Free Call the Shots by Don Calame Page A

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