Homerun

When Uncle Mack pulled up in his old beat-up Pontiac, he'd honk the horn three times while revving the engine so blue smoke billowed out the exhaust. I’d hop in and with a big grin he'd squeal away from the curb.

We always went to a baseball game on my birthday. The outcome of the game determined Uncle Mack's mood and the ride home. When our team won he’d tell corny jokes that made him laugh even though I’d heard them all before.

If our team lost we'd stop at the neighborhood tavern. Dull linoleum, streaked with scuffmarks, always led to a jukebox that teemed with "lost love" on 45s. Uncle Mack would slip coins in and play some song about Rose.

While I spun circles on the bar stool, sipping my root beer through a paper straw that always went flat, Uncle Mack would grouse between alternating whiskey shots and a glass overflowing with foamy beer. Eventually, his sadness would disappear and he'd slide some coins to me and say, "Here son, pick out some tunes for yourself."

"Thanks Uncle Mack," forever happy that he called me Son and not Pee Wee or Short Stuff like everyone else. I'd skip to the jukebox and plunk my change in. The first song was always "Mack the Knife."

To my delight, Uncle Mack would stroke his beard, let out a hoarse laugh and buy all the strangers at the bar a round of drinks.

When it was over, and I, silly drunk from too much root beer, Uncle Mack would rub my head with a callous rough hand and say, "Come on, son…time to find the car." We'd both weave out of the tavern smelling like booze and cigarettes.

Without question, it was always my job to find the car.

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