My cousin Derek is 18 years old and sells alot of drugs.
His mother, Joyce, my dad’s cousin, is an undiagnosed alcoholic who specializes in jello shots. Derek lives with Joyce in a run down cracker-box next door to my grandmother’s house. My grandmother died in 2010 and she left the house to my Aunt Deb. Deb lives there- but it’s still very much my grandmother’s house.
You’d think Derek’s impressive foray into the Galveston drug market would make him rich. But he’s paranoid-So he hides his money meticulously around the house-
Then promptly gets high- and forgets where he hid it.
Paranoia and forgetfulness are volatile lovers and thusly, Derek is forever accusing folks of stealing his money from him.
I left Galveston 10 years ago so I have no memory of Derek past the age of 8. Last Thanksgiving my Aunt Deb and I were visiting (in my grandmother’s house) and she said-
Aunt Deb: Molly- d’ya hear bout yer cousin Derek?
Molly Murphy: No what happened? Damn, How old is he now?
AD: 18. That boy’s a weed dealer, and now he’s doing acid.
Random Cousin: Ecstasy I heard.
AD: Same thang. That boy’s high all the time. The other day- he wandered home at 2:30 in the afternoon - high as a kite screamin’ bout somebody stole all his money. Screaming at the top of his lungs. Then that little fucker broke into this house- stole two of my guns, a rifle and a pistol and goes out in my yard screamin about his money and starts shooting the rifle in the air.
MM: ….. you don’t say…
AD: So people are calling me. People are calling the cops. Everyone on the block is going crazy cause he’s walking up and down the street with a rifle screaming and shooting rounds in the air…and then guess what that fucker did—-
MM: Oh gee, what?
AD: I guess he got tired of the rifle- he threw it down, reached into his pocket for the pistol and it discharged.
AD: Your cousin shot his own damn foot almost clear off.
MM: That’s terrifying.
AD: He’s such a little num-nut. The cops came and picked his ass up… They go in the house and pull out all these bongs. And I told him, nononono- they cannot use ANY of that shit because he shot himself in the yard. Aint nothing go down in that house. They can’t use any of that.
MM: Good call.
AD: Damn if they knew what to charge him with. Cause he just shot his own self. So he came back home in a few hours-
MM: Did they get him on?
AD: ‘Discharging a Firearm Within City Limits’. He got out real quick- we got cousins in the right places.
MM: So he’s okay right?
AD: Oh he’s fiiiiiiiiiiine. He went on facebook talkin’ bout ‘someone robbed me and I got shot today. Feeling sad’. And I was not about to let him git away with that shit so I posted a comment-
AD: Yes ma’am I commented. ‘You shot YOURSELF Derek! This is YOUR fault boy!’
There was an old silence. Those silences that come when you have nothing to say for your own blood.
AD: He’s next door restin’ up- let’s go have a visit.
And then we did, because that’s what you do.
You have a visit.
You drink cold tea.
You listening to the ice clink.
You ask your cousin how are they doing
and how is their foot healing
and did they ever get their money back.
and do ya want me to make a Jack in the Box run for ya?
It’s just what you do.
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- xdesecrate-thru-purityx said: this really reminds me of the last time I went home but you made your experience sound humorous. Mine gave me a nervous breakdown and suicide attempt. I wish I could have that distance.
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