We've become accustomed to the wind creaking the thick branches to and fro, the finger-like branches sweeping the leaves across our tiled roof. During mango season, the fruits fall off with a dull thud and roll down the roof and into the storm drain, ending in empty paint buckets. Our uncle Rudy cut up the mangoes and made li hing mui pickled mangoes, soaking them until New Year's in jars filled with apricot brandy. It was quite a delicate experience. Uncle Rudy had been a session musician his whole life, playing rhythm guitar and bass. He'd do a lot of traveling when bands needed a last-minute sit-in because someone was too stoned to play or afraid of the gig. After all, the husband of a woman they were screwing on the side was now sitting in the audience. Which is why everybody trusted Uncle Rudy. He had no drama and always did his job. For as long as I knew him, Uncle Rudy had a Beatles mop-top haircut, a thick handlebar mustache, and he always wore a pair of dark Ray Bans. He was the measuring stick for me as to what a smooth musician was supposed to look like.
Mom said Uncle Rudy had to come to stay with us because a monkey on his back took a long time to shake off. He was suffering from the aftereffects and needed to be around family. We didn't need to engage him constantly by being in his face; we just needed to be around. The presence of loved ones is what made him feel better.
Late at night, under the cover of a full moon with the constant breeze rustling the dried leaves in the yard, I could hear Uncle Rudy from his downstairs basement room making his guitar sing. I never bothered him before, but tonight, I had to. Walking downstairs and knocking on his door, I heard his voice over the music. "It's open,"
I pulled back the portal and gave a small wave. "Hey, Uncle Rudy,"
"Hey man," he smiled. "What's happening, brother? What you up to?"
"Do you mind if I just hang out and listen?" I hoped he wouldn't say no and send me to my room.
"Have a seat," he nodded to a chair just inside the door.
I did just that: I sat, listened, and kept quiet. "Lotsa roads," he said while bringing the blues to life by bending a few strings and wobbling the tremolo. "Lotsa whiskey, losta love, and many broken hearts both ways," he nodded. "That's what you're hearing right now, the blues."
Just then, I saw my mom standing outside the door. I didn't even hear it open. "Uncle Rudy and I have to talk, Alika,"
"G'nite, Uncle Rudy," I waved and heaved myself out of the chair. "Thanks for letting me hang out,"
~
Around the house, Uncle Rudy was quite the handyman. He could fix anything. Sometimes, he'd be in the station wagon with Mom, pulling into the garage with groceries. He cooked too, and very well at that. One night, I heard Uncle Rudy play something I'd never heard before. I didn't sound like the bluesy stuff as usual. I couldn't describe it, but I was raw and ethereal. It felt like a kind of passion you couldn't stop, even if you were trying not to let it happen. It was going to happen despite you.
The next morning, while I sat and helped him cut mangoes, I asked Uncle Rudy what song he had played the night before.
"Oh, you heard that huh?" He laughed. "You have to make sure you cut the mango skin with one go; that's the purpose, and that's how you know when you get good." He held up the mango and showed me how he did it with his knife.
"What about the song from last night, Uncle Rudy?" I reminded him.
"Oh yeah, that's a new one by this guy from San Francisco," he said. "It's this guy Carlos Santana. All the guitar guys are playing it now. It's called Europa,"
"It sounded really cool," I nodded.
"Thanks, little man," he nudged me. "I appreciate that. So, anyway, make sure you never use your personal pocket knife to cut mangoes, okay?"
"How come?" I asked him.
"You never use the knife that you stab somebody with to cut the food that you're going to feed your family with," he whispered. "We don't disrespect our blades that way."
~
One day, Uncle Rudy never came out of his room for breakfast. The door was locked, and he never answered, no matter how much I pounded. Mom had the spare, and I wished she hadn't given it to me that morning. I found Uncle Rudy asleep in his bed, covered up to his chin with his blanket. It was the first time I saw him without his shades on. He had such thick eyelashes, and they matched his thick eyebrows and handlebar mustache. Immediately, I knew something was wrong because of how pale and ashen his face was. I went to get my mom, and when she came back with me to his room, I saw her pull back his blanket, and it only took a second before she began to howl with grief. He'd overdosed the night before. I guess the monkey was back.
The funeral services were simple, with just my aunts, uncles, and me. Mom spread Uncle Rudy's ashes at the Diamond Head lookout at sunrise. For the lunch we had afterward at our home, everyone sat around eating takeout Chinese food and finger sandwiches along with soda, beer, and wine to drink. A collage of pictures of Uncle Rudy lay glued on a display board sitting on an easel in the middle of the living room. Later, when everyone was long gone, I sat on the couch with our old photo albums when I noticed something I had to show to my mom.
"Have you seen this?" I opened the albums and showed her. Aside from the ones on the display board, there are no pictures of Uncle Rudy!"
Mom took the photo albums from me and put them on the side. She grabbed my hand in hers and pulled me close. "Rudy was not your uncle; I just had you call him that out of respect because he's older than you,"
"He's your father," quiet tears fell from her eyes, and I noticed for the first time that my mom was vulnerable. "We met at a show where he played guitar, and we got to know each other after the show. Before we knew it, we were involved in this whirlwind romance. He was in town, playing at a few of the clubs, like the Jazz Cellar and Don's. Then, he was gone because he had other gigs on the mainland, and I was pregnant. I never knew because I never saw him again, until a few years ago, when I found him strung out after a gig in Waikiki. I got him some help to clean up, then moved him in here. We picked up where we left off, but I never told him that you were his son,"
That was a lot to take in, but eventually, it sank in. Of course, I had questions; I always had questions. Mom left Uncle Rudy's room the way it was for a while, like her shrine dedicated to his memory. She allowed me to move into his old space when I was old enough. Back then, on certain nights when the wind pushed the branches of the mango trees around the roof of our home, I swear I could hear Uncle Rudy's guitar pushing out the blues like it was the end of the world. Some nights, I stood outside his door, and on the other side, I could hear it like Uncle Rudy described it. Lotsa road, lotsa whiskey, lotsa live, and a lot of heartache both ways.
No comments:
Post a Comment