Read Online I'M NOT DEAD: The Journals of Charles Dudley Vol.1 by Artie Cabrera - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Artie Cabrera
Tags: Fantasy
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were both “you” to him. If he ever needed our attention, he would try to wave us over with his sticky and orange-stained fingers until one of us got off our asses.
“You.”
“Me?” I’d answer.
“No, the fat one,” he’d say, referring to Stewart.
When Mumford nodded off, I sometimes stepped on the tubes from his oxygen machine to see how long it would take him to die while he napped. Yes, a deadly experiment; unfortunately, it took too long, and he would wake up.
I lured the poodles Mimi and Bonnie to play by the outlet so they “accidentally” knocked the plug from the wall. His eyes widened and his lips curled inward into his mouth. All I had to do was smile and spell out the word “S-O-O-N” in the air with the tip of my itty-bitty finger to show him I meant “business.”
In my grandmother’s eyes, I could do no wrong because I was her little angel boy. Little did she know I was often fantasizing about and plotting to speed up her husband’s death. Unfortunately, the old geezer finally died of “natural causes” and not anything I could take credit for. Two packs of non-filtered Camels a day, bacon every morning, and enough medication to put away a mule sounds “natural” to me.
When Grandpa Dudley kicked the bucket, members of the family seemed to have been under the impression he’d died years ago. and were inconvenienced by his death. My family had deep pockets but short arms when it came to funerals. They shared their condolences by bargain hunting for the deceased’s casket and flower arrangements but spared no expense when it came to the food spread for our white-trash funerals.
AN ODE TO NANA
Thursday, January 16 th , 2014
Nana was the Queen Bee. She was the pin in the hand grenade known as the Dudley family. She was the stone cold matriarch who kept the kiddies in check, and once she was gone, the pin was pulled from the grenade, setting off a chain of explosive betrayal and calculated greed among my aunts and uncles.
The ink didn’t get a chance to dry on my grandmother’s will before the ambulance chasers and attorneys started calling. You can imagine the look on their faces when I got this house.
They had all waited with bated breath for her to die, and the greedy countdown had begun.
4…3…2…1…Cha-Ching!
Uncle Roger’s wife Posey was the most ravenous of them all. She was a low-class woman trying to cut it in a high-class world with her salon jobs, tacky sundresses, and shoes that screamed underneath the load of her legs and varicose veins.
“Oh, Nana, you were so bee-ootiful when you were young. You should have been a model! Oh, Nana, this necklace is so bee-ootiful!” Posey would squeal with delight as her desperate fat fingers engulfed Nana’s pearl necklaces.
I overheard “Pig face” Posey humming “na-na-hey-hey” at the barbeque just days before Nana died. What a piece of work.
I knew what you were doing, you lousy bitch. I was onto your feeding frenzy scheme the day the doctors diagnosed Nana with cancer, and she was, too. I’m sure it wasn’t the pearls, rings, and broaches you were after, you fat-faced worm, and in the end what did you get?—NOTHING. Your name couldn’t have been further from Nana’s will, and I laughed my ass off knowing she beat you at your own silly game. And I know you ate all the butter cookies and Linzer tarts, you fat bitch!
My uncles did everything in their power to have me hand them the house by trying to bribe me with money and keys to the timeshare in Nyack. “Charlie, it’s a lot of work owning a house. You have the mortgage and the bills to look after. It’s a lot of responsibility, pal. We could just sell it, give you your share and square it away,” and when that didn’t work, they tried to strong-arm me and use scare tactics.
I didn’t ask for this house or for the responsibilities that came with it, but I cherished the gift.
I was the last man standing, and I appreciated that Nana
“You.”
“Me?” I’d answer.
“No, the fat one,” he’d say, referring to Stewart.
When Mumford nodded off, I sometimes stepped on the tubes from his oxygen machine to see how long it would take him to die while he napped. Yes, a deadly experiment; unfortunately, it took too long, and he would wake up.
I lured the poodles Mimi and Bonnie to play by the outlet so they “accidentally” knocked the plug from the wall. His eyes widened and his lips curled inward into his mouth. All I had to do was smile and spell out the word “S-O-O-N” in the air with the tip of my itty-bitty finger to show him I meant “business.”
In my grandmother’s eyes, I could do no wrong because I was her little angel boy. Little did she know I was often fantasizing about and plotting to speed up her husband’s death. Unfortunately, the old geezer finally died of “natural causes” and not anything I could take credit for. Two packs of non-filtered Camels a day, bacon every morning, and enough medication to put away a mule sounds “natural” to me.
When Grandpa Dudley kicked the bucket, members of the family seemed to have been under the impression he’d died years ago. and were inconvenienced by his death. My family had deep pockets but short arms when it came to funerals. They shared their condolences by bargain hunting for the deceased’s casket and flower arrangements but spared no expense when it came to the food spread for our white-trash funerals.
AN ODE TO NANA
Thursday, January 16 th , 2014
Nana was the Queen Bee. She was the pin in the hand grenade known as the Dudley family. She was the stone cold matriarch who kept the kiddies in check, and once she was gone, the pin was pulled from the grenade, setting off a chain of explosive betrayal and calculated greed among my aunts and uncles.
The ink didn’t get a chance to dry on my grandmother’s will before the ambulance chasers and attorneys started calling. You can imagine the look on their faces when I got this house.
They had all waited with bated breath for her to die, and the greedy countdown had begun.
4…3…2…1…Cha-Ching!
Uncle Roger’s wife Posey was the most ravenous of them all. She was a low-class woman trying to cut it in a high-class world with her salon jobs, tacky sundresses, and shoes that screamed underneath the load of her legs and varicose veins.
“Oh, Nana, you were so bee-ootiful when you were young. You should have been a model! Oh, Nana, this necklace is so bee-ootiful!” Posey would squeal with delight as her desperate fat fingers engulfed Nana’s pearl necklaces.
I overheard “Pig face” Posey humming “na-na-hey-hey” at the barbeque just days before Nana died. What a piece of work.
I knew what you were doing, you lousy bitch. I was onto your feeding frenzy scheme the day the doctors diagnosed Nana with cancer, and she was, too. I’m sure it wasn’t the pearls, rings, and broaches you were after, you fat-faced worm, and in the end what did you get?—NOTHING. Your name couldn’t have been further from Nana’s will, and I laughed my ass off knowing she beat you at your own silly game. And I know you ate all the butter cookies and Linzer tarts, you fat bitch!
My uncles did everything in their power to have me hand them the house by trying to bribe me with money and keys to the timeshare in Nyack. “Charlie, it’s a lot of work owning a house. You have the mortgage and the bills to look after. It’s a lot of responsibility, pal. We could just sell it, give you your share and square it away,” and when that didn’t work, they tried to strong-arm me and use scare tactics.
I didn’t ask for this house or for the responsibilities that came with it, but I cherished the gift.
I was the last man standing, and I appreciated that Nana
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