Lessons Learned to Impart to My Nephew

Notice that I deleted the word "little" to precede "nephew," as in, "my little nephew." I have for so long called him "my little nephew."

The only thing little about him now is that he is a little shit. I am terribly worried.

I went to my sister and brother-in-law's house after New Year's. Their home is LA in PA: lush with the hibiscus, pool, and cabana in summer; heated tile floors, gas fireplaces, wood floors, and well-stocked pantries in winter. Pillows multiply on the sofas and new master sleigh bed. The licking, vigilant Maltese is the moving love....
But I digress, maybe.

I showed up in the long driveway to find about six cars. A party, in the daytime? What vampire teens were these? But my sister's gold Acura was there, too.

We--my sister, brother-in-law, husband, and me--had all become used to a throng of partiers after we would make a dinner run. Suddenly, ten to twenty teens would show up, alcohol would miraculously appear: cheap beer. We would come back to find obnoxious teen boys and girls looking at us, like, "Who the hell are you, what do you want, and why are you bothering us? Go away."

It's not their house, you know?

Today, a sedate group of boys was watching football on the wrap-around sofa. Hardly saying a word.

My sister said, "Go look at your nephew."

Joe was in the middle of the boys on the sofa. He looked up. "S'up."

Proudly but shyly, he looked up, almost grinning, like a flirt.

He looked like Adam Lambert. Were those tattoos around his eyes? They had to be tattoos. Joe had just gotten a huge, foot-long tat down his right ribs of a cross, with boxing gloves draped over the outer horizontal arm, and a R.I.P. to his grandfather. He said the boxing gloves were there because he and his grandfather used to watch boxing together.   ?    Why would he get tattoos around his eyes? We had all been worried that he didn't like girls, but eye-liner tattoos?

None of the boys said anything.

I went back to sit with my sister at her computer.

"Did you see him? He was in a fight. He and some other boy. Joe was calling some other guy names, and they started beating each other up. In the middle of the street."

"Joe [Dad] didn't know what to say."

"We don't want him to go to Temple. We don't have to pay for it."

The beat-up look started to sink in.

"He's really an angry drunk."

Just then, two of the boys came to the island closest to us. They helped themselves to a menu out of one of the drawers, and started to check food items. They called in an order. They did not ask us if we wanted anything.

Joe and two boys went to pick up the order, and when they got back, all of the boys gathered around the island, and ate like jackals. No plates. Just pizza and cheesesteaks and fries. Maybe a napkin.

"Do you want chairs?" my sister asked.

One or two looked up, not Joe. "No, that's ok."

They finished, but did not clean up anything. The mess lay like a pile of kill. 

************

The thing is,  Joe says that I'm the cool relative. "You're cool; you've done things."
Maybe he actually has his head up his ass. 

I'm really worried. I don't want him to get killed because of some foot-in-mouth remark. I don't want him to get beat up. People beat other people to death.

I don't want him to get killed because of being in a car with a bunch of drunk guys. They have some *smart* idea that if they go out immediately after they are done drinking--or run out of Keystone beer--that they should get rid of the *evidence* and throw it in some *safe* dumpster so that no one will know. They also have to drive and take people home. Driving after drinking is NOT smart, you stupid fucks.

I don't want him to get arrested for buying beer. Even though he is underage, he found a distributor who will sell to him. "Oh, I left my ID in my car; I'll go get it." Dine and dash joke.
He has already been brought home by a cop. No repercussions.

I don't want him to give up on the idea of working hard for a goal. He was a good baseball player. He has had a great swing, and he knows the game. He has played baseball for years, all up and down the East coast. He was good. He wanted to be pro. Just because one dick coach drafted many players doesn't mean HE can't play. No one will ever give him anything; he does have to work. Well, Mom and Dad have given him everything.

Maybe it's time for that to stop.
No one ever gave me anything but a hard time. Maybe I'd better pass that on, along with the rest of the family genes.

My nephew doesn't read. But I think it is time for me to start writing down "What the Cool Relative Knows." I don't know how much time I have left.

Stay tuned......