Velociworld

BATS IN THE BELFRY

With the vapors. It is of course a commonplace that Southerners are reknowned for having at least one crazy-assed relative. Only we don't call them what they are, which is deranged. We use euphemisms, such as tetched, and dyspeptic. We generally humor them. In the old days we made them stay in the attic, and would trot them out for holidays and special occasions, if they promised to behave.

With social services being what they are nowadays, though, these tetched individuals are able to live fully functional lives without our largesse. Which is a good thing, I'm sure.

Which brings me to my Aunt Merle.

I haven't seen her in 25 years, for obvious reasons. Whenever a relative dies, we always forget to call Merle, because she will show up and forge chaos from firmament. I was calculating today. She must be 87! And still getting around. Not bad for a psychotic binge drinker. Although I believe she gave up the habits that bring to mind the words blowsy and floozy some years back.

Here's an anecdote: when the Bride and I were first dating, we decided to visit Disney World, still a relatively new attraction. Merle found out, and insisted we stay with her in Titusville. Now, I hadn't seen Merle since I was about 5, when my siblings and I were forced to stay in her apartment in Waycross one evening while my parents and Merle went out for dinner. Skeery place, and the fact JFK was on the cover of TIME apparently suffering a major migraine (Cuban Missile Crisis?) scared me even further. 5 year olds who can read don't need to see their Commander-in-Chief in crisis.

Anyway, I had some MDA, aka The Love Drug, so the Bride and I got whacked out of our skulls and went to Merle's. She had an apartment decorated entirely in pink overlooking the Indian River. She was dating a marine contractor named Floyd, who looked like a bizarre genetic union of Cary Grant and Jerry Clower. Being Old School (she was probably early 60's then) she made Floyd keep his own apartment in the complex, which she had decorated exactly like hers, down to the identical seashells over the commode, only in powder blue.

I didn't know what to expect, until Merle immediately made screwdrivers upon our arrival, then four more rounds. The Bride and I were tore down on the Mad Dog (MDA), but we kept our game faces on. Merle and Floyd eventually took us to a cheesy steak joint for dinner. Cheesy because it had a dance floor, and the slashed Merle made me dance with her over and over. When the slow number came on, however, I beat a hasty retreat to the table. She had the glazed look of needing a pelvic grind, a dry hump, in her rheumy eyes. I warn't having any of that shit.

The next day we left them to their own devices, and went to Disney World. When we returned Merle and Floyd were ripped. We had a few drinks, then escaped to Floyd's Blue Dolphin, as I had christened his apartment. "I winna tell ennabobby youse sleppin togethas!" averred Merle, for which solemn vow I thanked her.

The next morning we came down for coffee. Floyd had apparently passed out on the sofa, because he had just roused, still wearing his ubiquitous coveralls, scratched his codsack, and remarked "Well, yesterday was a waste". Indeed, thought I.

Anyhoo, just a snippet from the life of a special relative. We all have 'em. And they are all crazy. And I can't conclude this post without putting up a picture of the Great Love of Merle's life. The one that got away. The young man she dated when she first moved to Waycross in her twenties, and was almost betrothed to, as she tells it. Pernell Roberts, from Bonanza. AKA Trapper John, MD. Nooooo shit. Gee. Wonder what scared him off?