Greater than the Stars

I wish I felt the same excitement today when seeing a bright light streaking across the midnight blue sky. It used to be my favorite part of the night, standing beside him, waiting for the first star to etch a sketch it’s mark upon natures canvas. If you asked me as a child, I would have said we did this every night he came to visit, as an adult I know that isn’t true. Yet the times we did are embedded in memory, as deeply as any I have.

After supper he would push away from the table with no intention of helping cleanup. Pour himself a whiskey, give me a wink and head outside with me on his tail. Mom would not allow smoking anywhere near the house, so we would go to the hill overlooking our farm.

I was amazed at how carefree uncle Jake was, nothing seemed to bother him. He was tall, athletic, and charismatic. Everything my father wasn’t. He didn’t treat me as a child, he gave me my first sip of beer, my first puff on a cigarette and taught me about women. He knew a little bit about everything, yet what he knew most, were the stars. Sometimes as we sat outside looking up he would point out the constellations, and planets. Describing how ancient civilizations would plan their crops around them, how people read their future based on the zodiac signs, how one could lose themselves with imagination.

Uncle Jake would turn to me and say. “Make sure you become greater than the stars.”

Then he would flick his cigarette at me and run down the hill with me chasing him.

Mom hated when he did that, always complaining that my shirts had tiny pinprick holes in them from the hot embers. They became my favorite shirts to wear.

Because he was an adult and at the time children were better off not seen or heard, I would mostly observe from afar. Hiding in the shadows during our family gatherings, parties my parents would host or even public events. Always watching and learning.

Uncle Jake was cool.

The atmosphere would change the moment he stepped into a room. Men gathered around him treating him like the Alpha dog, while women clung to his arm and giggled if he paid them the least bit of attention. He would almost always arrive alone but never left alone.

Father would tell me stories about when uncle Jake was young, always a rebel. A star football player who should have went pro but chose a different path of becoming a musician. I still remember him playing guitar by the fires on summer nights, singing while people applauded and sang along. Rumor had it he was in a popular rock band at one time, but they broke up. My father always spoke in awe of him, but mom would shake her head and mumble under her breath words we couldn’t hear but knew were not flattering. My friends would talk about him like he was a hero, making up stories of his conquests.

I memorized how he walked, talked, and held himself. I would stand in front of a mirror until I had his mannerisms down. As I got older I became the cool one of the group, the girls wanted to be with me, the guys hung on to my every word like I knew what I was talking about. I was becoming everything my father wasn’t, just like Jake.

One summer night, the evening lingered longer than a Sunday sermon, while our shirts clung to our youthful bodies from the humid air. Boredom no longer crept upon us, it had fully integrated into our souls. No one wanted to go home but hanging around a desolate downtown was downright depressing. While we shuffled our feet I could feel their eyes looking towards me to solve this dilemma. Frankly, I hadn’t a clue what to do. Until I heard his voice.

Peering around the corner I spotted Jake standing outside the local strip club, engaged in conspiratorial conversation with two people. My heart jumped with excitement when I saw him. He was just so damn cool. In the near distance the three silhouettes stood under the awning, while the lone streetlight shone its ethereal glow upon him. I recognized Pauly the bouncer, he was a large brute more ape than man, but he always had a genuine smile.

Turning to our group I asked who wants beer? Which was a silly question, at fifteen it became a weekend tradition to score alcohol. Jake was always more than happy to ‘pull’ for us.

With a wink and a smile, I strode with confidence down the shadowed side of the street. My plan was to sneak up on Jake, pat him on the back like equals and surprise him. When I was ten feet away, watching him swaying back and forth, clearly he was enjoying the night already.

Suddenly their voices rose to a shout, no longer a cordial conversation, I froze. Unclear if I should continue, there was a bad vibe that floated on the air. Without warning, Pauly slapped Jake so hard I felt the hit. The smack echoed between the concrete buildings reverberating down the street.

The man whom I thought invincible crumpled upon the hot sidewalk like an empty paper bag. My blood boiled as immature visions of me jumping to his aid flooded my mind. Not thinking of the consequences of my actions which would surely lead to my imminent demise.

Just as my feet started to move I heard Pauly say. “I told ya before Jake, you can’t hit the girls.”

Now, I drank liquor, cursed, smoked, and fought. However, it never crossed my mind to hit a girl. My father would never hit a girl, I never even seen him get angry at my mother. Leaning up against the graffiti covered wall my legs and fingers began to quiver.

In a surreal dream I watched him rise from the ground, spitting what I can only assume was blood. “I didn’t hit her. I slapped her ass….the ass I paid for.”

Apparently his line of defense failed to move the bouncers because before he stood straight another slap caused another echo to bounce off the pavement, along with my uncle.

Standing over the prostrate figure, Pauly said. “How’s it feel being slapped?”

My entire body shook, as if a frosty winter breeze were washing over me, I could not control the shivers consuming my body. Sliding down the wall, I remember thinking this isn’t the same man.

With my head against the cool concrete, I listened to his incoherent babbling while he struggled to a sitting position, spitting more fluid out of his mouth.

“Jesus Pauly, they expect it rough, they’re fuck’n whores for Christ sake.”

Had he been standing I am sure Pauly’s hand would have been closed this time. Instead, he shook his head and said. “Go home and sleep it off Jake.”

“Oh yeah, at least I’m not some fat ass, ... stupid nothing bouncer in a dive bar.”

The silence covered the night like a wet blanket, slowly smothering me. Suddenly, in a complete twist Uncle Jake acted as if nothing happened by the simple way in which he asked.

“Hey, you got something I can score.” Patting his pockets he smiled and continued almost pleading. “I can’t pay right now. Ya know I’m good for it right?”

Then he began to laugh hysterically. "Christ, I used to get that shit for free you know there were times...maybe I can play a set or two for some cash."

Pauly stared at the beaten man shook his head and repeated . “Go home Jake.” Then turned and went inside.

Uncle Jake managed to find his feet, unsteady as they were. His voice rose to a crescendo of insults and rants that made no sense. His final act of defiance before he staggered off was to spit a spray of red mist all over the front door.

I could have walked to him, helped him home, but there was something about his actions that frightened me. No, that isn’t the word…embarrassed would be better. Instead, I walked away, going past my friends. Ignoring their questions, asking if we scored some booze.

I just walked.

After that night it was never the same. I changed. He however continued his routine when he came to visit. Eat, go outside, smoke, drink, and stare at the stars. I remained inside, watching him from my window, watching him dwindle in size.

It was in my second year of University when I received the call. My father said he understood my wish to stay at school until term's end, though he hoped I would attend. In truth I had no plans of going home for the event. However, the pain in my fathers voice convinced me to return.

I came home for my father.

I now find myself impatiently standing upon the rise overlooking the view below. My eyes lock on a solitary mound, alone amongst a sea of stones and flowers. A shiver runs through me the moment daylight folds to dusk. A warm breeze blows along the horizon, floating over the rolling hills, carrying with it a taste of whiskey and smoky whiff of Du Maurier, his favorite cigarette. Of course it is my imagination, based on an overpowering memory. One that refuses to go away.

I begin my walk down as the Sun says its final farewell to the day. Soon I find myself staring at a pile of dirt. I cannot say how long I remained unmoving, but when I finally looked up the first stars of the night were poking through the dark blanket above.

Reaching inside my jacket I pull out a mickey of Crown Royal whiskey and pour the contents over his grave. Lighting a lone cigarette, I stare at the red glow and feel a tickle upon my cheek as a single tear falls. Taking a long drag, I gaze up to the tiny bright lights above.

Flicking the butt upon the freshly turned soil, I watch the embers explode into a million stars.

Then walk away.