February 5, 2004
Pete The Beat

"He was the man," I whispered

A few hours earlier, around nine-thirty PM, I had been just about ready to go to bed. I went through the nighttime routine of taking out my contacts, washing my face, brushing my teeth. Two Christmases ago aunt Kathe got me the electric toothbrush I wanted. The thing is, it's loud. So I didn't hear the phone ring.

Then I heard Dad in his room, down at the end of the hall, saying, "Robin, you have to get up." Mom sometimes works the night shift, but if she does she'll get up at 10. It seemed too early. And she had only just gone to bed. Dad said again, "You have to get up. Your mother's on the phone."

It was then that I knew something had gone wrong. It was nine-thirty at night. My grandparents go to bed early. Grampy, who has always gotten up at around four in the morning every day, goes to bed at six in the afternoon. Grammy goes a little later, around eight maybe. The only times she'd stay up past nine were nights that she had to make sure I got home alright. I froze in the bathroom, a pill in one hand and a cup of water in the other. Mom picked up the phone. You would never have known something was wrong unless you just sensed it. All she said was, "Yeah? Oh. Oh oh."

Grampy? I thought. Aunt Kaye? Denise, Karen, the cousins? Who is it? I thought. Who died?

There was no sense in not taking my pill, even though I was terrified. I should still take care of myself. Dad was at the bathroom door, knocking. I put my glasses on and opened it.

"I just want you to, you know, that..." Stuttering runs in the family. "You know. That your Uncle Peter just died."

I looked away quickly and stared at the dolphin shower curtains. Already I was crying. "Oh." It came out as a pathetic whimper, and Dad immediately started again saying, "I just thought I should tell you... Mom's on the phone with Grammy right now..."

"Yeah, yeah. No, thank you. God."

I feel really weird typing this, reliving it. I don't want to keep going but I will for my own sake, because I need to. It just feels like such a narrative. It's awkward.

Uncle Peter was my mom's brother and he was nuts. Ahh I don't like saying this in past tense! It shouldn't be! He is my mom's brother, he is nuts, he IS. IS. PRESENT. NOT FUCKING PAST. HR#IRH#tr3rj34>.

Except it is past and I've got to let that go. If I ever told you about him, he was the beatnik drummer in the jazz band and he told me he had a drumset for me just waiting at his house. Me and him, I always felt we had some kind of connection because we are the only musically inclined people in the family--both sides, in my case. As I said, he plays--jt3th34t played--the drums in a jazz jump-jive-and-wail band. Once, a few Christmases ago, they had a really special gig. Some kind of pre-Super Bowl party. We arrived at my grammy's house before him, so when he got there he said, "WHAT. She didn't tell you? Man, if I were her I would have said, 'Peter's playing at the Super Bowl! Merry Christmas!'" He liked to exaggerate a lot, too, though. Because of course, it wasn't like he was the half-time show or anything. (Would have been better than this year though, I tell you what.) My mom said that Grammy was telling her how I was one of the last people Peter talked about to her. Something about my music. She said I have to talk to Grammy but I don't know if I could take it.

Mom hung up the phone and I came in the room, not sure if I was even worthy enough to go in there. Because Peter lived in Florida, and I didn't get to see him much. For a moment I didn't even know if I was allowed to cry. I went in anyway, hands linked behind my neck for lack of a better thing to do. I don't like sobbing loudly, especially when my parents weren't crying; yet, at least. I could hear it clearly in their voices but they just kind of had this blank expression on.

"Florida police just called Grammy. His neighbor hadn't seen him in a while, his mail wasn't being picked up. Betty. Betsy. I don't remember her name. She called the police and they found him there dead on the kitchen floor. He's been there for two days?"

Uncle Peter never married. He had a girlfriend who died from cancer a few years back, and someone else named Heidi, but we don't know what happened to her. But he was forty-seven. So I always felt bad for him that he never found someone, especially since he was the man. But he was forty-seven, and when put into perspective, he was way too young. He lived alone, in Florida, with a fat black cat named Emmitt. Emmit. Emitt. I don't know how you spell it.

"Go hug your mother," Dad told me and I immediately complied. Like I said, I don't like sobbing. So every time I had to, I choked it down into a hiccup and squeaked.

Dad left to go sleep on the couch downstairs. His shoulder has been hurting him a lot lately, and the waterbed hurts it even more for some reason. So he sleeps on the couch for now.

"You can stay in here if you want," Mom told me. "You can sleep with me if you're sad." It was a plea though. Not necessarily for my comfort, but a stay with me, just for now, because it was her brother and she needed someone.

"Of course," I said. "I'll be back in a second."

"Bring a stuffed animal."

I went to my room which was way too bright from all the Christmas lights, and quickly wrote in my diary. The previous entry I had been very upset and selfishly said something like Fuck you I hope I die. This time I wrote, And fuck me for saying such awful things because now my Uncle Peter is dead. God. I cannot believe this. Then I picked up Kibby and went back to mom's room.

We stayed up until around eleven-thirty talking about him. And she kept saying again and again, "We weren't the closest brother and sister." And she told me twice about how she once made him run away from home because she made fun of him so much, mainly with terrible songs, such as, Squeeze. Squeeze. Lemon squeeze. Peter couldn't fit through the Lemon Squeeze. I've been to this "Lemon Squeeze." I don't remember where it is, really, or what it is. Maine, maybe? We were taking a tour through caves and stuff, and sometimes the caves were too small for some people, so they had a trial hole before you go and get yourself stuck in the cave. Peter, who has always been overweight, couldn't fit into the trial hole for the Lemon Squeeze cave. And he was only nine or something, probably younger.

That's probably what did it, the overweight thing. Mom says he didn't have insurance to get him pills for his high blood-pressure. edit Turns out it was a stroke. This is strange timing. Because in health we are covering the Framingham Heart Study, and we had to fill out a family history paper. I put down Dad for a lot of things, high blood pressure, cholesterol. Just recently, since my dad's surgery, his blood pressure has dropped dramatically. I find out two days after filling out the paper that on the very day I overlooked Peter, his blood-pressure got the best of him.

Also, recently, he got into an accident. He's ridden motorcycles forever, and I guess one of his life's dreams was to go cross-country on his motorcycle. Finally, maybe it was over the summer but I think it was in autumn, he set out. Not three days into it, he was in a big accident and was sent back to Florida.

"He never got his cross-country trip," I said.

"Oh yeah," Mom said, and then sounding much sadder, "Oh I forgot about that. Oh that is too bad, he always wanted to do that."

Just as I thought I was falling asleep, Mom said, "I have the sudden urge to call his answering machine just to see what it says."

Most importantly, Uncle Peter was the funniest person you would ever meet. First, I don't ever know what the hell he's saying because he talks with a... I don't know. Didn't ever articulate, talked like a beatnik, that's all I can think of. He played Rotten Egg with me and Manda, and for his name he'd either go "PETE THE BEAT" or "Smmmmmellygoon." His Christmas gifts were priceless. One year he gave Pat, Geoff, Manda, and me each twenty bucks, but he cut out a picture of his face and taped it over Jackson or whoever is on the twenty. And this year he sent us five envelopes, four of them with twenties, one of them with a dollar. The package said, "Dear Ma, plea gib deez to da childrens. merry chrit-mas." My envelope said, "ooooo money goot!" Manda's said, "spend this on your edjumacation." Geoff got the dud; his said, "that aint no goot trow dat back to da pond!"

I guess you had to know him. It's too bad you didn't. I wonder where Emmitt's going to go. Or if my drumset exists. Or that guitar he said he had waiting for me under his bed. I don't really care. 34hr;4cn4nfhaf. fnahr. erh.

"He was the man," I whispered.

"He was. He was the man."

- Molly{4:16 pm}

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