|
|
Ron's Eulogy
By
Tom
Watts, Jan 13, 2007
My brother Ron blew his last paycheck on a three-day
drunk and then shot himself in his car in a parking lot. Ron drove clear
across town with a hipflask of whiskey and a .38 special on the passenger
seat, right past two police cars and a wedding, weaving back and forth on
the road. Ron was in love with a girl from the north, who was born in the
same year that I was born. Ron could put his hands around her neck and
touch his thumbs and fingers together. He would pretend to throttle her
for laughs.
When they found Ron in his car the ashtray was full and there was one
cigarette left in a new pack. They figured Ron sat there for a good while.
I know this 'cause the officers showed me the report. Ron just got sick of
all the bad luck and all the bad ideas.
I used to get beat up a good deal at school and Ron was always asking,
pointing at my newest black eye or whatnot, "Who gave you that?"
I would try to hide it, and in shame say, "No one, Ron. I fell off my
bike." Ron would get a look in his eyes and his teeth would clamp down
hard on each other. I guess we had the same blood running through us and
he felt some of those beatings with me. Ron had a big fight in his life
with the drinking and I guess I fought it with him. What I'm trying to say
is ... hell, I don't really know, but I think brothers never really
separate. They're joined; there's something holding them together like a
nest of eggs. Ron and me came from the same place and that place stayed
with us, in our blood and in the faces we wore every day.
The last time I saw Ron he was sitting in his living room watching a
movie. Something with Richard Pryor, I think. He was drinking whiskey and
water and his eyes looked old. I just figured Ron was straight tired from
work. A lot of things in the house didn't work anymore. But sometimes
things don't get fixed right away. We've all done that ... the sink, the
vacuum ... hell, even the TV.
I'm speaking to you all now as a man with a broken heart. Maybe that's
what's making me talk this way. I loved my brother but he wasn't supposed
to live. Not everyone is. Some folks are just too small, too gentle. I
know, we all know, that my brother was a drunk and a liar ... sometimes I
hated him ... but he was my brother and I guess that means more.
South London's Tom Watts
is a part-time chef and full-time idiot. He spends his time writing,
working, drinking and fighting the good fight.
Back |
