Extreme Elvin

by Chris Lynch

  She sighed sadly, very sadly, a sad sigh that floated out of her and seeped into me. “It was a long time ago, Elvin,” she said. “Alex is a sensitive man.” Sighed again, seeped again, deeper. “Like your dad was. Like you are.”

  “I am not—”

  “When he wanted to be dead rather than telling you about his mistakes, he meant it. He meant it so much that when I first refused to lie, he told me he would then make it so I didn’t have to lie. Do you hear, Elvin, what I’m telling you?”

  Was I sensitive, really? Was that what I was?

  “I do. I hear you.”

  Sensitive. You couldn’t look like me, and act like me, and then be all touchy about it afterward. It just wouldn’t work. I was not sensitive.

  “Then you should understand that Alex should be allowed to keep some details to himself. There may come a time when you’ll need to know more, but please just appreciate that now is not that time.”

  Even the term bothered me. Sensitive. Just the word itself was some kind of insult, some kind of implied accusation that you were too much of a lot of the wrong things. Too soft, too weak, too lame to even exist. I was not sensitive. Sensitive was code for pathetic. I had a good many flaws, but I was not in any way sensitive, and my mother really hurt my feelings by suggesting that I was. Sensitive, hell.

  “I am not sensitive. Don’t say that again.”

  I perhaps had spent too much time thinking there before speaking. Because by the time I spoke, my mother had finished her tea and Alex had finished his walk around the block and was rapping his sensitive knuckles on the door.

  Ma stared at me. “Sorry, son. Did I say sensitive? I meant self-absorbed.” She was at the door, hand on the doorknob. “Remember, easy does it,” she warned.

  “Are you kidding? I am Mr. Easy Does It. I have a tattoo that says that. I’ll leave him his mysteries, since he’s so sensitive, like me.”

  She pulled open the door and there he was, standing in the beginnings of a rain that kinked up his hair like the fibers of a thick, cheap, synthetic, rust-colored rug. Which he may, in fact, have been wearing.

  “Hey,” he said with a wobbly, shame-drenched grin. “So did you tell him how I stole all that money from you and all?”

  2 Blood Type E

  “NO, I’M NOT KIDDING. He is an actual blood relative.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any actual blood relatives except for your mother.”

  “That’s what I thought. I was wrong.”

  “Well, great. That’s great, Elvin.”

  Frankie and I were standing in my living room, hovering over the sleeping body of my new uncle Alex. Ma was out doing the shopping. The shopping according to the list drawn up by my new uncle Alex. Because it turned out that in addition to being a gifted thief and undead, he was allegedly something of a chef. He even insisted on paying for all the groceries with his own money. Well, somebody’s own money, but at least it wasn’t ours.

  A chef. If he was merely trying to worm his way into this house for some nefarious purpose, he had at least done his homework.

  “Is that a rug he’s wearing?” Frankie wanted to know. He leaned way down close to examine Alex’s suspicious-looking hairline. “Because a criminal I could maybe overlook... but if his head looks this nasty by choice, I think we maybe have bigger problems.”

  Frankie was very serious about hair. Hair as a barometer of practically everything.

  “And where does that come from, the hair issues? Mother’s side or father’s?”

  “I don’t know. Jeez, Frank, don’t you think there are other things here that—”

  “I would care if I were you. I would care very much. That could be your future, lying underneath this mess.”

  Now he made me curious. I inched up next to him. We were both on the verge of touching it, of lifting a corner....

  When I came to my senses a little, and pulled him away.

  He stood shaking his head. “If I were you, El, I’d be hoping that was a rug. I wouldn’t want hair like that anywhere near my bloodline.”

  There, you see. You see what happens? A very short time ago, I had no bloodline. Life was simple and good, and now... now I had to start figuring everything out all over again.

  Lots of guys I knew worried about all these things. They would look at their fathers and their uncles and their grandfathers, and they would worry about what life-tricks were going to be played on them when they got older. Yes, ignorance is bliss, and I like bliss.

  Well, I had fewer worries than most guys, right? Because I didn’t have the blueprint, the bloodline. I had me, and my blood, Type E, and while there were bound to be flaws aplenty in that DNA, the beauty of it was in the one thing I could do about it.

  I could believe what I wanted to believe. And if my mother had any extra bits of crummy old reality she needed to get off her chest every once in a while, I had two stout index fingers that fit exactly the diameter of my earholes. That, to me, was evolution at its most cunning best.

  But now I had this. Darwin’s big ape showing up and flopping right down in front of me on my own couch—here, I feared, to say stuff I never asked to hear.

  “I hear you’re a creative type,” Alex said without opening his eyes, causing Frankie and me to both jump back and mill in a circle like you do when there’s a fight or something and you want to pretend like you weren’t doing anything. Even though we weren’t doing anything.

  “Who said that?” I said. “I am no such thing. Who told you that? They’re lying.”

  “What’s the big deal? Your mother just mentioned—”

  “Don’t ever listen to her. She gets bored, and she makes stuff up. Usually about me. She’s always trying to make me sound like this weird character.”

  Another thing my mother had apparently told him was how to deal with me by ignoring when I rant.

  “Hi,” Alex said, popping up off the couch and shaking Frankie’s hand. “I’m Alex. Elvin’s uncle.”

  “Hi,” Frank said.

  “By the way, this is my real hair,” Alex said, smiling. “I wouldn’t care what my head looked like; I’d never wear any rug. A guy looks ten times more ridiculous with one of those things on his head than with a regular shiny dome. You play with the gear God gave you, is what you do.”

  “Well... okay,” Frank said. He was a little thrown, with the sudden live and kicking Alex, and it showed.

  “Jeez, don’t you worry,” Alex said, as if this were the problem, as if looks and self-confidence were ever Frankie’s problem or ever likely to be. “Your equipment’s great. You got beautiful equipment. My Lord, this is one beautiful man. Elvin, this is a majorly handsome friend you got here, you know that? Are there any girls left over at all for any of the rest of you with this guy around?”

  First, because I didn’t know Alex yet, I couldn’t tell how much was serious in there and how much was teasing. Second, because I didn’t know Alex yet, I couldn’t even tell if these were actual questions that were supposed to be answered. And from his silence, neither did Frank.

  Until Alex whirled around, smiling broadly at me, and poked me—harpooned me—right in the belly with an abnormally long and sharp index finger.

  “Ow,” I said.

  But he was the one who looked stunned. “I practically lost my whole arm in there, Elvin. That tummy of yours didn’t offer any resistance at all. Here, tighten up this time.”

  “Ow,” I said.

  “Whoa. Nephew, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you could use a little work. I think maybe I showed up just in time.”

  It was my great fortune to have Frank recover his composure and his sense of humor at this point.

  “Well, I don’t know about just in time. I think maybe three or four years ago would have been just in time.”

  “Thanks, pal, you can be quiet now.”

  “Not to worry, not to worry,” Alex assured me. “We can fix you.”

  Fix me. “Fix me?” Fix me. I was not to wor
ry, because we could fix me. Sounded pretty worrying to me, actually.

  “Sure. We can work on you, have you as dashing and strapping as your movie star friend here.”

  And this is how stupid and weak and pathetic people can be. Well, me anyway. I did a double take. Dashing and strapping. I gave it thought. Serious thought. I let this seem important and good.

  I thought about the possibility that I could look like Frankie. That had never been suggested by anyone out loud before. Be like Frankie. That, well, that would be something. That, I had to admit, would be a dream come true. A dream of many years’ standing come true. Frankie, frankly, was the most handsome, and therefore luckiest and most successful and most self-confident, guy in the world. Nobody would not want to be Frankie, because God gave Frankie everything.

  Oh right. Almost forgot. God.

  God given.

  Alex wasn’t really here to tell me I was like Frankie. He was here to tell me I was like him. It was in the blood.

  “I don’t know, El,” Frankie said. He was at the mirror in my bedroom. He was staring at himself. I was staring at himself. He started brushing his hair, which was not unusual. He had great hair. Auburn, longish, curly but not big curly, soft. It had a shine, and would catch any little bits of light, like the crystal drops off a chandelier, and flash them back in your face wherever you were to remind you, hey, I’m Frankie’s hair. It was no wonder he was brushing it all the time. I would brush it all the time if it were my hair. I think I’d brush it anyway, if he’d let me.

  “What don’t you know, Frank?”

  “About your uncle. I mean, he’s probably cool and everything, but I don’t know about that hair. You can tell lots about a guy by his hair, and that’s very suspicious hair he has there.”

  “Well, of course.” Well, of course. Look at Frankie’s hair. “Look at your hair. Everybody’s hair looks like crap next to your hair.” Except Alex’s hair really was in a whole different category. It was thin, sort of, though there were no bald spots. It didn’t move. It was wiry, but it wasn’t curly. It was like water, in that it didn’t seem to be parted anywhere or brushed in one way or another, not forward or back, not side parted and not middle. It was all texture. Stucco? Holly bush? And the color was something not found in nature. If you crossed, say, olive with peach, you’d be in the ballpark.

  “Ya, but I’m not comparing his hair to my hair. That would be unfair. I’m comparing...”

  He went on talking, and brushing, and looking at himself. But I was distracted. All of a sudden my ability to hear went haywire as my other senses became overloaded and mish-mushed. It was a combined assault of things that shouldn’t really be having anything to do with each other.

  I was smelling stuff. Food stuff, coming up the stairs from the kitchen, where my uncle was apparently making good on his claim to be a megachef. Spices and meats and sauces and starches, in mixtures foreign to me, were pulling at me like two fingers hooked into my nostrils and yanking me toward the kitchen.

  And at the same time, I was staring, at Frankie. Staring, I mean staring-staring. I watched his hair as he brushed it over and over and over again. It got softer with every stroke. It got shinier with every stroke, and...

  Lamb. There was definitely some lamb going on down there. And something pork related, and something saffron...

  He switched hands and started brushing the left side of his head with the left hand, in order to get the same symmetrical strokage happening all over, and thereby achieve that almost unnatural unity of hair. Genius hair, it was.

  It was sweet now, the aroma. No. Spicy. Oh, both together. Pungent. Rich. Very glutinous rice was being mixed with something fruity. I am not too proud to admit I was salivating. My mouth was filling like a bathtub.

  He was shaking his head now. Making the curls jump. Jump, you curls. They jumped. They settled down again. One landed out of place. Frankie raised a hand and brought it across his brow to adjust the one wayward, glowing, lock of—

  “What are you doing?” he asked, startlingly enough to make me turn away and scuttle for the door like a thief.

  “Where are you going, Elvin?”

  “I was not staring at your hair.”

  I walked right into Mikie.

  “Yes, you were,” Mike said. “I didn’t see it, but you were. You’re always staring at his hair.”

  “That’s not true,” Frankie said, coming surprisingly to my defense. “Sometimes he stares at my eyes,” he added, less surprisingly.

  “Hey, shut up,” I said.

  “Calm down,” Frank said. “I don’t mind. At least it shows you have good taste. It just gets a little spooky when it goes on too long.”

  “Shut up. It doesn’t go on too long.”

  “What are you so upset about?” Mike asked. “It couldn’t be Frankie’s hair; that looks like it always does. What’s wrong?”

  Finally.

  I opened my mouth to state my case. My case failed to emerge.

  I didn’t know what I was upset about.

  “It’s his uncle’s hair,” Frank said. “He’s afraid, now that he’s met his uncle, that he’s going to turn out like his uncle because his uncle is practically like his dad.”

  “I never said that—”

  Mikie interrupted. “The hair is a maternal issue, isn’t it? Doesn’t it come from the mother’s side of the family?”

  If this in fact was not my problem, why did I react like this...?

  “Really? Is that true? God, you’re the best. You usually know what you’re talking about, Mike, so it must be true that I won’t get hair like Alex, right? If it’s maternal issues you’re talking about, I’m your man, right? No bigger mama’s boy than me.”

  “Well,” Frank said, addressing his reflection as if the two of them were the only two beings in the room and this was a serious academic discussion about an issue of global importance, “I know hair. And I know people say that about the hair coming from the mother’s side, but I don’t buy it. How many guys have you seen whose heads look exactly like their old man’s head? Look at that guy Chuckie, on the basketball team, and his father the coach. Slapheads, the pair of them.”

  “Ah, you could be right there, Franko. Now that you mention it—”

  “Shut up,” I snapped. This was bothering me so much, especially after it was only minutes ago that I had been drifting away on a cloud of juicy meats and spices and the hypnotic rhythm of Frank brushing, brushing....

  “Hey, don’t yell at me,” Mike said. “You’re the guy who’s so obsessed by everybody’s hair. Anyway, I met your uncle on my way in. Seems nice enough. But instead of the hair, I would think there would be a lot more pressing stuff to worry about. Why’s he here? Where’s he been? And what was the big hoo-ha you couldn’t tell me about on the phone?”

  “He stole all Elvin’s money,” Frank said.

  Then the three of us migrated together toward my bed and sat there, side by side by side.

  “Did he steal from you, El?”

  “Well, not right out of my pocket, no.”

  “Out of his trust fund.”

  “You had a trust fund?”

  “Can you believe it, Mikie? All this time we’ve been hanging around with a Rockefeller baby and we didn’t even know—”

  “Would you let me tell this?”

  “Sorry.”

  “My father left some money. For me and my mother. But he put Alex in charge of it.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “Because Alex is a money guy. Or at least he was, before they took away his money-guy license or whatever it is they do when you don’t do it very honorably. He did people’s taxes, and managed their finances, and made, you know, investments for them. That was his job.”

  “His other job was horse races and casinos.”

  “Franko...”

  “Sorry.”

  “So what’s the real story then?”

  I didn’t get a chance to make it sound less awful.


  “That was the real story,” Alex said from the doorway. We all whipped our heads in that direction to find Alex there, leaning and smiling and frowning at once. “My brother was dying, and he asked me to take care of money matters for his son and his wife. Then he went and died. My sister-in-law, the widow Bishop, trusted me to do a good job. I stole her money and lost every bit of it. And I stole her little boy’s money, that boy right there, and I lost every bit of that.”

  I turned away from Alex, because I didn’t like this whatsoever, and couldn’t take it. Now I could see the side of Mike’s head in the mirror as he looked at Alex, and I could see Frank face on, since he had already gone back to looking at himself. They were both riveted.

  “And so now I am here,” Alex said, “seeking redemption. From the only people who can offer it to me. Come on downstairs. Supper is ready.”

  There was almost a whoosh sound, as Alex left a big empty in his wake.

  Mike continued staring after him for several seconds.

  “Whoa,” said Mikie.

  “I hope I don’t have too many more relatives I don’t know about,” I said.

  Frankie stood up. “We better get down there. God knows what he’ll do if we’re late for supper.”

  “Holy smokes,” I said as I led the small procession to the dining room table. I said holy smokes for the traditional shock expression that it was, but also for the fact that the whole room seemed to be smoking. Not that it was filled with smoke itself, but like the room was smoked, barbecue, hickory smoked. I wanted to eat the walls.

  Ma was already seated, and Alex marched into the room and pointed at individual chairs with his ladle, indicating where the rest of us were to sit.

  “There, there, and there,” he said before disappearing back into the kitchen.

  “What are we having?” I asked Ma as I took my seat next to her. I was at one end of the table, with her on my right, the guys to my left, and Alex’s empty place staring straight at me from the opposite end seat.

  “I don’t know,” Ma said. “He wouldn’t let me help, or even see. I know the ingredients, but not what he did with them, exactly. I do know he used the microwave a lot, and the broiler and the stove top. The place was as steamy as a bathhouse, only you wanted to eat the vapors with a spoon. Since he wouldn’t let me do anything, I just sat here absorbing it. I’ve been sitting right here in this seat for the last hour, closing my eyes and lapping it up.”