turned out that Uncle Ray had lost everything—in fact, more than everything—his entire savings, his pension for the next six months, his fifty-dollar watch, a gold money clip my mother had given him for his last birthday, and a pair of shoes (I think), since he was wearing dime-store flip-flops. I tried to pry him away from the tables, but he refused to leave until he won something.
“Something, Izzy. I can’t end it on a streak like this. It’s bad for my karma.”
“What about your bank account?”
“Izzy, there are more important things in life than money.”
“You have to say that, since you don’t have any left.”
“Sweetheart, I’d really like you to work on that negativity problem.”
Ray played another hand and lost. But there were still chips on the table and I could think of only one way to disengage him.
“Uncle Ray, how about we go to the bar and I buy you a drink.”
“You got it, Izzy. But you’ll be buying me more than one.”
Uncle Ray passed out the second we put him in the backseat of David’s car. We buckled in his chest and his legs and kept him sideways, should he decide to vomit.
On the drive back to the city, David and I reverted to our adolescent pastime of ranking Ray’s Lost Weekends.
“If that wasn’t a five-star weekend, I don’t know what is,” I said.
“This may sound naïve,” David said, “but I always believed this was a phase. That one day old Uncle Ray would return.”
“He’s gone forever,” I said with complete conviction. “And I should warn you, there’s a good chance he’s going to piss himself.”
David sighed and answered with ease, “Yes, I know.”
Uncle Ray’s Brush with Rehab
Lost Weekend #22 was, fiscally speaking, more devastating than the rest. Uncle Ray really had lost it all. My father, at his wit’s end, arranged for Ray to go to a thirty-day rehab program that specialized in multiple addictions, called Green Leaf Recovery Center (David and I laughed convulsively for fifteen minutes when we heard the name), in Petaluma. Ray went along for the drive, but as they approached the verdant road lined with A-frame houses, Uncle Ray turned to my father and said, “It’s not gonna stick, you know.”
“Will you try?” asked my dad.
“Anything for you, Al. But it’s not gonna stick.”
“How do you know?”
“I know myself. At least now I do.”
“Tell me what to do, Ray.”
“Keep your money.”
“You can’t keep disappearing like that.”
Uncle Ray had been waiting for the opportunity to ask the next question.
“So maybe I can move in with you guys until I get on my feet? Pay off my debt. That sort of thing.”
“You want to move in?”
“I thought maybe I could have David’s old room. You don’t think he’d mind?”
“No,” my father said laconically. The last thing in the world David would want was his old room back.
Dad started up the car and then turned to Uncle Ray to solidify the deal. “No hookers, drugs, or poker games in the house.”
“You got it, Al.”
And that is when Uncle Ray moved in to 1799 Clay Street.
THE INTERVIEW
CHAPTER 3
“Do you think it was wise,” Inspector Stone asks, “for your parents to allow an admitted drug- /gambling- /sex-addicted alcoholic into the home of an impressionable adolescent girl?”
“I don’t think Uncle Ray was a sex addict. He liked hookers—sure—but it wasn’t like a regular thing for him.”
“Do I need to repeat the question?”
“Uncle Ray was a disaster, but he wasn’t interested in taking anyone down with him. You couldn’t count on him to mow the lawn or do the dishes, but you could trust he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“According to all sources, your sister’s reaction to his arrival was quite volatile. Do you care to elaborate?”
“They were at war.”
“So tell me about the war.”
What Inspector Stone doesn’t realize is that there was not just one war, there was a series of wars, battles, and melees simmering
“Something, Izzy. I can’t end it on a streak like this. It’s bad for my karma.”
“What about your bank account?”
“Izzy, there are more important things in life than money.”
“You have to say that, since you don’t have any left.”
“Sweetheart, I’d really like you to work on that negativity problem.”
Ray played another hand and lost. But there were still chips on the table and I could think of only one way to disengage him.
“Uncle Ray, how about we go to the bar and I buy you a drink.”
“You got it, Izzy. But you’ll be buying me more than one.”
Uncle Ray passed out the second we put him in the backseat of David’s car. We buckled in his chest and his legs and kept him sideways, should he decide to vomit.
On the drive back to the city, David and I reverted to our adolescent pastime of ranking Ray’s Lost Weekends.
“If that wasn’t a five-star weekend, I don’t know what is,” I said.
“This may sound naïve,” David said, “but I always believed this was a phase. That one day old Uncle Ray would return.”
“He’s gone forever,” I said with complete conviction. “And I should warn you, there’s a good chance he’s going to piss himself.”
David sighed and answered with ease, “Yes, I know.”
Uncle Ray’s Brush with Rehab
Lost Weekend #22 was, fiscally speaking, more devastating than the rest. Uncle Ray really had lost it all. My father, at his wit’s end, arranged for Ray to go to a thirty-day rehab program that specialized in multiple addictions, called Green Leaf Recovery Center (David and I laughed convulsively for fifteen minutes when we heard the name), in Petaluma. Ray went along for the drive, but as they approached the verdant road lined with A-frame houses, Uncle Ray turned to my father and said, “It’s not gonna stick, you know.”
“Will you try?” asked my dad.
“Anything for you, Al. But it’s not gonna stick.”
“How do you know?”
“I know myself. At least now I do.”
“Tell me what to do, Ray.”
“Keep your money.”
“You can’t keep disappearing like that.”
Uncle Ray had been waiting for the opportunity to ask the next question.
“So maybe I can move in with you guys until I get on my feet? Pay off my debt. That sort of thing.”
“You want to move in?”
“I thought maybe I could have David’s old room. You don’t think he’d mind?”
“No,” my father said laconically. The last thing in the world David would want was his old room back.
Dad started up the car and then turned to Uncle Ray to solidify the deal. “No hookers, drugs, or poker games in the house.”
“You got it, Al.”
And that is when Uncle Ray moved in to 1799 Clay Street.
THE INTERVIEW
CHAPTER 3
“Do you think it was wise,” Inspector Stone asks, “for your parents to allow an admitted drug- /gambling- /sex-addicted alcoholic into the home of an impressionable adolescent girl?”
“I don’t think Uncle Ray was a sex addict. He liked hookers—sure—but it wasn’t like a regular thing for him.”
“Do I need to repeat the question?”
“Uncle Ray was a disaster, but he wasn’t interested in taking anyone down with him. You couldn’t count on him to mow the lawn or do the dishes, but you could trust he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“According to all sources, your sister’s reaction to his arrival was quite volatile. Do you care to elaborate?”
“They were at war.”
“So tell me about the war.”
What Inspector Stone doesn’t realize is that there was not just one war, there was a series of wars, battles, and melees simmering
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