Son Of An Uncle

Publishing this piece from a few months ago that I never released. Enjoy

My mother was born in Boston to what can best be described as a couple of grifters. An Irish traveler and a Hungarian gypsy created her, and purposely adopted her out to a Jewish family with the intention of longterm extortion. They figured Jews were often wealthy and successful, so their plan of pestering the adoptive family for years and demanding ongoing payments would be more fruitful. They’d go on to come by the house and threaten to show up to the playground and tell my mom that they were her real family if my grandparents didn’t pay them. My grandparents didn’t have much money at all, but despite not being able to pay, my biological grandparents stopped bothering them after a few attempts. They had found a cash cow with their son, who they’d adopted out to a very wealthy Jewish family one year prior. This is the story of my “Uncle Ken”.

Uncle Ken and my mom actually went to high school together, not knowing they were biological siblings. One year apart, they ran around the same social circles and often attended the same parties. Fifteen years after he graduated, Uncle Ken hired a private investigator to find his birth family, and to his surprise, he was already well acquainted with his sister. He called her up a couple of years before I was born, told her the news, and they reconnected in the oddest way possible: as old friends and newfound siblings.

Around the time I was two, Uncle Ken’s drug addiction had gotten out of hand and his parents cut him off financially. With nowhere to go, he contacted my mom and moved into our house for a few months. This wasn’t the greatest combination given that both of my parents were former heroin addicts, and shortly after Uncle Ken’s arrival they were both back to their old ways. They’d cleaned up in preparation for having me, their only child, and now that foundation had been destroyed by my drug-addicted uncle spontaneously entering the picture.

This is how it went down according to my dad, whereas according to my uncle Ken he actually tried to save me several times during my parents downfall. The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle, and regardless, even if my dad’s account is more accurate, I’d never blame Uncle Ken for my parents mistakes. It’s hard to blame someone else for your own addiction, but given that my mother would end up overdosing and dying, it’s hard for my dad to arrive at such a conclusion. Maybe if Uncle Ken never moved in my mom would still be alive today; that’s the way my dad sees it. But no one knows how anything would have played out. Still, I desired to see my Uncle Ken after not seeing him for over twenty years, both to get a look at my mother’s closest blood relative, and to also get a chance at answering some questions about my childhood.

I left Austin last week and made overnight pitstops in Amarillo and Colorado Springs. I slept in the bed of my truck in Amarillo, but splurged on a $60 hotel my first night in Colorado. I was scheduled to meet with Uncle Ken the following evening, but at the last minute he postponed another day. This came after a difficult few weeks getting in touch with him and locking down dates, proving that he’s still a bit unpredictable and frankly unstable.

Uncle Ken is wealthy. How wealthy? I’m really not sure, but he came from a very wealthy family and started a few businesses in his life that did pretty well. He also got Hep C during his tenure as an intravenous drug user, and although sobering up in the late 90’s, his Hep C had matured rapidly and he ended up needing a liver transplant by the 2010’s. Around 2017 he got a new liver, and unfortunately, took up drinking again shortly after. Ever since he’s gone back to his roots of being the absolute wild card I remember him as.

After Uncle Ken lived with us for a few months back when I was two (of which I don’t remember much) I only saw him on a few occurances. One of those times resulted in him and my dad getting in a fist fight because he drove us to a strip club and refused to take us back to our hotel. The second to last time I saw him I was eight years old, and he dropped a loaded gun while handing it to me, presumably because he was drunk and high. Then I saw him one last time around 2003 when my dad went to the rehab he owned after my mom died, and having been sober for a handful of years, he was much more normal than times prior.

During my recent visit, he was closer to his “hand a loaded gun to an eight-year-old” self than the sober man I met in 2003.

After having dinner the first night, Uncle Ken insisted that we take a ride in his Ferrari 458 Spider. Having been a former amateur formula 1 driver, I knew he was highly skilled, but upon opening the door and seeing a loaded handgun in the passenger seat, I got nervous.

“Just move that gun down to the floorboard. Watch out, it’s loaded and there’s no safety. If I have to defend myself while driving I can’t focus on shifting AND fiddling with a safety.” Uncle Ken said.

“Is it legal to have a loaded gun in your car in Colorado?” I asked.

“No, not for most people. But I have an FBI gun license, so I’m allowed to do anything.” Uncle Ken stated with confidence, despite this probably not being a real thing.

With Bob Seger blasting on the sound system, we topped out at about 150 mph on a straight away portion of the mostly windy mountain highway, and it felt like nothing I’d experienced before. Uncle Ken, a 71 year old with a couple beers in him and God knows what else, was an artist when it came to operating this machine. Over the next hour he routinely turned the music down to explain every detail about the mechanics of the vehicle. He clearly cared about it more than anything in the world, and there was something endearing about it all. I’d soon learn when we went out to dinner the next night, that he could hold court and talk about his car for hours in a way that had staff and strangers huddling around him in awe.

We went to a steakhouse the next night with a couple of Uncle Kens friends. One of them was a man in his late thirties who wore a flatbilled hat and had about 10k worth of gold rings around several of his fingers. He brought his child nephew who was no older than ten, and along with donning a similar flatbilled hat, was wearing a gold chain that couldn’t have been worth less than 30k. This was odd. Uncle Ken was 71, wearing cowboy boots and a paisley shirt, and looked like the last guy this drug dealer in his 30’s would want to hang around. I arrived at the conclusion that this man was my uncle’s handler; Uncle Ken paid him to procure the party. He brought him to the exclusive locations, provided him the drugs, and got him connected with the girls that would do anything to fawn over a rich older gentlemen.

Eventually a stripper showed up, clearly one of Uncle Ken’s paid girlfriends, who was surprisingly pleasant. She had stripped her way through graduate school to become a speech pathologist, but apparently being one of Uncle Ken’s sugar babies paid a higher salary. We all had a great time, listening to Uncle Ken wax poetic about past escapades with celebrities and various adventures during his pro-boxing and pro-racing days. Was any of it true? Probably some of it. But it didn’t matter. Everyone except me was on the social payroll. Unlike everyone at that table, and even the majority of the restaurant staff that received generous tips that night, I was the only person that Uncle Ken had never given a dollar too. Nor do I ever intend on asking him for money. This, I believe, is the reason why Uncle Ken adores me.

Having a ton of money can be a curse for some. With that much money comes power, and with power comes the inability to form genuine relationships. When the way people pay their rent relies solely upon you, they’ll never be honest. The underlying foundation of the relationship can never move beyond what they can get out of you. Their survival comes to depend on it.

I’ve never asked Uncle Ken for a dollar because I don’t need a dollar. I’m in no way rich or even financially sound, but the concept of asking someone for money unless my life depended on it is completely foreign to me. Could I use 100k? Of course. In fact, I was just laid off a month ago and have no real income at the moment. But I could pay my bills for the next 3-6 months with no worries, in which time I’ll undoubtedly find another job. This is why Uncle Ken might actually love me. I’m the only real human he knows. Everyone else, even his wonderful wife, is bought and paid for. Not to mention the fact that he’s absolutely obsessed with Fox News, and I’ve been known to make occasional appearances on Jesse Watters. But its really the fact that I have zero financial reliance upon him that makes Uncle Ken reveal a sliver of humanity when I’m around. I’m his only flesh-and-blood on this planet, making me the most deserving of his generosity, and yet I’ve not once requested a dime. This perplexes him, and given the fleeting moments of sincerity he displayed throughout the weekend, I knew he enjoyed it. He was finally around someone that didn’t require a cashapp transfer to hold a conversation.

Being sober, I left around midnight to go to bed, whereas Uncle Ken and his posse were just getting started. With plenty of booze in them already, and a cache of coke and molly, they went on to paint the town red until the sun came up. I was awoken the next morning by the sound of Uncle Ken’s Ferrari pulling into the garage around eight am.

I drove home the next day, satisfied with my decision to reconnect with my biological uncle. Sure, I didn’t get many questions answered about the chain of events in my early childhood, but I found out that none of it really mattered. I’m proud of the person I’ve become regardless of who’s version of the story is more truthful, but if I were a betting man, I’d say my Dad’s version is probably pretty spot on. And although Uncle Ken and I are probably polar opposites in terms of personality and virtue, it was well worth it to look into the only face on the planet that resembles my mother’s as much as mine.