“You Got Any Money . . . He Heeds Him a New Transmission”

Well, he’s special, he’s the last to carry on the St. John name. So whatever my nephew wanted that my brother could get for him, he got. And the boy was never called upon to do anything . . . not a single chore. All work fell on Ralph’s daughter, Wendy. “But he was alot younger than her back then.” “No he wasn’t,” I yell. “He wasn’t any younger than her back then than he is now.” And he would only eat certain things and Jesus, the suppositories that went up his special ass because frozen chocolate donuts were his favorite food. He was 5 years old jumpin’ up and down, “I wanna ’pository . . . wanna ’pository.” One year he even got an electric train, it was sold 2 weeks later to pay the rent. He got the best room . . . near the heat. He beat on the little girl and never got in trouble. Wendy the slave did all the work. Cooked . . . cleaned . . . washed. At supper, a regular meal for the family and a special separate meal for him: A) a H-burger w/tater chips or B) a H-dog w/corn doodles. NO SUBSTITUTIONS. She finally just left at 18, came to N.Y. Who cooked for the constipated prince on a pillow then? Not his mother who always plopped it on the couch and whined for her cup of coffee. When things fell apart up here, Wendy went to Texas and tried to help him out. He drove his rattletrap down there and got on at the restaurant . . . lasted 2 weeks and then mid-shift he threw his rag down and “I ain’t worshin’ another plate.” He made it back to my brother’s in 12 hours. He sleeps . . . eats . . . sleeps . . . eats. He’s 28 years old. He leaves notes for Ralphie . . . grocery notes. He drinks whole bottles of cooking wine, stalks around out in the woods and won’t help my brother on the roofin’ jobs. He just screams and yells and threatens to kill him. Especially if Ralphie makes too much noise with his fork when he’s eatin’ or if he sits cross legged and his flip flop slaps the bottom of his foot too loud. And if Ralphie belches . . . the boy goes crazy. He starts hollering at my brother. “Say it . . . say it . . . say: ‘Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,’ . . . say it . . . say it or I’ll KILL YOU,” he screams, “say it 3 TIMES.”