Call the Shots (9 page)

“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Most of the stuff we can cobble together for next to nothing.” Coop scrolls down what looks like a horror movie–themed Web page on my laptop. “But there are three things we absolutely need some casheesh for. One is a supreme camera, because it’s got to look professional. Two is special effects, for the same reason as one. And three is”— he smiles and clicks on something —“our entry fee.”

“Entry fee?” I ask. “For what?”

“For this.” He spins the laptop around for me to read.

I squint, trying to read the title. “What the heck is . . . TerrorFest?”

“It’s a film festival in NYC, baby. It’s where
Psychopathic Anxiety
was discovered. They have an amateur filmmaking contest. Anyone can enter a flick to be screened for two hundred bills. The top three films win fifty grand each. And
Zonkey!,
” Coop says, making a marquee in the air with his hands, “is going to be one of those films. But we’ve only got two months to get this puppy filmed, cut, and ready to show. So, who do you know who you can beg some coin off of?”

I laugh. “If I knew who we could get money from, we wouldn’t have to make this movie.”

“It doesn’t have to be a lot. Five grand would do. Don’t you have a college fund you can raid?”

“Pfff, right.” I snort. “As if my parents would ever let me touch that money.”

“Desperate times, dawg,” Coop says.

“I thought we were going to get someone to sponsor us. Like B&M Deli,” Matt says.

Coop shakes his head. “We don’t have time to canvas the neighborhood for suckers. If we want to get this bad boy up and running, then we need some scratch and we need it fast.”

“Okay, let me think.” I put down the
Movie Guide
and scrub at my eyes with the palms of my hands, like if I rub hard enough my brain will pop out an idea.

And then it comes to me. It’s not the best solution, for sure, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I open my eyes to see Coop and Matt staring at me hopefully.

“All right,” I say. “I guess there is
someone
I could ask.”

“O
KAY, SO, JUST TO WARN YOU,”
I say to Matt and Coop, “my uncle’s a little weird.”

Matt’s eyes narrow. “Weird, how?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “He’s just kind of odd. You’ll see.” I lift my fist to knock on Uncle Doug’s door when Coop grabs my wrist.

“Whoa, hold the phone,” he says, looking at me sideways. “We’re not going to black out and wake up tomorrow morning feeling like we’ve been bull-riding all night, are we?”

“Nice.” I shake my head. “Leap right in with the sickest thing imaginable.”

“What?” he says, feigning total innocence. “Someone tells you they’ve got a weird uncle, what are you supposed to think?”

“He’s just reclusive, is all. He’s not a perv.” I raise my fist again and rap on the door. “He happens to be a really chill guy. Just sometimes he comes across as a little . . . perma-fried.”

I wiggle my numb toes inside my frozen boots as we wait for Uncle Doug to answer the door. I have to admit, I’m a little on edge here. I have no idea what his reaction will be when I ask him for the money. Either he could be totally sympathetic to my plight — I mean, he
does
know Cathy, after all — or he could go ballistic, ranting about how he’s not the local bank.

Just then, the inside door swings open and there’s Uncle Doug. All six foot, two hundred and fifty pounds of him, wearing an XXL tomato-sauce-stained Buffalo Sabres hockey jersey and smoking a carrot-size joint. His hunormous bushy black beard hangs from his chin like a giant hairy lobster bib.

He’s got a big grin on his face and a happy twinkle in his eyes, like us coming to visit him is a welcome surprise. Which only heightens the guilt I’m already feeling.

“Good-morrow,” Uncle Doug says, raising his joint in a sort of smoky salute. “Your mom send you over here to shovel my driveway?”

“No.” I look over my shoulder at the foot of snow that blanketed all of Lower Rockville this morning. “But we’ll do it for you if you need to get your car out.”

He shrugs. “Only traveling I’m doing today is on my magic broomstick.” He smiles and takes a deep drag on his mega-joint. “These your buds?”

“Coop and Matt,” I say, “this is my uncle Doug.”

“A pleasure and a privilege,” Uncle Doug says, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Come in. It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.” He takes another toke, turns, and tromps down the hall.

Coop and Matt arch their eyebrows, looking a little worried as we enter the house.

“Take off your boots,” Uncle Doug calls from the other room. “And shut that fucking door. You think I’m made of money?” He cackles like this is the best joke ever.

We make our way down the hallway and step into the messy kitchen. Uncle Doug is already planted at the table, a cigarette-butt-and-roach-mounded ashtray on one side of him, a Diet Coke on the other, and a ratty old barely breathing laptop — with a game of Texas Hold’em up on the screen — directly in front of him.

“So, to what do I owe this impromptu sojourn? You come to pay me back for my amplifier you totaled?” He raises his eyebrows and takes a glug of his soda.

“Uh, no,” I say. Crap, I forgot all about the amp we wasted during the Battle of the Bands. I take a furtive whiff of my palm. “We just thought . . . we’d stop by. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Is that so?” Uncle Doug gently places his joint down in the ashtray, then lunges out and grabs me in a headlock. “Come by to visit your crazy uncle Doug?” He cackles loudly as he gives me a hair-tearing noogie.

“Ow, ow, ow.” Damn it! I should have known this was coming. I just didn’t expect his standard reception with my friends around. I struggle to get free, but he’s way stronger than me. I can see Matt and Coop — upside-down — pointing and laughing hysterically.

“Say ‘uncle,’” Uncle Doug says.

“Uncle!” I shout.

“Say ‘Uncle
Doug.
’” He grinds his knuckle into my scalp.

“Uncle Doug, Uncle Doug, Uncle Doug!”

Finally he lets me go and I stumble backward, trying to catch my breath.

Uncle Doug laughs maniacally. He snatches up his joint and takes a deep hit. “It’s good to see you, Seanie. You always were my favorite nephew.”

“I’m your only nephew,” I say, rubbing my sore head.

“That too.” He chuckles. “You boys want a drink? Diet Coke? Beer? Whiskey?”

“No, thank you,” Matt says.

“A sniff of this?” Doug waves the smoldering joint in the air.

Coop holds up his hand. “That’s okay. Thanks, though.”

“Good man,” Uncle Doug says. “Say no to drugs. I approve.” He takes another puff. “If I could go back and do it all again, well . . . ahh, who the hell am I kidding? I’d do it exactly the same way.” A giant plume of smoke escapes from his lips as he chuckles. “I mean, look at me. Successful businessman at fifty. Not a care in the world. Living the life of Riley.”

My gaze slides over to the stacks of takeout containers on the kitchen counter, the dirty dishes and empty soda cans piled in the sink, the towers of magazines and newspapers in the corner, and I can’t help but think he’s not being completely objective about things.

“Still,” Doug continues, “I respect your decision. Even if I don’t hold myself up to the same lofty standards as you kids. Although, Seanie my boy, I’m afraid you will not be getting off completely scot-free where drugs are concerned.”

I look from Matt to Coop, like maybe I’ve missed something. “I’m sorry, what?”

“When I meet my maker,” Doug says. “It’s in the will. I’m to be cremated and then the ashes are to be rolled up, passed around, and smoked by the whole family. No exceptions. If you want your inheritance, you take a toke. I’ve got so much THC in my bones, everyone should get a pretty heady buzz.” He howls with laughter before licking his fingertips and carefully squeezing out the glowing tip of the joint. “Would you guys take a seat? You’re making me nervous.”

Coop leaps in first, spinning one of the empty chairs around and sitting on it backward.

“So, what kind of business are you in, Mr. Burrows?” Coop asks.

Matt and me pull out the other two chairs and take our seats.

“Uncle Doug, please,” he says. “If I’m Uncle Doug to the ladies at the bank, and to the guys at the 7-Eleven, and to my dope dealer, then I’m
definitely
Uncle Doug to Sean’s pals.”

“Okay. Uncle Doug.” Coop suppresses a smile, like the words don’t feel natural on his lips. “So, are you, like, a stockbroker or something?”

“Rugs,” Uncle Doug says. “You’ve seen the Doug’s Rugs commercials on TV?”

“Oh, my God,” Matt says.
“Fit it tight, Fit it snug. A rug from Doug’s is a big warm hug.”

“I’ll give you one guess as to who Doug is.” Uncle Doug winks at us, then busts up laughing as he takes a slurp on his soda.

“That’s cool,” Coop says. “It must be sweet to be your own boss.”

“It’s a situation I highly recommend.” He taps a cigarette from a blue pack of American Spirits and lights it with a Sabres Zippo. “All right, enough with the niceties. I know you didn’t come all the way out here on the shittiest day of the year to talk to Uncle Doug about what he does for a living. So, what the hell do you want?” He takes a drag on his cigarette and releases the smoke. “Are we changing your amplifier repayment schedule or what? Ten bucks a week for the next two years too much of a burden on your allowance? Come on, spit it out.”

All of sudden, I don’t want to ask him for the money anymore. It feels wrong. Like I’m taking advantage or something.

“Well?” Doug says. “Let’s have it. The cat got your tongue or what?” He flicks the ash off his cigarette, and it tumbles down the mountain of butts piled in the ashtray.

“Nothing,” I say. “We don’t want anything. We just —”

I feel Coop kick my ankle under the table.

I take a deep breath. “Okay, that’s not completely true.” My voice comes out a little squeaky. “I mean, we did want to see you but . . . there’s something else we needed to ask you.”

“I’m all ears.” He takes another drag on his cigarette.

I press my sweaty palms into my thighs. “Okay, so, you know how Mom’s pregnant?”

“What?” Doug reels backward. “My sister’s
pregnant
? Are you shitting me? When the hell did
that
happen? And why is Uncle Doug the last one to hear about this?”

Every inch of my skin prickles with heat. “I — I thought,” I stammer. “I just assumed . . . I mean . . . You really didn’t know?”

“Ha!” Doug points at me with the two fingers that hold his cigarette. “Gotcha! You always were a little too easy to screw with, Seanie.” He cocks his head. “Come on, now. You really think your mother wouldn’t tell Uncle Doug that she was having a baby?”

I breathe a supreme sigh of relief. “No. Yeah.” I force a smile. “You got me for sure.”

“That was damn good.” Coop laughs. “Even
I
was convinced. And that’s from the baron of bull. Forget about rugs — you should have been an actor.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Uncle Doug says. “I did contemplate that once upon a time. Way back in the days of my youth.”

“Well, count me in as being fooled,” Matt adds, shooting me a meaningful look. “That was a brilliant performance.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Doug glances up at the Buffalo Bills clock over the sink. “Consider Uncle Doug sufficiently lubed up. Let’s get on with the reaming.”

I look at my friends, then back at Uncle Doug. Screw it. There’s no subtle way to do this.

“Okay.” I shake my head. “I’m just going to say this because . . . well . . . I sort of feel bad about it, but I’m desperate and there’s no one else I can turn to.”

“Uh-oh, here it comes. The International Bank of Doug.” Uncle Doug leans back in his chair and takes a long pull on his cigarette. He blows the smoke out and smirks. “Come on, already. Let’s have it. How much do you need, and what do you need it for?”

U
NCLE DOUG IS DEAD SILENT
after I explain the whole situation. He strokes his long bristly beard and regards us with his piercing, bloodshot eyes. His neck is stained an angry red, highlighting every little bump, mole, and broken capillary.