Jason Rodriguez - The Moose in the Closet: A Week of Birthday Stories (Day 4): Warning Signs

My plug goes first otherwise it takes away from the story. I posted this yesterday, but I wanted to direct attention to it again today: Western Tales of Terror, and all Indy books, are getting muscled by a distribution system that was designed for the big houses. We’re asking for your help. Please read this.

One of my earliest birthdays that I can remember was a family birthday. We were at an aunt’s house, my mother and father’s family were there. It was really the same as every party, Carvel cake, loud Puerto Ricans, presents and all the usual good stuff.

An uncle of mine (through marriage), always a joker of sorts, told me to smell the cake, it smells funny. I’m probably 5 or 6 years old so, if someone tells me to smell a cake, I smell a cake.

I bend over, force against the back of my head as I get pushed by a grown adult face first into a carvel ice-cream cake. For the past three days I talked about Carvel Ice-Cream cakes, but I didn’t really give you a lot of background. You see, you always store a Carvel Ice-Cream cake in your freezer. A couple of hours before the cutting of the cake, you move it from the freezer into the fridge. If you don’t give it a couple of hours, you can still eat the cake; it’ll just be a little harder. Generally, as you slice it up and serve it up, it softens up a bit.

When my uncle slammed my face into the Ice-Cream cake it didn’t even leave a dent. I bounce off of the cake, a stream of blood coming from my nose and depositing all over the cake. The family was screaming. My father’s side of the family, my one aunt in particular that always took a special liking to me, flipped out. She was going to kill my uncle. I was crying, my cake was ruined and that was possibly the worst birthday ever.

I have similar things happen to me, all revolving around this guy. One of my earliest memories, verified by family members, I was probably 3 or 4 years old. I was still a toddler. My uncle had a coconut, and for some reason he was getting me all jazzed up about it. “Look at the coconut!”

It worked, I get excited and make my way towards the coconut. He bowls it at me and for some reason I scream, run to my mom and start crying. Now this is interesting, because to this day I can’t eat coconut. And not like I’m trying to be different, I physically get ill when I eat it. I’m not allergic, I got tested, I just can’t east coconut. And I can pick it out like you wouldn’t believe. So many times I’ve been at a restaurant or over someone house and I’ve called coconut on a dish that no-one else even believed me. Sure enough there was coconut every time. I can smell it, taste it and in some cases just sense it.

He wasn’t all bad; generally he had his moments where he was great around kids. But as you get older you start noticing stuff. The anger, the lies and the childlike mentality. All should have been early warning signs. There’s sort of a rift now – I don’t want to get into the details but involves a lot of family members, a house and a good chunk of my money. A serious chunk of my money. Money that I really didn’t have but I was able to get to help some people out. Good people that deserve the help. And he’s the nexus.

The lawsuits, the racial slurs, the stress, the aggressive mood swings. All should have been early warning signs. I didn’t see my uncle, a different uncle, my mother’s brother, before he slipped into a coma and died. He had a few hours, a window to see him. He died alone. My mother didn’t see him, his sister. None of us did. And he was the nexus.

The coconut, the birthday cake. All should have been early warning signs.

turn off the metallica, fanboy: Your Funeral...My Trial

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A Week of Birthday Stories (Day 4): Warning Signs

Thursday, February 24, 2005

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