Uncle Al

I was on the train, cruising through the dilapidated waterfront before rounding the tracks by the ballpark's dirty neon lights. I've been to New York before but never like this. I’ve envisioned this place entirely wrong. It’s now a product of sugarcoated dreams and bad Hollywood cinema. Welcome to the Bronx. As a child I'd taken countless trips to the Bronx zoo, Yankee games, Arthur Avenue, and my grandfather's grave. All memorable, and they all hold some level of pride and nostalgia I'll never let anyone trump. This time is different. I'm visiting my Great Uncle Al. I haven't seen him since I was four years old. It could be because I haven't reached out but mostly because he's dead. As my train rolled into the subway station the lights flickered in an unsettling sort of way. As the doors open, I do the double check, patting my butt to make sure my wallet hasn't walked away. I shuffle to grab my overstuffed messenger bag, my treasured grey trench, excessively bulging backpackers backpack, and hastily packed grocery store tote. The bell rings. The doors are closing. I grab everything, I think. I rush out the door. These people don't have time for my out of town leisure. The doors close. Fuck, I left my backpack. I bang the doors. Blank stares. The train hisses off. Infuriated with myself. “Shit”. What do I do? I pull out the smart phone my father has been paying for since two thousand and eight and look up the MTA's customer service line. I dial and receive automated music, "Hello, thank you for calling the New York City Metro Transit Authority. You are caller number 8. Your wait time is 12 minutes." I hang up. Leaving a bag on an impoverished subway train is like leaving lamb chops to the wolves. “Fuck it lets go see Uncle Al”.

Uncle Al's apartment was only a few blocks north of the station. It’s an apartment in the dead center of the "Time Forgot About Us" community housing project. When you hear the word "project" the mind tends to wane towards mid nineties gangster rap, Biggie or Pac, and east coast vs. west coast. Not here. No “Time Forgot About Us” was once a thriving hub of upwardly mobile citizens. It was state of the art in 1973. Now, it just appears to maintain a stagnant level of limited opportunity for its mostly senior residents. The building is laid out in a polygon fashion that three decades ago would have boldly announced "the future". Now it just screams excessive stairs, acrophobia inducing walkways, and out of service elevators. Delightfully, my uncle lives on the eight floor. The building is a source of both physical and mental health concern. It boasts an impressive array of features such at lead paint, asbestos insulation, and a decaying brick exterior. Utopia. I enter the lobby and look up my uncle's apartment number, 823. Eight flights of stairs later...

                  I knock. A raspy voice belches simply, "Come in". I walk in and find myself in the middle of organized chaos. The apartment is laid out in the same manner as the building. The living room is the focal point and all adjacent rooms branch off for 360 degrees. Everything is some shade of brown. The television is from the 1950s and so is the rerun of the 1952 World Series where the Yankees picked up the championship after a tough seven game clash with the Brooklyn Dodgers. My uncle is laying in a recliner. It's his recliner; it’s been his for years and will always be his. It's also brown. He’s old and weathered just like the ship he sailed out to Korea in now is. His glasses are coke bottle thick and he wears a US Navy trucker hat. Not for purposes of irony. He dresses like he’s about to mow his front lawn right after attending a sermon at his local congregation. His principles lie in the past and while dated they demand nothing but respect. He treated me like gold as a child. It’s refreshing to see him again at ease in his natural state.

                 I found of particular interest his well stocked yet little consumed wet bar. The only liquor stocked was brown and old. Tall glasses from Eastern Europe hung from above like some proud monument. I immediately thought “Wow, I’d love to bring these home, my friends would wreak with envy.”.  Is that what its about these days? The one up? It left me in a state of awe. Naturally, I poured a drink. Uncle Al doesn’t get out much these days. He has a “nurse” come by three times a week. She does his grocery shopping, cleans up, and mostly makes sure “he’s still with us”. It’s likely she has little vested in my great uncle more than a slightly higher than minimum wage paycheck that keeps her and her three children just above the welfare bracket. Her name is Maria, she lives in the south Bronx, is a single mom, and has three unsupported children that are likely destined for the same fate as her or their absent father. She endures extreme hardship yet maintains some sort of resilient positivity and trueness that can only be found in the Latino American population.
                 Uncle Al’s and my conversation didn’t go very far.  I told him my bag got lost of the subway and he went on a semi racist rant about what the neighborhood has become.  I told him I missed my grandmother, his sister, as I had little more time with her as I did with him. He told me that as long as I’m on this earth I’d be loved and appreciated. It took me by surprise. I told him I feel time is the most valuable commodity we have. He agreed. I paced the living room back and forth. The aged brown liquor was kicking in. As I pulled the ash yellow drapes and watched the sunrise it set on me the opportunities I’ve been presented and the chances we have to do good in this life.