Comin' Out Hard

I don't remember actually meeting my mother's father for the first time, but I do remember the environment. It was winter time, it was probably 1990 but it may have been 89. We walked up what seemed like an enormous flight of dark brown stairs. My memory tells me that the stairs were a little chipped, but honestly, it was too dark to see anything but the steps outline, which, along with my mother's hand, guided my little feet up the stairs. There was no light inside the actual stairwell, it was illuminated from a source inside the apartment. The light was off-yellow, a brownish yellow, like the bulb had been stained by almost constant cigarette smoke, it made everything seem old. Looking back, it reminds me of a 70's blaxploitation movie. And that's where the memory ends. It's always me walking up the stairs with my mother, and presumably the rest of my siblings, never reaching the top, just endlessly climbing towards the smoke yellow light.

I figured out that the memory was from visiting my grandfather through deductive reasoning. The door we entered into was one on the side of a store and the stairs led to a single, slightly rundown apartment. My grandfather was the only person in my family that lived above a store, in this case a liquor store. Therefore, it must have been him. And even though I don't remember actually meeting him, the memory itself gave me a sense of fear and a sense of strength, but mostly fear.

I got a chance for a do-over meeting when I was 10. He still lived above a liquor store, not sure if it was the same one, at the very least the staircase was the same. We got to the top and there he was, sitting on a white chair facing the doorway, a trucker hat on his head and his grainy tv screen turned to the news. His coffee table was filled with bills, letters, a VFW magazine and stacks of road maps. I guessed correctly that he'd been a trucker in his former life, and a retired veteran in his current one. But I really noticed was him physically. He was huge, well over six feet tall, broad shoulders, long limbs. (why the hell am I so short? oh, yeah). And more importantly, he was hilarious. He reeked of alcohol and cursed more than any person I'd ever met. Crotchety wouldn't even begin to describe him; the bitterness that he had at the world came out in expletive form. If Guiliani spoke with a noun, verb, and 9/11, my grandfather was a noun, maybe a verb, and motherfucka. I would later learn that his bitterness was almost entirely justifiable, but at the time I just thought that he was the Black, cursing incarnation of Statler and Waldorf always hating on everything, always making jokes, and always being extraordinarily ornery.

But if my grandfather was funny, it was my uncle who lived with him in that small liquor store apartment that was cool. He was light-hearted, taking the brunt of my grandfather's curses but more than keeping up in his comebacks. He was big too, not as tall as my grandfather, but even more broad shouldered. There was this confidence that just exuded from him, that, especially for a 10 year old boy, was inspiring. I couldn't wait until I became a man. Man- besides my father and my brother I had never really interacted with any males in my family before. All of my closest relatives were women. My uncle was definitely excited to see his little nehpews for the first time also, because he asked my mother if he could take us out to Lake Michigan the next day. Now, my mother knew her brother, she knew what kind of guy he was, but she let us go out with him anyway. Then again, my mother also my brother and I ride to go get a puppy with this old white guy who lived in our trailer park who we'd literally just met. He said that there were free puppies at some other trailer park, we pleaded with her, and she let us go. My mom was truly one of the last of the old school parents.

Anyway, the next day we got inside my uncles ancient big bodied Oldsmobile, and all of my thoughts about his coolness are confirmed. He warns us as he puts the car into drive that he doesn't listen to the kind of rap we listen to, this being 1996, the beginning of the shiny suit era, he meant Mase and Puff Daddy. He pops in his tape, the only one he listens to the entire day, and instead of heavily sampled rap about having a bunch of money and writing checks, I hear stories of Armed Robbery, niggas gettin merked with 9 millimeters, pimps pimpin out a multitude of ho's. Here me and my brother were, two black nerds from South Carolina, riding around in a big-body hoopty. I didn't learn until later that it was Eightball and MJG's critically acclaimed debut "Comin' Out Hard" that we were listening to, all I know is that I felt hard just listening to it.
Before we head to the lake though, my uncle tells us that he has to make a couple stops, make his rounds. We pull up to this brick apartment complex near a small park, and my uncle quickly jumps out. He tells us to wait in the car while he does his business. A lady greets him at the front door and takes him upstairs. Me and my brother are silent, only Eightball is speaking "Mr Big, Mr Big, they call him Mr. Big." We must have waited like twenty minutes for him to get finished, the lady hands my uncle a key as he walks out the door, I guess for easier access. He's grinnin' as we drive off, headed for the highway.
We're doing something over the speed limit, the tape already having started over, gun shots fill my ears. A nice looking lady in sunglasses speeds past us on a black motorcycle. "Hey poo-poo, what's good?" my uncle yells out the window. He leans over to check out how her ass looks propped up by the seat of the bike. He lokos around just in time to see another lady on the passengers side of the car to our right. He greets her outrageously- "I LOVE BIG TITTIES!" I think she blushes a little. So that's how you get women.
We pull off onto an exit and head to the gas station. I thought we'd run out of gas, turns out the gauge is just broken. We wait in the car again, he comes back with a pack of Newports and a can of beer, Old Milwaukee I think. I'm only certain about the Newports. We get back on the freeway; me and my brother are hoping that we'd finally get to the lake. Now, I'd seen plenty of people drive and smoke, and I'd even heard of people drinking and driving. My uncle, with unmistakable talent, drank, smoked, and drove all at the same time. He had the Newport in one hand, the can of Old Milwaukee in the other. Having run out of hands, he proceeded to drive with his knee, down the freeway, doing ninety. As me and my petrified brother are clinging to our seats, saying one last Our Father, he jokes "Man, I shouldn't be doing this... I don't even have a license right now!"
At least we were headed to the lake now. Except we weren't. I gotta make a few more stops man, and then we'll get to the lake, he told us. While we were driving to, I don't know where, he told us stories. About his time in LA, becoming a Crip, going to prison for armed robbery. The worst story was what they did to this one guy when they found out he was in prison for raping little kids (it involves a broken off broomstick). He talked about his (now ex) wife (who to this day I never met) and his dogs, my mind tell me they were either boxers or pit bulls. He loved those dogs, and the bitch (his wife) had put them down to spite him. Just because he was a little reckless, just for a little thing like cheating on her a couple times and not coming home for a month. Was that so wrong? I looked down and my brother did the same. We really didn't have a concept of infidelity besides the fact that it was indeed wrong.

We never made it to Lake Michigan that day. Me and my brother watched my uncle literally get the keys to a woman's place a little while after he met her. We drove around the hood as he'd randomly yell at women- try and talk to ones that were definitely under 18. We made stops at corner stores, at one of our cousins houses, at my uncle's friends house (we didn't get to go in there either). And when all the stops were over, as the sun was going down, and we FINALLY drove to the east side to go to the Lake, his car broke down. Wouldn't even begin to turn over. So we had to walk; all the way back to my grandfather's tiny apartment above the liquor store on 5th street.

Is it inately male to admire another man who just doesn't give a fuck? That has to explain my fascination with my uncle when I first met him. He was larger than authority, larger than life. Every single thing that my mother told me was wrong, he did, with absolutely no regard. It's wrong to drink and drive: my uncle drank beer after beer driving down the freewayt. It's wrong to drive without a license: I'm not sure he's ever even had a valid drivers license, and honestly, he shouldn't have one. He was ALWAYS strapped- (although I didn't see one that day, ever time I've seen him since he's had a gun on him). He cheated on his wife with reckless abandon, not even pretending to have discretion.
And he got women- by the barrel, it was awe-inspring to watch. My uncles a good-looking guy, but not that good-looking. He doesn't dress nicely, he never really has a steady job. He's damn near or already 50 and still lives with his father. But women flock to him. When I started high school, he'd give me nice watches to wear to school, he had a drawer full of them, all given to him by women. Other things inside that drawer- a large number of house keys, another gun, and an assortment of prophylactics. When I lived with my grandfather the summer before high school he had ladies always blowing up my grandfather's phone. For someone trying to be cool it was quite a lesson. A bad one for someone eventually trying to find a nice girl, but a lesson that I took to heart. The choices my uncle made was never really an option for me, but it did influence how I thought about women and "relationships" at least for a little while.
I'm 12 years older now, most of the things I thought were cool back then are just sad now. I definitely don't want to be him, but I can't lie and say that occasionaly that lifestyle isn't attractive. There's a fleeting moment, where going to the office, reading books, taking care of responsibilities, just isn't enough. I wanna ride shottie with my uncle listening to Eightball and MJG and feeling more powerful than I actually am.