Uncle Chrissy

Uncle Chrissy is calling again. This has got to be the seventh or eighth time now. They must have let him know I was being discharged early, and he's gone into a panic about it. I don't like to picture him this way: slumped in his favourite chair in his little house, still wearing the same clothes from three days ago in case he needs to dash out the door. Maybe right now he's in a cab or on the bus, coming toward me as I move away from him.

Fake Uncle Chrissy—that is, the guy I bribed outside the hospital to pretend to be Uncle Chrissy—is walking a few paces behind me. His left foot drags slightly because it’s bent and angled inward, making a gentle noise like brushing leaves in autumn. The rhythm of it is quite relaxing: step-swoosh, step-swoosh, and I’m counting along in my head. We’re just walking and swooshing and stepping and counting, and I don’t need to think about Chrissy, or his chair, or his sad face looking down at me in the bed.

The ATM is coming up ahead, and Fake Chrissy is asking if I can throw in an extra twenty, on account of the long walk. That's cheeky, Chrissy, but alright, I say over my shoulder. Now he's saying, who the fuck is Christy, swoosh, my name is Frank, swoosh, Christy is a girl's name, do I look like a girl to you, mate?

He's still going on about it, standing too close as I enter my PIN and press the 'Balance Enquiry' button. My hands are shaking, and it's funny really, how the body is the last thing to go. You can be so sure about something, no doubt or fear in your mind, but the fear still lives in all the nerve endings in your body. You can always reason with your brain, but good luck outwitting the pit of your stomach or the tips of your fingers, the most animal parts of yourself. They have a job to do, and like that guy who's stuck pushing a rock up a hill, they never take a day off.

I take out the money I promised Fake Chrissy and hand it over. Then, thinking better of it, I give him my card and tell him my PIN number too. His face morphs from gratitude to suspicion to concern. I can tell he wants to say something, but he doesn’t have the words or doesn’t want to waste them on me. We’re standing in the middle of the pavement, looking at each other, while people bump and shove past us, throwing looks as they go.

He looks like Chrissy, actually, in the sense that he’s an old man with a beard. My eyes are relaxing as we continue to stare; they are nearly closed now and wet with tears. Tears, another of these residual physical sadnesses, coming from some place in my body that is still alive and afraid. He really could be Chrissy standing there. I’m leaning forward now, with my hands open, and I ask Fake Chrissy to please give me a hug. He is stiff and poised away from me but enters into the embrace, which is brief and unsatisfying. Walking away, I wonder if he will be the last person I ever touch. Well, at least it was Chrissy.

___________

I could do the rest of this walk blindfolded, that is how many times I have dragged my body up and down these streets, yet it feels new somehow. The sun is high and the light is hitting the buildings and storefronts unnaturally. There is a smell in the air like fresh smoke. I walk past a stand selling fresh orange juice in clear plastic bottles, gleaming with condensation, appearing like a mirage in the desert.

As the woman behind the stall is ringing up my juice, I remember Fake Uncle Chrissy and my credit card in his pocket somewhere. I stare at the juice, almost neon in it's unbelievable brightness, consumed by desire. I ask the woman if she has been in the juice-selling business for long, and she holds the card-reader out forcefully. 

Continuing down the road, I hear the swell of gospel music coming from a nearby church. To me, it's so wonderful, they sing. My eyes are wet again, and I’m thinking of the orange juice, how desperately I wanted it and how unfairly it was taken away. Lord, to me, yes it's wonderful. I’m walking toward the music now, desperate to be inside the wave of it, to let my voice out only for it to be swallowed again, imperceptible and essential to the whole. Well, you know, to me, God is wonderful. My phone is buzzing in my pocket like an angry wasp. I try to open the door to the church but it is locked.

A few doors away from my house, a car slows next to me and winds down the window, and it’s Penny from next door saying that Uncle Chrissy was just here looking for me. I can’t help but imagine him knocking on doors, his phone jammed between his head and his shoulder, calling and knocking and calling and knocking. I don’t reply to Penny, I just keep walking and she keeps driving, and we’re both inching along toward the end now. We get to my front door and I say thanks Penny, I’ll give him a call, thanks, I’ll see you soon.

I’m standing now, looking at the door, blue and chipping. A small wind brushes the back of my neck, cooling the sweat that has built up there. It is a nice feeling, really nice, and I wait and wait as the breeze comes and goes. We’re standing here, me and the wind, cooling and being cooled. 

I shove my hands in my pockets: in one is my furiously buzzing phone and, in the other, my front door keys. I pull out my phone and answer.

“Hi, Uncle Chrissy.”