Uncle Bob Ch. 10

Chapter 10. A nice day for a white wedding

Note to readers: Thanks for sticking with this story, & for giving Chapter 9 such a great reception. I'm sorry Chapter 10 has been so long in being uploaded; life gets in the way of art sometimes, and I also had to go back & check timelines. I'm hoping to finish the story in 2019; I know roughly how it goes from here on in, though unlike J K Rowling, I don't have it fully mapped out. (And unlike George R R Martin, I won't suddenly jump back 300 years!) So I'm setting myself a target of a chapter every 1-2 months; I think there are 6 more chapters after the one I'm writing now. But who knows, maybe Stacey will lead me off in a new direction before I get there.

Anyway, folks - I hope you enjoy this one, and Chapter 11 should be out before the end of January.

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I opened the door, and Josh stood in the porch. One look at me and his eyes narrowed.

"You?" he said with a mixture of incredulity and annoyance.

"You were expecting maybe the Easter Bunny? Come in." I said, keeping my tone light and friendly.

Still eyeing me suspiciously, Josh picked up his suitcase and stepped into the hall.

I gave him my friendliest smile, extending my hand. He extended his own and shook tentatively, as if expecting me to seize it and cut it off at the wrist. Tempting though this thought was, I remained friendly. "OK, Josh, first things first. I'm Stacey's Uncle Bob, but you can call me 'sir'. Basically, I care for Stacey when her dad - my brother - has his head up his ass. As recto-cranialism has been his main hobby for at least the last ten years, that means that I look after her best interests about 100% of the time, which is why I erased those pictures of you fucking her from off your cellphone. Now I don't get any say in who she chooses to socialize with, date or fuck; she's eighteen and can make her own mistakes. However, in return, the guys don't get any say in what happens to them if, as a result of said socializing, dating or fucking, they hurt her. I have an impressive collection of auto-body tools that I'd be more than happy to demonstrate on any asshole who fails to treat her with respect. Don't worry, I probably wouldn't even leave a scar - I'd just inflict a very great deal of pain. Capiche?"

"Er, I, like, guess so."

"Good. Now you seem to be a nice enough guy, and I get the impression that you didn't really want to show me those pictures; that shit-for-brains jerk Aaron made you do it. So having got the health warning out of the way, maybe we can still be friends. Your room is at the top of the stairs, first door to the left. When you're ready, come out to the pool deck; Stacey and her mom are there. Now, would you like a beer?"

"Bob - er, sir, I - I'm, like, eighteen."

"Sure. And of course you've never tasted beer before," I added with knowing sarcasm. "Look, I may double as security around here, but I'm not a cop. Now the ladies - including Stacey - already have some wine and I'm drinking beer, so you're welcome to join me, or we have various sodas and juices if you'd prefer."

"No - no, a beer would be great thanks. A Bud - please."

"Now that's where you're wrong, Josh. When I said a 'beer', I meant a liquid that contains malt, hops and yeast, not something Anheuser-Busch bottles from the back of the urinals. We have a couple of hundred craft breweries in this great nation of ours, not to mention thousands from the rest of the world, and I try to keep a small selection of my favorites. Let me introduce you to one or two of the more interesting brews so you know what beer actually tastes like. In the meantime, take your bag upstairs and get changed for the pool deck."

When he emerged onto the deck in a pair of shorts, a tight-fitting t-shirt and some water sandals. Stacey jumped up from her sun-lounger and hugged him. For a moment I felt tempted to go for my auto-body toolkit, but realized that, for now at least, I would need to share her affections with him. The guy looked cute. Now I'm not gay, you understand, but I could understand why chicks would find him attractive. I got the impression that he had the full attention of both women present.

Dolores followed her daughter's lead and went to give him a hug and a kiss, which seemed to me a little beyond motherly. They stayed talking, with Josh's arm around Stacey's shoulders. At that point, I guess I was pleased that I didn't have the required tools to hand, as I would naturally have been inclined, under the circumstances, to break every fucking bone in his cute little body. But being a master of self-control - well, maybe more of a novice, but you get the idea - I simply smiled, got up from my sun-lounger and handed the boy a beer, forcing him to let go of Stacey (a good trade in my books). He took a tentative swig, perhaps guessing (with some justification) that I may have poisoned it, or at least spat into it.

"Hey - this, like, tastes pretty good," he said.

"Yeah, it's quite acceptable - maybe a little light but a good beginner's taster. It's Hurricane Pilsner from the Florida Brewing company. Perhaps, when you've tried that, we'll move you onto something a little more - adventurous. Now, I think there are still some chips & dip left. I'll be fixing us some lunch in maybe a half hour. There's some sunscreen on the table, and take a dip in the pool any time you like. Towels are by the pool steps."

Josh pulled up a sun-lounger next to Stacey's, and they started a conversation in Lingua-Valley that was undecipherable to anyone over 25 without an interpreter. I thought that after years of trying to understand the meaningless drivel that Stacey and her friends spoke a lot of the time, I'd be tuned in to what passed for conversation for the under-21s, but no. After a few minutes of trying to eavesdrop on their 'conversation', if that was what it could be called, I gave up and headed for the kitchen to prepare lunch. I noticed that Josh had half-finished his beer, and wondered if I could find an empty 'Bud' bottle to piss in. I figured that if I chilled it enough in the freezer, I could pass it off to Josh as the 'King of Beers' and he'd be none the wiser. Instead, I poured myself a Negra Modelo and started making the Bolognese sauce for the pasta dish I'd promised for lunch.

After about ten minutes, when the ground beef, onions and garlic were sizzling nicely, Josh walked into the kitchen.

"Hey, er. Sir," he began, haltingly. "Stacey's mom would like another white wine and Stacey has asked if she can have the same. And I'd so like to try another of your beers, sir, if I may."

"Sure," I said, carefully stirring the passata into the mix in the pan. "The wine bottle is in the fridge, but be sure to let Stacey know this is her last one today. There are maybe around a dozen beers in there too. Take the wines to the ladies and come back, and I'll help you choose one."

I chopped up a mess of bell peppers, mushrooms and basil leaves and added them to the mix. A little seasoning and all was going well. I set the pasta cooking - fusilli, I thought, as it's less embarrassing to eat than spaghetti. Josh returned and studied the bottles in the refrigerator. I have to admit that there were quite a few.

"Hey these sure have, like, weird names," he said, scanning the selection. "What's that you're drinking, if you don't mind me asking?"

"It's a dark Mexican beer called Negra Modelo. Probably a little advanced for your palate. Try that one." I said, pointing towards a colorfully-labelled bottle.

"It says 'American IPA' on it," he said in a puzzled voice. "Like, what's that?"

"Well, 'IPA' stands for 'India Pale Ale'. That doesn't mean some sort of fire-water the early settlers sold to Native Americans. Basically, it's a style of beer that travels well, especially on sailing ships. See, beer is actually alive. That doesn't mean it crawls out of its barrel to eat the brains of the living, though after a few it can feel like that. It means that if you give some sugars or carbs to a yeast culture in water, the yeasts keep on growing, eating the sugars in the malt and producing alcohol and CO2 until the alcohol level reaches a point where they go dormant, or the beer gets pasteurized, or you drink it - whichever comes first. Most beers don't like being thrown around too much, and they can taste pretty bad for a long time after. Don't ask me the science bit, but the Brits came up with this type of beer that, if you took it in a sailing ship all the way to India, then let it settle down a while - you know, farm a bit of land, build a shack, raise some kids - it still tasted good."

Josh gave me a look that seemed to question whether I should be left unsupervised in a kitchen with knives and other sharp things. "Sorry, Josh. Just my sense of humor. So some guys over here tried it, liked what they tasted and started making something similar. Most of what we call 'beer' is just one style; Europeans would call it 'lager'. Mostly, what the big boys make - SAB Miller, InBev (that's Bud to you) and the like - I call 'piss'. This Modelo is a Mexican take on a dark lager. It's a little more rounded and complex than your average 'lite beer'. If you like a lighter beer style, you can get some great lagers in Europe, and if you go to somewhere like Belgium or Britain there are hundreds of styles; ales, porters, stouts, bocks - all sorts."

"Cool!"

"Well, yeah, or as the Brits say, 'cellar temperature'. Sorry, just another of my stupid jokes. The great thing about beer is that the more you look, the more types there are around. In Europe, towns often have their own brewery, brewing something unique to that area that they're very proud of. So Pilsner, especially Pilsner Urquell, the original pilsner, comes from a town called Pilsen. Budweiser Budvar comes from the town of Budweis."

"Ah, so that's like Bud, huh?"

"No."

"But you said..."

"The real stuff, which we shall call 'Budvar', does indeed come from there. Old man Busch, back in the 19th Century, took a tour of Europe, liked the beer he tasted in Budweis, and decided to use the name. But sadly that's all he used. See, beers in the Czech Republic, Germany and places where beer, like other food and drink, really matters to people and they don't have things like Hershey Bars and spray cheese, they're not allowed to be called 'beer' unless they're made out of just malted barley, hops, water and yeast - nothing else. That's what the law - the actual law - says. But malted barley is expensive, so over here, the big boys shove in flaked maize, rice - any old cheap shit to pad it out. They serve it real cold so your taste buds go numb and you can't tell just how bad it is. Try room-temperature Bud - it's disgusting. And InBev and SAB Miller have these huge marketing machines to tell you how great their 'beer' is. And it works - Miller and InBev sell more of their products than all the real brewers in the world, which probably explains how Donald Trump got into the White House. The self-styled 'King of Beers' actually isn't allowed to be sold as beer at all in countries like Germany where they pretty-well invented the lager-style beer, because it breaks their beer purity laws. Those laws were introduced to stop assholes from passing off cheap piss in the name of beer. Unfortunately, Uncle Sam lets them do just that. Fortunately, thanks to plucky craft brewers across the nation, we now have a choice, and one that's growing all the time. You, lucky young fellow that you are, are looking at just a small selection of the almost infinite variety that awaits you - an adventure in taste that can last you a lifetime. So pick a beer, shut the refrigerator and call Stacey and Dolores - the food's about ready."

Josh and I continued our discussion about beer over lunch. I enjoyed it, although I saw Stacey give me that look that said 'ohmygod, Uncle Bob's talking shit again and I have to find a way to stop him before someone finds a carving knife'.

Dolores managed to steer the topic around to the wedding. "Now, Robert, you will be on your best behavior, won't you?"

"Dolores, you know me. If you're looking for someone to do the right thing at the right time, I'm your man."

"Robert, I'm being serious. If we're going to avoid any embarrassing interludes - at least, embarrassing for us - then we need to be subtle about this. I don't want you causing a scene. You're my guest and I need you to behave."

"Strictly speaking, Dolores, I'm the guest of Michael and Chelsea, as your 'plus partner', but honestly, when it comes to occasions like this, 'Subtlety' is my middle name."

"Indeed?" she said. For some reason, she seemed to be in a grouchy mood today, even though the food was good and I'd eaten her out twice the night before. "There was a time when I thought your middle name was Asshole."

I refused to let Dolores' snipes spoil my good humor, especially as I felt things were not bad, despite sharing a house with the boy who'd fucked my darling Stacey, and the fact that, in just one more week, my princess would be getting on an airplane to a country where every male from puberty to senility would be trying to get inside her panties - if she even chose to wear any.

"Dolores, my dear, that's because you were wearing shit-tinted glasses at the time. The only real asshole around was my dick-brained brother who, as you may have forgotten, you were trying to divorce at the time. May I also remind you that he has invited you and - inadvertently - me to his wedding? In fact, if you want a real measure of whether my brother and I are still in some crazy conspiracy against you, ask yourself this; why did you receive an invitation for him to rub your nose in his new-found happiness with Plastic Chelsea, but I didn't? No Dolores, I won't embarrass you. I won't give my brother a 'let bygones be bygones' hug. Neither will I spoil Chelsea's big day by battering his smug face until he bleeds all over her dress, though he may richly deserve such treatment. My plan is simply to smile benignly at him and annoy the fuck out of him by just being there at all - and thank you for that opportunity. If he chooses to engage me in conversation, I'll be polite and friendly. If he chooses to be abusive, then I may innocently ask whether Chelsea's nipples have the sort of valves that take a foot-pump, but no, Dolores, I won't embarrass you."

Josh - foolishly, I thought - tried to intercede. "I'm sorry, but I don't get it. If you hate your brother so much, why do you want to go to his wedding? Why not just stay away?"

"A good question, young man," I replied before Dolores could get a word in. "The main reason is that Stacey has been invited to be Maid of Honor, and having seen the dress she's going to wear, I wouldn't miss the sight of her all dressed up in it for the world." This was very true. Whether I'd need to get my tongue dry-cleaned afterwards was an interesting point.

"Secondly, Michael hurt a lot of people - most of all Stacey, Dolores and me - around the time of the divorce. Now Dolores and me, we were big enough and, at least in my case, ugly enough to take it and give back as much as we got. Stacey, on the other hand, was just one very frightened and very hurt little girl, and there is no way I will ever, ever, forgive my brother for what he did to her. Part of the reason Stacey and me are so close is that back then she needed a daddy to cling to, as much as a mommy. I stepped in and became that daddy, because Michael was too consumed with being the smart-ass lawyer, punishing his wife and everyone else, to worry about the collateral damage he was causing Stacey. Every one of his 'surgical strikes' against Dolores left Stacey more broken and bleeding. No father should ever be allowed to do that and get away with it. He should never have been given access, but maybe it's as well that he was, because he then got too lazy to take up most of his visits, so I got to see an awful lot of this young lady. And that's why, my friend" - I looked him in the eye - "no-one, absolutely no-one, hurts that little girl without reckoning with me." I held eye contact to make sure he knew I meant it.

"And finally, to answer your question directly; I want to go to Michael's wedding, with Dolores and Stacey at my side, to show him that we're all happy together, and strong, and that we - and especially Stacey - are all in a very good place, despite everything he threw at us. Michael is all about the wealth and showing it off. He can't see around his own ego. Sure, he has the diamond Rolex and the Ferrari and the big house on Palm Beach and another in the Hamptons, but if his marriage to Chelsea lasts any longer than one of Cher's, I'd be surprised. And then what? Off he goes, pursuing another gold-digger, leaving Chelsea - and anyone else who gets in his way - bleeding in the gutter. Taking me to the wedding was Dolores' idea, and for once it was a good one."

"Robert..." Dolores began, but I just smiled.

"Hey, it's OK. It's about enjoying Stacey's big day and spoiling - in a subtle way - Michael's big day. What could be better than that?"

"But Uncle Bob, please don't spoil it for Chelsea. She may seem like she's this airhead bimbo, but, like, she doesn't have too many friends or family, which is why she asked me to be her Maid of Honor. I asked her who I should invite to her bachelorette party, and there were like, not even five names there. She says she knows loads of guys, 'cuz, like, they're hitting on her all the time, but she has hardly any girlfriends. Her mom lives in, like, this tiny apartment in Seattle, and no-one's seen her dad in years. Her older brother died of an overdose. She's had a really bad time, and now she has dad. I think she's hoping that this is where her life gets better. She can see that maybe he's not as wonderful as he looks, but, like, anywhere is better than where she's been. At least be nice to her, for me?"

"You have my word, Angel, and I think that goes for all of us. We'll be nice to Chelsea, we'll do our best to quietly show our contempt for Michael, and we'll all adore you in your outfit. And there'll be two guys there to keep unwanted attention away from you, won't there, Josh?"

"There sure will, sir."

"What about if I get unwanted attention?" Dolores added, archly.

"Dolores, my dear, if anyone gave you unwanted attention I would expect no less than to see his nuts on a tray within five minutes. But of course, it goes without saying that I will also be looking out for you. Now if we've all finished with the pasta, I'll get the dessert. I hope everyone likes Key Lime Pie? Homemade, of course - mostly by Stacey here."

Dolores gave me a look, and then turned to Stacey's new boyfriend. "So tell us about yourself, Josh. Stacey says you're into diving and sailing and stuff."

"Well, I guess so. My folks ran a dive school in Grand Cayman for a while. We traveled around a lot when I was growing up. We spent some time in California when I was little, then the Yucatan and Puerto Vallarta in Mexico. I grew up speaking Spanish as much as English, but I was only eight when we first moved to Florida. Most of the last ten years I've lived in and around the Caribbean, spent some time in the Keys, with two years when my dad tried running a dive operation in Provo - that's Providenciales in the Turks and Caicos Islands. I started diving when I was eleven and I made divemaster last year. I learned to sail when I was growing up and I started studying for the British yachtmaster qualifications when I was fourteen in the Bahamas, and now I can skipper a powerboat or a sailboat in coastal waters. I just love the ocean."

Up until then I'd found myself beginning to like Josh.