother. When my grandmother gave her the news that her brother Mitchell died, she let out a blood curling scream while shouting no.
When I got back home, my mother was sitting on a lawn chair barely held together crying never ending tears while police officers were attempting to get her to sit in the shade. Luckily I was able to convince her to do so.
Earlier that day, the door to my uncle’s trailer wasn’t open when usually my Uncle Dave opened it as soon as he woke up, which usually was around seven or eight. With the events of this previous week, my mom had an idea that something wasn’t right.
While I was gone, my mother laid down to take a nap around two o’ clock that afternoon. While in bed, one of the sleazy female things my Uncle Rickey associates with was knocking on her door. My mother didn’t answer and was informed on the phone by I believe my Aunt Becky what had happened.
She was too wrecked and heartbroken to call me and so my Aunt Becky instructed her husband to.
Uncle Dave was a good man. Other than the fact that he despised proper hygiene, he was a nice guy. He apparently died in his sleep which is how we all hope to go out.
He wasn’t in that great of a condition with either one lung or half a lung left. It would be safe to assume that the stress of this past week and the day where him and my mother were running around for almost four hours in order to get my Uncle Rickey’s car back led to his demise.
As I write this, a few of the local family members and the county coroner are sitting outside while Uncle Dave’s corpse is cooking away in the trailer that has no air conditioning. My mother has been in and out of the trailer saying her goodbyes and has asked if I wanted to. I’ve declined since I can’t imagine what I would get out of looking at my uncle’s corpse laying on his bed.
I prefer to remember the man on his two feet because a lifeless corpse is a horrible way to remember someone.
UPDATE #3: It’s now Monday and one absolute clusterfuck of a week has come to a conclusion. Not sure if I ever mentioned this previously but last week was my mother’s week off of work. Some fucking vacation.
On the day that my Uncle Dave died, a few of the family members went up to my grandmother’s house to tell her what happened since nobody could reach her on the phone. When they got there my grandmother after seeing my Uncle Mike, who rarely goes up there given his hectic work schedule apparently went into hysterics and tearing up assuming something had happened to my Uncle Rickey. After being told it was actually Uncle Dave who had passed, she wiped away her tears and calmed down immediately.
She then began asking my mother if she brought a check from my Aunt Brenda, a woman my grandmother decided to not communicate with anymore because of kooky culty Jehovah’s Witness reasons. I believe my Aunt Brenda was once baptized within the church and then later left which when it happens, you as a Jehovah’s Witness are told to not communicate with a family member after such a situation.
Not sure what their past was but I know for the past few years my Aunt Brenda was going to my grandmother’s every couple of weeks to fill up her fridge and freezer and probably give her a check on top of that until my grandmother attended some revival gathering in Tennessee where they must’ve really dosed the Kool-Aid because my grandmother was motivated to break off communication with her upon returning.
That is, unless the communication is in the form of a check.
From this you can tell that my grandmother is a typical old fashioned Southern woman that believes that her children should be bending over backwards for her no matter how shitty of a human being she has become.
On top of this check, my grandmother also seemed to grieve more about ninety dollars that she loaned to my Uncle Dave and Uncle Rickey when they purchased a riding mower a few years ago.
I think I was also told that my grandmother mentioned that all of Uncle Dave’s money should go to my Uncle Rickey because Dave lived with him. Apparently in her senile head she believes that Dave has been living in rent free when in reality he is by far the more responsible of the two uncles.
It should also be mentioned that it had been perhaps a year or two since the last time my Uncle Dave went up to my grandmother’s. After having enough of her shit he told her off and she told him that she never wanted him around. Afterwards he never returned to her house again. This was all told to me by my Aunt Becky while we waited around for my Uncle Rickey to get back home after the idiot went somewhere in my Uncle Dave’s car, something he could have possibly been pulled over for and been arrested for grand theft auto. If only.
I hope that sometime in the middle of the night, this eats away at my grandmother.
A villainous bitch I know my grandmother is. When she’s in a good mood she gives you a glimpse at the wonderful person she could have been but at best she can keep this image going for a day at the very longest. Usually, this image is too much for her to hold up for fifteen minutes before she’s rambling about my drug addicted cousin Renay who allegedly was raped by my aunt’s previous husband at the age of two. It’s a favorite of her go to topics and since everything that comes out of my cousin’s mind is a drug fueled lie, I really don’t believe it.
While dismissing a child molestation story can be iffy, I sure as fuck don’t believe this fucking crack whore has any memories past the last twelve hours, let alone something that happened when she was fucking two.
The last time I was there my grandmother brought up this topic and then went on to add that my cousin has the authority to tell her ten year old son (who she lost custody of years ago) the “truth” about her sex abuse. My cousin claims that her son has asked if she was sexually abused, which I believe as much as anything that comes out of her mouth that isn’t vomit caused by her issues with bulimia.
And I suppose this about wraps up an account of an absolute clusterfuck of a week. Today I believe my mother is going out and getting my uncle’s burial all straightened out. My alcoholic uncle that I originally began writing about is down to about a beer or so a day which I never imagined he would ever be able do. Every now and then I’ll peer out my window and look at his trailer and the disgusting vile slobs that crawl out of his trailer. It truly is like the cast of people who were too disgusting and incoherent for The Jerry Springer Show.
A lot of this bullshit is annoying but as a fan of Southern Gothic I do my best to step back and be entertained by the fucked up story.