Jamey Visits Uncle Ron

Slow-burn story, rather than quick action. Please comment if you'd like to see another chapter.

I hadn't seen my Uncle Ron for several years, although our families had been close when my sisters and I were younger, up to sometime in our early teens.

We'd called him

Uncle Ron

because the families were so close, taking vacations and weekends together; our parents were friends, but is your mother's brother's wife's stepsister's brother-in-law really an uncle? Dutch uncle?

And I hadn't thought about him since then either, not much anyway. Maybe a little, once in a while. The families had drifted apart as the children grew up, and even those adult relationships changed in ways the younger generation didn't really dwell on. We did know that Uncle Ron and Aunt Jill had divorced, and we'd seen her once or twice annually over the years, but saw much less of Uncle Ron.

Then, after two years at community college, I got accepted for the geography BA program at state, starting with the fall semester. As part of the financial aid deal they wanted me in the marching band, as I'd put on my application that I'd enjoyed organized music in High School, so I agreed to dust off my alto and be a horn player again. Not least because of the social aspects; as a new face in a busy college town, I knew I'd never be a music major, but this would still be a good way to get a head start on meeting some new friends, and hopefully, some cute girls.

But to be involved in the music, I needed to go up to campus early, early August, in fact, though the school fall semester didn't even start until right after Labor Day. I had a dorm contract for the semester, but due to summer session still using the dorms I couldn't move in until nearly the end of August, so for a two-week gap I had to find temporary lodging. Money was tight, and that's how good old Uncle Ron came back into the picture.

Turns out he'd been living in the college town for a few years, as an administrator for a company that provided some kind of event services for organizations in the area, and for the university itself. My mom thought of good ol' Uncle Ron, and her thrifty mind kicked in and she made some calls and, as it turned out, Ron would be delighted to put up his "nephew" until the dorm opened up for fall semester.

He lived in a nice rental community, which was partly apartments and partly town homes and partly some temporary housing, which was managed by the company he worked for, so his housing was provided in this large complex out beyond the end of Division Street. He had an end unit with two floors and 4 bedrooms, and he was living alone, so there was plenty of room.

My mom and dad drove me up, on a Sunday in early August. I wasn't going to have a car. Didn't really need any heavy transportation, everything was there, dorm, dining halls, social life. I was there to study anyway. That's what college is for, right?

After Uncle Ron showed us the house, we went out to lunch, all four of us, and chatted.

I had remembered Uncle Ron as, well, one of the sort of tough dads, the ones you didn't want to mess with too much. His kids, 3 daughters, made it clear that he wasn't a pushover. "Don't let Dad catch you..." or "Don't tell Dad, please!" were phrases one would hear when we were doing dicey things, or about to consider doing forbidden things, when the families were vacationing together. And even in those more social settings, occasionally one of my 'cousins' would get punished. But it was done discreetly, and other than some whispers between us afterward, any discipline from Uncle Ron didn't get brought up again.

But out at lunch, these years later Ron seemed pretty easy going, and it was a bit of a reunion for him and my mom and dad, and they were talking of old times and how all the kids were doing and such, talk about my brother and sister and sports, colleges and high school challenges, and when his kids came up he made the same sort of chatter. I was sort of interested during this part because I remembered his three girls and earlier when he'd shown us his apartment I'd seen a picture back in his living room and they were high school and college age now and cute and, you know, girls were on my mind some (a lot), I was 19, and well...

Finally we all went back to Uncle Ron's condo and my parents left and the last thing my mom said was, "Have fun at band camp, but work hard, and we'll bring the rest of your stuff when your dorm gets open. Be good for your uncle." After a quick hug, she turned her wary eye on Uncle Ron. "Ron, keep an eye on him!"

"Don't worry Lyn," Uncle Ron said, with a wink. "He'll be a good boy." We laughed and waved and they drove off. Uncle Ron patted me on the back and we went inside.

I only had a small suitcase and another small shoulder bag with my personal stuff and some books, and my horn in its case of course, because I was planning to get more stuff from home in a few weeks. I didn't want to be hauling my full set of clothes and gear around from place to place.

Uncle Ron showed me the kitchen, the living room and TV, the deck that opened out a sliding door from the kitchen. Back in the kitchen, he got us both a glass of water, and pointed out the window and its view toward the pool, which was shared by all the tenants. People were sitting in the poolside lounge chairs, walking around. It was August, and the pool was a popular hangout to beat the heat.

"Let's get you set up with a bedroom," Uncle Ron said after draining his glass and setting it on the counter. I finished my water and said, "Okay." Uncle Ron went to rinse the glasses, and I went toward the other part of the house.

Back in the entry hall, I looked around a little again. It was a typical compact entry area that opened into a small hallway with a door to the downstairs powder room. There was a tall mirror on one wall, and some pictures and modest decor. I saw a door that he hadn't included in the tour. Uncle Ron joined me, and gestured at the stairs, and my stuff. I hesitated, curious. "Is that a closet or a bathroom?" I said.

"My study," Uncle Ron said. "By design, it's the unit's 4th bedroom but I've got my desk and library in there now. Chances are you won't be needing anything in there though." He grabbed my suitcase and motioned me toward the stairs. "Let me get that," I said. "No, no, I can do the heavy lifting, you just get your bag or your purse or...whatever you call that thing," he added with a chuckle.

"It's a carry-on, shoulder bag, you know," I said, a little defensively. Uncle Ron just grinned, he was kidding. But I recalled how he'd always been one of those needling type guys who made jokes but how the jokes always felt like a dig in the ribs. I left my sax case in the foyer there and got my bag, carrying it a little self-consciously now, and with a nod Uncle Ron directed me to go first, and he followed me up the stairs.

First, he guided me to the end of the hall, and pointed out the bathroom on the way, and then pushed open the door at the end, and said, "Here's the master bedroom. Mine. Please always knock, if I'm home. If I'm not home I'm sure you'll respect my privacy and stay out."

"Yes, of course, Uncle Ron," I said.

Uncle Ron nodded, and I sort of expected a chuckle or a smile to soften up our understanding and express his hospitality, but he simply held his gaze on me until I looked away. It felt awkward. Uncle Ron pretty clearly didn't want me to feel too easy. He didn't seem interested in being buds for the 2 weeks we'd be sharing his home. I swallowed and waited, looked up nervously. Finally he seemed satisfied that his point had come across.

"Okay," he said. "So, let's set you up in one of the girls'...let's have a look at the spare bedrooms."

"Yes, Uncle Ron," I said. I stood there.

"Well, go on!" he said, nodding to me and gesturing with my suitcase, urging me back down the hall, bumping it on my hip, and I felt it brush lightly across my back end. I wondered why I always had to walk in front of him. It was almost like he wanted to watch me. Or maybe it was just his way of being in charge, in general.

I skipped a little, urged forward from the contact, then tried to regain a little dignity, taking a few deliberate steps down the hallway, my bag hanging off my shoulder. And then, pausing, indecisive again when we neared the two bedroom doors, which were on the opposite sides of the hall, on the way to his own bedroom door at the end of the passage.

"They're really guest rooms, but when my daughters visit, and that's less and less it seems, well, these are their rooms," he said.

"Which one?" I said.

"Which one is which girl's? Why would that matter?"

"No, which one do you want me to sleep in, Uncle Ron." I felt myself blushing at the small misunderstanding.

Uncle Ron regarded me. "Do you like girls, Jamey?" Now Uncle Ron had that grin on his face again. He was messing with me.

"Yes I like girls, Uncle Ron." I felt my face grow warm again.

"Didn't you used to get teased a bit by Betty or Lulu sometimes? I seem to remember something about them giggling and embarrassing you back when we had those vacations..." He was looking at me, I think he was trying to keep his expression serious but he still showed a trace of the same smug superiority his daughters used to use to embarrass me and make me squirm. Or similar. The adult version?

"Betty and Lulu were always very nice to me," I said. They were, sometimes. Most of the time.

"Oh, I remember now, it was Sheila who you had that pre-puberty crush on, and she could be a bitch with dewy-eyed boys couldn't she?"

I laughed. I laughed, but I didn't meet his eyes. He made me more nervous all the time. I couldn't think of anything to say and it was all I could do, and my laugh was a feeble blurt of jitters. I didn't want to be doing this. I didn't want to talk to my Uncle Ron, about his hot teen daughters, now undoubtedly hot young women breaking hearts at Dickson U. and W&L and wherever they all were. It seemed wrong.

"Sorry kid, I know. Girls can be challenging, as a dad, or... or otherwise." He chuckled again, and put the suitcase down on the hall floor. "Anyway, go ahead, pick one." He nodded at the two doors. I shrugged and opened the first door and went in.

It was a typical guest room. Twin beds, dresser, closet, window, a chair for reading, a small desk. This would be fine. It had few signs that it saw much long-term occupancy; some books shelved between bookends on the desk, a few female touches like the poster of a boy band on the wall, a few items on the dresser for hair care and cosmetics.

Uncle Ron stood in the doorway watching me.

"This looks fine," I said.

"You don't want to check out the other one?"

"Well, okay." I went to the door, expecting Uncle Ron to lead me or let me through but he kept standing there, holding his position leaning in the doorway. I had to squeeze past him, and I felt an odd personal-space twinge as I had to turn my body sideways to pass. I was close enough to notice his male, adult smell, mostly just aftershave and soap, but with traces musky and manly.

I had an odd feeling that he wanted that, he wanted me to notice him, his maleness and strength. It was something I'd felt before, the masculinity and power of men that were bigger or older than me, or both, their effortless male authority and superiority. An animal thing, as in,

I'm the top male primate and you're not and you need to know it

.

The other room was similar, a little bigger, and with a queen instead of twin beds, a little more furniture, and again, some tell-tale signs that when it was occupied, the resident was female, young. A full length mirror was mounted on the closet door, pop posters on the walls and some stuffed animals here and there, hair clips and little lotion bottles and things on the dresser and desk.

"Is it okay if I stay in this room, Uncle Ron?" I said.

"I thought you'd like this one," he said. "Queen Bed?" I turned and looked at him. He was standing in the doorway again, and he wasn't looking back at me at the moment, so I had a chance to sort of take him in, his size and shape, his belted khaki shorts, crisp blue short-sleeve polo, his big shoulders, brawny biceps. And between those shoulders and his belt, almost no sign of the little spare tire middle-aged flab my own dad was growing.

I felt something. I turned my head, and I saw him in the mirror on the closet door. My eyes met his through the mirror, and I realized that he'd been watching me all along. I looked down.

"Maybe you need a little mentoring," he said, softly.

I said nothing. My face felt hot all of a sudden. I looked around the room, but now I didn't really want to look at him, through the mirror or otherwise. It was confusing, now that we were alone in the house. I wasn't sure what he meant, or if he even meant me to hear him. The silence loomed. Finally couldn't help myself, I glanced at him--and somehow I knew right away--that's what he wanted.

He wanted my eyes, he wanted the confirming communication, the unspoken assent that only eyes can give. He wanted to know that I'd heard him, even if I was pretending I hadn't. I felt my face get a little warmer. I could feel his eyes, still on me, observing me. I felt even smaller, too, having noticed his physique, his masculine attitude.

He nodded, letting my eyes go, and went on. He gestured widely with one sweeping arm at the room, the dresser, the closet, the feminine touches. "When she visits, this is Sheila's room. I'm sure she won't mind, but like I already mentioned, privacy is to be respected." He came into the room then, put my suitcase on the bed, walked over to the dresser and pulled open one drawer, looked in, closed it, opened another. Closed it. Clearly any privacies here applied less to him than to others. Like me.

"Well, Jamey, there's girl stuff in her dresser, so for your two weeks here you're probably best off keeping your stuff in there." He nodded at the suitcase on the bed.

"That's fine," I said quickly. Uncle Ron went to the closet, grinned again seeing me via the mirror on the door, then pulled the door open and looked in. A few dresses, skirts and blouses hung, blacks, pinks, light blues and reds. Not a lot of clothing, but a small assortment. Uncle Ron reached between the items, found a few free hangers and then pushed the clothes to both sides, the hangers making that metallic scraping sound. He aligned the empty hangers then hooked them on the closet bar in the middle, then gestured at them.

"Plenty of room in here, so no need to stay out of Sheila's closet, I guess. Some free hangers if you have some shirts and jackets."

"Yes sir," I said. I felt another odd twinge. It was like I had to add the

sir

, to amp up the respect a bit, admit his imposing man-ness and my boy-ness. I didn't want to, but I needed to somehow.

"Good boy," he said. I felt a little bashfulness again and kept looking down. Most of the time over the past year or so I'd been trying to man up, to grow up, to strengthen and harden, but in these moments, my first moments alone with this man, he was controlling the relationship, shaping it. He was in charge, and was being very clear in establishing that I needed to know it, and admit it. Admit it to myself, if not out loud.

And a part of me, I think, appreciated this. My dad, perhaps, hadn't been as mentoring as he could have. Though it was confusing and conflicting at the same time, something inside me needed help, guidance, from a real man. It was a thirst, a lack, that was there, although it wasn't clearly realized. I didn't know it, but I felt it, if that makes any sense.

He stood looking me over. Like he had something else on his mind. I felt his eyes on me and glanced up once or twice, only to see his steady gaze, his straight shoulders, his relaxed way of standing.

Finally he spoke up again. "Jamey, I've been thinking about it, I was noticing the way you spoke to your mother and father, at the restaurant. See, I know some kids when they get to college age, start to feel pretty sure of themselves, get a little talky, snappy with their parents and teachers. Snarky. I've seen it with my own kids. A laxness, a sort of softness of attitude seems to develop. My girls ended up with Jill, you know, after our divorce, and my ex-wife's a little lenient in my opinion. But be careful. Just you watch yourself. I think I can see a little deeper, son. I don't think you've gained the maturity, no, in fact, I'll say it now. You haven't

earned

it yet. Don't make the mistake of trying that sort of talkback with me. You've got to earn adult respect."

I didn't say anything. I was feeling a steady, climbing sense of emotion, in my middle, in my stomach, listening to Uncle Ronny, his firmness and masculine charisma, and I was also starting to wonder what I'd gotten myself into. I looked away, looked up again. With his neutral, but serious expression, he was looking at me, watching me. He almost looked like he was reading, looking inside me, or something like that. Checking me out. Watching for a reaction.

"Well, answer me, Jamey,"

"You didn't ask a question," I mumbled.

"See, son, that's what I mean. When an adult tells you something important, you're expected to at least acknowledge it, to be respectful. That's what I'm asking of you. Well?"

I looked at him. I took a slow breath. I looked down again. "Yes sir," I said.

"Yes sir what? Jamey, I need some indication that you heard me, okay?"

"Yes, Uncle Ron, I heard you. I'll watch my mouth."

"Ok, good. See that you do."

For several long moments, we stood, a few feet apart, in the quiet room. Finally his shoulders seemed to untense and his knees bent slightly.

"So, you're a musician then," he said, seemingly just to break the silent awkwardness.

"Well, I play, and they want me in the pep band, so I guess I am."

Uncle Ron rubbed his chin, then scratched his head. He put his hands to his hips, adjusted his waistband in a habitual way. I watched him. He regarded me.

"Well, go get your instrument, son, believe me I won't want you playing it or practicing Souza marches downstairs--next to my study!" He had that irritated impatience, or was is imperiousness?--in his voice again, giving my nerves another quick chill, and I just moved. I hopped to it. Charisma, or simple male power, whatever he had that gave him that natural authority, and now I didn't want to aggravate him.

"Yes sir," I said, and went to get it.

Uncle Ron was coming down the hall from his own bedroom when I came back up just a minute or two later, carrying my sax in its case, and my music stand and sheet-music folder.

"I got an idea," he said, "Let's put it in here." And he steered me toward the other spare bedroom. Uncle Ron wasn't shy about personal contact, and his hands were firm but still somehow casual on my shoulder and hip. "It's a little further from my study, and we may as well put the extra space to good use. You can sleep in Sheila's room, and do your rehearsing in here."

"You don't like music, Uncle Ron?" I asked.

"I like music. But Lulu played clarinet for a while in Middle School, rehearsing for an hour three times a week, and I remember wishing she'd chosen something quieter, so let's just leave it at that, eh?"

"Oh. Yes Uncle Ronny. I'll try to be quiet or rehearse when you're out."

"Yes, you do that. Okay, good."

There was another one of those silences. Not quite awkward, but it still waited to be interrupted. Sounds of a passing car, shouting children down at the pool filled part of the void in a remote, muffled way.

"Well, Jamey, there's plenty of afternoon left. I'm going to go get a few things done in my study. Try not to disturb me, but I realize that you're still getting situated, so if you need something just knock."