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I lifted the vending machine three inches off the ground and then dropped it again, expectantly. The banana Moon Pie teetered, but it didn’t budge.
“Of course I make a good point!” Rayleen chimed in. “He can’t stay here forever. He’s been here long enough to grow roots! And he’s starting to smell like that back room, too.”
My uncle rubbed his head and made a strangely sour face. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You sayin’ I stink?”
“Not stink, smell,” Rae corrected him snidely. “And yes.”
“Like what?”
“Like stagnation!” she declared in exasperation. “Inactivity. Stale motor oil too, but I’m talking more about roots, Bruce. Roots!”
Rayleen — my uncle’s girlfriend — weighed all of eighty pounds soaking wet, with blue hair and fierce eyes. She looked like one of the Skeksis from the Dark Crystal, if the Skeksis wore lipstick.
Still, the woman was tough as nails. As she pointed a crooked finger toward the hallway, I saw my uncle all but shrink.
“If you’re looking to die back there you may as well keep at it,” Rae went on. “I’ll let you go. But if you plan to continue dating me—”
The slam of my fist against the vending machine ended her sentence abruptly. The moon pie tumbled end over end, landing in the receiving tray as I turned bright red and shrugged.
“Sorry,” I apologized profusely. “Go on.”
I was used to their little spats by now, but I still wasn’t used to hearing my uncle’s name. Every time his girlfriend said it, I had to marvel at the absurdity of the word.
“Bruce?” he’d grumble at me once. “What the hell’s wrong with Bruce?”
“Bruce isn’t a name,” I’d laughed. “Not anymore. Bruce is a floor manufacturer!”
“Bruce was a name,” he’d fought back, “in the days when things actually mattered. And it was a good name, too. Lots of reliable people named Bruce, back in the sixties and seventies…”
I remembered the conversation like it was yesterday. Probably because it was yesterday. But that was besides the point.
“Anyway,” my uncle’s girlfriend went on, “it’s high time you moved in with me. Split some bills with me, for crying out loud.”
“I have enough bills here.”
“It would also stop me from having to drive back and forth to this godforsaken garage every time I want to see you,” said Rae.
“Woman, I don’t make you do those things!” my uncle grumbled.
“You do so!” she shot back. “Every time you refuse to leave this place and get on with your life. You might be in your seventies but you haven’t cashed in your chips yet. Right? Or have you?”
“No,” my uncle said defensively.
“Well good, because I’m nowhere near ready to cash in mine!” Rae agreed. “Lots of things to still see and do. Not gonna do them dragging you around by the ear, smelling like oil.”
I snickered to myself as I bit into the yellow-colored cake. It wasn’t until the last second that I remembered: I don’t even like banana Moon Pie.
“Now get whatever stuff you need and lets start packing my car before I change my mind.”
“Bah,” my uncle waved. “We’ve had this conversation more than a dozen times. You never change your mind.”
Rayleen scoffed. “Yeah, well maybe this time’s different,” she warned.
“And you’ve said that at least eight or ten times,” my uncle settled back, feeling pleased with himself.
They had this argument at least once a month. As usual I tried staying out of it, but sometimes I just couldn’t help but interject myself here and there.
