He may not have had kids of his own, but his nieces and nephews loved him dearly. They even superimpose themselves into pictures for him.
My Tio Carlos was the man.
In Finally a Dodgers Post… Sort of, I promised to tell you about my uncle one day. Sunday, March 2nd, marked what would have been his 46th birthday, and he has been on my mind more than usual lately. Apparently, when I said one day I really meant, in like one week.
My uncle was schizophrenic and quite possibly the funniest individual I have ever known.
He was a hamburger connoisseur and an incessant gambler. Not the reckless, bet your rent money type of gambler. More like the win twelve bucks from a slot machine and cash out as soon as possible type of gambler.
I’m not sure if it’s possible to be physically addicted to a combination of Tums antacid and Lotto scratcher tickets, but if it is… he was the poster child.
He was also the only person in my life who loved the Dodgers as much as I did.
Often, I would pick him up on my way to Dodger Stadium for a night game and the first thing he would do is change my radio station to Hot 92.3. He was a big Art Laboe fan.
Then came a punch on the knee or a strong half hug accompanied with a huge smile… a physical manifestation of his excitement to get out of the house and take in the sights of Dodger Stadium with his nephew.
In his last few years, my grandparents and Tio Carlos lived with my Uncle Vic in his West Covina home. My Uncle Vic would call me up on game days and make sure I still planned on picking up his brother after work.
“Hey Aaron. You’re still taking Carlos tonight right? Just making sure, because he’s been ready to go, in his Dodgers shirt, since 8 in the morning.”
As soon as he had the smooth, old school jams pumping out of my radio, Tio Carlos would ask me to stop by 7-11 so he could buy some scratchers. But he never wanted to go to the gas station en route to the freeway, he was always hearing about some guy winning a minor jackpot at a 7-11 across town. I would explain that his chances to win big were actually less at that particular store, but he would hear none of my negativity. So I’d make the drive to the damn gas station and what would he do?
He would put the newly purchased scratcher in his pocket and save it for later. After all that? A rather anti-climactic superstition if you ask me.
Half way to the stadium, talking loudly over George Clinton’s Atomic Dog, he would usually say something along the lines of, “What are you gonna buy me to eat the stadium Aaron?”
I’d shoot him a stern look and he would back pedal, ” Just kidding bro, I’ll buy myself a burger… just get me a Coke.”
His quirkiness and child-like innocence were infectious. He was always polite but definitely lacked any sort of social filter.
“Did you see that chick back there bro? With the big butt. She wanted me.” The woman that “wanted him” was an usher at the ballpark and had merely shown my uncle where his seat was. But I always played along.
“Good job Tio, she was a good one!” I’d say after giving him a high-five.
Never a dull moment.
Everyone always thanked me for spending so much time with my Tio Carlos. I call bullshit. I should have thanked him.
A person suffering from mental illness lives a lonely life. We see them everyday. The forgotten citizens of our communities, walking the streets or standing on the side of a freeway exit. When they look our direction, we quickly shift our gaze, careful not to lock eyes, as if doing so would immediately turn us to stone.
Comparably, my uncle was lucky. His schizophrenia had developed late in adolescence and he had a strong support network from his family.
In middle school and high school, my uncle was popular. A great athlete and ladies man, he loved telling me stories about the nights when he would cruise Whittier Boulevard or Elysian Park in his white Volkswagen Bug, a pretty girl with “nice boobs” around his arm. Those were his proverbial glory days and part of him would always be stuck there. If I came over and he thought I looked handsome or hip on that given day he’d say, “Dang Aaron, you look like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.” I think that’s where my nickname for him, The Disco King, came from.
When he thought I looked buff after a workout, I looked like “Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
If I was really lucky he’d show me the exercise routines he and my Dad used to do out of his Arnold workout magazine when they were kids. I would watch him do half-assed push-ups and dips against the box spring of his mattress and laugh until my face hurt.
After the initial episodes that came with the onset of his condition, my uncle’s behavior stabilized with the help of medication and a regular routine. He knew he was sick. I often asked him about the voices he heard. When he was doing well, the voices were merely whispers. Soft. Tolerable. He had the ability to distinguish them from reality.
When he struggled, the voices grew louder with a seemingly persistent and negative connotation. He would hear the voices of family members or old friends, even complete strangers. During these dark times, the line between reality and delusion blurred, resulting in paranoia. The episodes also effected him physically… throbbing headaches, dizzy spells, and constant heart burn were some of the symptoms he was forced to endure. With all of the antacid tablets he ate, the guy could have been a spokesman for Tums.
I often made the drive to my uncle’s house, hoping to surprise my Tio Carlos and watch the Dodger game on his couch instead of mine. It was not uncommon to find him in bed at three in the afternoon, with a wet towel over his head. Bad day or not, he was always happy to see me. Always.
The normalcy that my uncle experienced during his formative years left him yearning for a regular life. As we watched a game, my uncle would express his desire to find a good job and meet a nice woman. He wanted a wife and kids. A family of his own. He saw the lives that his brothers had built for themselves. His nephews were graduating college and securing good jobs. Embarrassed, he would sigh, “I’m forty five and I live with my brother, bro.” He thought he was some sort of burden on the family, a charity case.
My uncle longed for the life that many men take for granted. The shitty job, the nagging wife, the mortgage. That was his dream.
I often thought about my uncle and his future. Where would he stay when my grandparents passed? Who would look after him? He was not the picture of good health. Surely his poor diet and the endless amount of medication he consumed would catch up to him. Daily doses of Klonopin and fucking Clozapin can’t be good for your liver. Poor guy.
I was sure that one of his brothers or sisters would eventually take him in for the long-haul, but I always hoped he’d choose to live with me. Compassion, patience and a good sense of humor were must-have qualities when sharing a residence with the Disco King (or me for that matter). Hell, I couldn’t think of a better barometer for a future potential wife.
What? You don’t like living with Uncle Charlie? Okay, kick rocks.
Obviously the Big Guy Upstairs had different plans for my partner in crime. When he passed away in May, our family lost it’s heart and center. When he died in that fucking river bed, we lost our innocence.
There is still a large cloud of mystery that hovers over the death of my uncle. There are questions that will never be answered. Sometimes I get angry when I think of him, many times I get sad. But mostly… I just laugh. I am truly grateful for every second that I spent with that man. He taught me how to appreciate the little things in life. How to live in gratitude. How to laugh until your stomach hurts.
The best Thanksgiving… ever. Obviously, my uncle did not like my brother’s long, “girly” haircut.
Thinkin' Blue 