Tea at Trimalchio's XLI

with Paul Kavanagh

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uncle seth

Every Friday I had a drink with Uncle Seth.

Uncle Seth was a cantankerous man that enjoyed his beer and food with eupeptic fashion.

When I went drinking with Uncle Seth I always made sure I had lots of money.

Uncle Seth told the best stories.

Sometimes Uncle Seth stopped his story telling and complained. He mostly complained about the weather.

Uncle Seth was very proud of the fact that he had survived the War.

Uncle Seth never lost at dominoes.

In a dark corner we would sit and drink and smoke.

"See him there," said Uncle Seth pointing to a croaked man aided by a walking stick. "He used to be the local hardman. He used to stand head and shoulders above the rest. Now kids beat him and nobody gives a damn."

He might have said shit. But anyway.

The man had the countenance of a tortured soul. What pity I felt was quickly lost in the darkness of the well for Uncle Seth went on to relate all of the nefarious and heinous crimes the now effete man had once committed. It was a terrible litany.

Uncle Seth knew anybody and everybody knew Uncle Seth. One man that always reduced Uncle Seth to a bag of laughter went by the name of Clod.

Clod told the best stories and he always finished them unlike my Uncle Seth.

"Fatty Goring is nothing but a drug addict," shouted my grandmother, her croaked words barely made it pass her rotting gums.

I stumbled over something knocking it over. My ineptitude produced a loud bang. I was blind back then, blind I say. I couldn't see the end of my nose. It was the War. All those bombs, explosions, flashes blinded me.

My grandmother placed a sloppy kiss upon my cheek. Though, it could have been Uncle Tate. Anyway, somebody's bristles tickled me.

"Oh he's worse than Goring," said my grandmother. "He'll level the house before the jerry, he will."

Uncle Tate moved from Bach to a little ditty.
There was a man covered in muck
But his lover didn't mind she still wanted to

"Stop that!" interrupted my grandmother.

Uncle Tate wanted to be the next George Formby, but he didn't have the teeth, but his squint and height gave him the look of Himmler, I'm told.

Uncle Tate picked up syphilis. I'm told.

"What's up with Richard the third?" he asked pertaining to me.

"The doctor said scoliosis," answered my grandmother.

"No, why can't he see?"

My grandmother's hypothesis was lost because Uncle Tate started to tickle the keys.
Shine on, shine on harvest moon
For me and my girl

"You'll be the next one to go blind," exclaimed my grandmother.

"If it wasn't for my flat feet I'd be up there fighting Goring's boys," stated Uncle Tate.
Old Goring said look at me
I'm drinking Hitler's pee
It taste so fine, just like wine

"Where does he sleep?" asked Uncle Tate.

"With me," said my grandmother. "I can't trust him, he'd piss in the cupboard and shit on the dog if I didn't tie him to me."

After washing and pissing my grandmother tied a belt around us. I snuggled up to her and I was happy for the cold never woke me up.

"Did the doctor take a look at you?" asked Uncle Tate.

"There's nothing wrong with me," stated my grandmother.

"Your heart woman," shouted Uncle Tate.

"If old Churchill can stand up to the jerry so can I," she bellowed.

"Come on Clod sing us a song," encouraged Uncle Tate doing some runs.

My grandmother dragged me around the city. I kept tripping and more than once I nearly toppled her over. The pavements, roads and backstreets were layered with debris. The city had been eviscerated and like the carcass of a dead animal the city reeked. My city had been immolated and though it reeked, it still screamed, shouted, bellowed and cussed. The city mainly cussed.

Macy's has gone, McCormick's, Smith's. The Johnson's have been evaporated, the library, the Odeon, the bingo, they've all gone, all gone, dust that is all, dust and memories. I could almost hear Goring singing ebulliently.
There was once a city
Now, it's just a cavity

"O John Milton!" screamed my grandmother. "My poor heart. Look what those philistines have done to Milton. I'm in need of a drink. My poor heart."

It seems that the jerry had knocked Milton off his pedestal.

"I wish they get rid of Slater's," said Uncle Tate. "I owe him a pound."

And so my grandmother filled my cup up with gin. Uncle Tate stayed around until he felt tight and then he left for a pub. He's ruined, my grandmother told me between swigs. We sang most of the night and my grandmother told me about Milton. Although, she mixed Milton up with Ben Johnson, she told me how Milton had once been a bricklayer, how he killed a man, and that he was born and bred in the city.

I snuggled up close to her in our little bed. She had fastened the belt a notch too many. From her dilated pores sweat and gin poured and generated a cozy warmth. My head swirled in a wonderful nebula. Sleep was not a problem. The cold had been vanquished and the odor of my grandmother filled my nostrils, the reek of death had been superseded. I was in heaven. I fell into a deep sleep. But then I was awoke.

"What the devil, I've been violated!" screamed my grandmother leaping from the bed, snapping the belt.

I had not wet the bed. I was about to, but she hadn't given me the chance.

"You little monster!" she screamed.

"What grandmother?" I asked hearing her stagger around the room.

"I've been violate…your…hard…hard…"

I heard her topple.

Uncle Seth loved these stories of Clod.

I always bought Clod a drink for stopping and telling us a story. Once he got his drink he always disappeared.



© Paul Kavanagh 2008

image ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Kavanagh was born in England 1971. His novel, everybody is interested in pigeons, will be published by 40FT Books in Spring 2008.