For Chuck
- May 21, 2021
- 3 min read
by Nick Olson
We pulled into Chuck and Mary’s with all my earthly possessions packed on, around, and behind me. Left an eight year relationship, put in notice at my job, and I was set to leave the state next day. Clean slate.
Chuck wasn’t an uncle. Technically a second or third cousin through marriage, but the age difference made him feel like an uncle. He fought in Vietnam, and I was eleven years old when 9/11 happened.
I wasn’t yet sober, so I drank with family, let the glass get filled up a few times, continued where they left off.
Chuck was the first seriously traumatized person I could remember meeting. Didn’t have words for it as a kid, but you could grok it in his eyes. He never seemed at ease, even when he wanted to be. Don’t-fuck-with-me built into his face, but he’d ask me more about school and hobbies and plans than anyone else did. Actually gave a shit what the answers were.
Wanted to ask questions back, questions about the war, but never did. He had a print on the wall, had had it for as long as I could remember. Lee Teter’s “Reflections.” Aging veteran, hand against memorial wall, ageless fallen comrades reaching back through stone’s reflection. Chuck let the painting speak for him.
By then, the stitches were out of my arms, scars red, purple. Long sleeves every day. Long sleeves then, even though family knew.
Chuck abhorred chitchat. He’d rather not say anything than talk about nothing. I was always a quiet kid, so we got along well. Both of us on the couch, watching a game, speaking only when necessary. He had back problems, knee problems, so it was easier to pick a spot and stay there. I didn’t blame him.
Last few days of packing, I stayed in a hotel with a pool. Got in, alone, and went to the bottom. Tried not to see Chicago River, splashing, the bridge I’d jumped from. Did anyway.
At Chuck’s, I had more wine than I ever had before in my life. More than I could handle. When I got sick, he was first to check on me after I left the bathroom. You could hardly ever accuse Chuck of being tender, but he was. Even in that moment, wobble-world, I recognized the practiced way he comforted. How natural it came to him. He understood pain like that.
Crying as I write this. Was crying as it was happening, on and off, trying to stop the tears.
Chuck was just there. Got sick again, came out of the bathroom again, Chuck was just there. Everyone felt bad, didn’t know what to do. And Chuck was just there. I made sure not to leave a mess, but he didn’t give a shit either way. It was fine.
Next day, we were off, and I was gone. Never saw Chuck again. Never got to.
He got really sick, all at once. Deteriorated. Passed. I never got to say goodbye, but Chuck wasn’t one for all that bullshit. I’ll see ya when I see ya. Take care.
I have the words for it now. Had to learn them. PTSD, EMDR, CBT, ADLs. I think Chuck would be proud of where I’m at. My ongoing recovery. He wouldn’t say it, but then again he never really had to.
Nick Olson is the author of Here’s Waldo and Editor-in-Chief of (mac)ro(mic). Originally from Chicagoland, he now lives in North Carolina. He’s been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, Hobart, Fiction Southeast, and other fine places. Find him online at nickolsonbooks.com or on Twitter @nickolsonbooks.
