My Uncle Vinnie

My uncle Vinnie used to sit in that sofa chair, every Friday, without fail. That was the one day of the week I’d come back home to our apartment from school and see him. He’d be reading the rag, or snoozing, or talking to Mom with an animated smile and a twinkle in his eye. I’m seeing that sofa chair go bye-bye right about now. Mom and Dad dragged it down four flights of stairs because the elevator was busted. It was like some divine comedy, seeing the two of them wrestle and tussle with this beast of a sofa chair. It fought back. It fought hard. But with my help, we eventually got the damn thing out on the street. And we left it there. 

We were moving out. Travelling across the country to start fresh. I had college to look forward to. Saying goodbye to my girlfriend was proving to be difficult. I remember Vinnie used to tell me that one day I’d break some unlucky lady’s heart. In all honesty, I don’t see it. I think she’s just relieved she can move on with her life now. But my Uncle Vinnie had a way with words. I must’ve been about ten when he told me about the solar system. I told him Pluto wasn’t a planet, but he didn’t care. That’s just how Vinnie was. 

He’d come over every Friday, without fail. I never really listened to what he had to say to Mom, or Dad. What did pique my interest, though, at least when I was younger, was the coffee candies Uncle Vinnie would bring with him in his little fanny pack. Dad made fun of him for the fanny pack, but Uncle Vinnie laughed. He’d pat my dad on the shoulder and go on some spiel about backpacks. That’s just how Vinnie was. 

I still own a fanny pack to this day. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t tell you. I tried to get the same brand that my Uncle Vinnie had, but I couldn’t. I’ve looked up and down and browsed the internet for it, but it’s gone. Maybe if I could remember exactly what Uncle Vinnie’s fanny pack looked like, I’d be able to find it. Just maybe. Sometimes I still think about calling Uncle Vinnie. 

We’re moving in two weeks. Our apartment is already starting to look like an art exhibition. The walls are empty. We put all our paintings into storage. My mom tried to fit a bunch of photos into a binder but there were too many. So what she did is pack a bunch of binders and photos into a suitcase, and toss that into storage as well. 

I don’t know what to do with my books. I don’t read a whole lot anymore. It’s not that I don’t have the time. I’ve got plenty of time. My Uncle Vinnie once told me that books were an escape from time and that I should cherish the moments I have reading them. I’ve tried to do that, dusting them every now and then to preserve them. My Uncle Vinnie gave me a copy of Of Mice and Men when I was in eighth grade. I still have it in the top shelf, to the right. But I never read it. Again, I couldn’t tell you why. I just never got around to it.

Come to think of it, I don’t know if I ever saw Uncle Vinnie read a book himself. He pored over newspapers, sure, but reading books wasn’t something he seemed to occupy himself with much. 

My Uncle Vinnie had the name Sophia tattooed to his shoulder. I’m pretty sure that was his wife. I never ended up meeting her, and Uncle Vinnie never talked about her. Not once. The one time I asked about it, he just smiled that usual Uncle Vinnie smile, and moved his attention back towards the newspaper. That time, he didn’t have that twinkle in his eye. So I didn’t press him on it, even though I definitely wanted to. 

Mom and Dad never told me about who this “Sophia” character was, either. And I was too distracted with girls and schoolwork to really care enough to look into. Even now I struggle to bring myself to be curious about it. There’s just too much going on, too much work I need to attend to. I still need to tell my manager that I’m quitting soon. 

I’ve been a busboy for the last year and a half at this one Japanese restaurant three blocks down. Not a bad job, at all. There’s this cute girl who works with me and we talk when we can. I’m pretty sure she’s got a boyfriend, but hey. A cute girl’s a cute girl. That’s something Uncle Vinnie used to say. I won’t ever forget the embarrassment I felt when my ex girlfriend from tenth grade and I got home Friday night from some party, and Uncle Vinnie was sitting there, in his sofa chair, looking at me and her with that goddamn smile of his. “You kids have fun,” he said. My face must’ve gone ten shades deep crimson, because my ex was giggling like a maniac by the time we got back to my room. 

The night I lost my virginity was punctuated by Vinnie yelling “You kids alright in there?” 

That’s just how Uncle Vinnie was. What can I tell you?

Last night, I went through my closet to see if there was anything in particular I wanted to take with me. What caught my eye was this blue box on the top shelf, almost concealed entirely from my sight. Like an easter egg, or something. I reached up on my tip-toes and hoisted it down. It wasn’t nearly as heavy as I expected it to be, so I must’ve looked pretty stupid. 

Inside the box there was just one thing–a letter. In an envelope. Somehow I’d completely shut this thing out of my memory. The letter was addressed to Paschal. That’s Dad’s name. I don’t know how it ended up in my closet. For a second I considered giving it to Dad, but curiosity got the better of me. I think that moment was the most curious I’d been in a long time. 

I opened up the envelope gently, trying not to let it rip. The envelope was delicate, and ornate. It was orange, Dad’s favorite color, and there were leafy designs all over it. I looked inside–and there was nothing. 

-

I’m on a plane right now. Below me is the city that I grew up in, the city that I’ve spent my whole life in. I thought I’d feel something up here, but in all honesty, I don’t. All I feel is this distinct sense of regret. It’s like I left something behind somewhere in those gum-stained streets, and I lost track of it. 

I remember when I was about ten, Uncle Vinnie brought a chessboard to the apartment, and had me play him about thirty times. He beat me every single time, but I got closer with each consecutive match. I was so damn angry when he went back home that evening. I remember I hated losing. These days, I couldn’t be bothered to care much more than I have to. 

He left the chessboard with me, and what I’d do, to practice, is to play games against myself. Mom and Dad were too busy with work to bother playing a stubborn little kid, I guess. It’s funny to think that back when I was eight or so, the fifth graders seemed so gigantic. I told Uncle Vinnie that I couldn’t wait to get to sixth grade, and he laughed and slapped his knee, in that Uncle Vinnie way. He told me to be careful for what I wished for.

I never ended up saying goodbye to Alyssa.

-

It’s been about a year since I moved. I’m in college now, and it’s strange to think that pretty much everyone I’ve ever known is across the country or dead. More often than not, it’s hard for me to drum up the same kinds of emotions I felt years ago. That feeling of getting rejected by a crush, or swooning over a new one is a distant, foggy memory. I haven’t felt my heart doing somersaults in years. 

I worry sometimes that I’ll never feel anything again. But I don’t let myself think about that for too long. I’m too busy with coursework to ponder that kind of stuff these days. Uncle Vinnie would probably be shaking his head if he saw me right now. He wasn’t the kind of guy who seemed all too passionate about work. If anything, I’m sure he saw his Friday visits as a way of decompressing after a long week. 

And of course, I don’t have Fridays off. I haven’t had time off in years.

Uncle Vinnie left me a note before he killed himself. 

I still haven’t read it. 

I just never got around to it.