William Saxton, concert pianist and stem-cell research advocate, was taking a break from practicing for an upcoming performance of Rachmaninoff's 2nd to think about his Uncle Grover. Saxton, a Brunswick, Georgia native now living in Minneapolis, had come a long way, Baby, from the Treatment he underwent at the hands of Grover (who was actually his Great-Uncle), some thirty years before, but no matter how much Shostakovich and Beethoven the man played, he just couldn't pound the crap out of his mind. Not that he had a Bad Life by any stretch of the imagination; though divorced, he had a wonderful job doing what he Loved and a wonderful wife named Melinda, who was beautiful, and he loved her slender body and legs and her nose and her eyes and lips and her Porcelain skin and red hair, and the way she walked and wore no underwear in the Summers; and he loved cuddling her close around the crook of his arm, tenderly, almost protectively, as they slept after delicious, beautiful sex, and he loved her mind and when on tour alone in his bed in a hotel room somewhere, and touched himself, it was of Melinda that he thought.
His sensitivity was attained no thanks to Grover, however, who was as course a man as the world had ever seen outside of 12th-Century Mongolia, and he was thinking about the inclemencies Grover had wreaked on the Person of Cora, his cousin, in his Presence. These were thoughts fit for neither Man nor Beast, and had you called Grover the latter, no one who had ever known him would give you an argument. Unlike Roedy Green, even, Grover was not possessed of a Beautiful Soul. Quite the contrary — but alas, one must Show, not Tell, so let us now into William's memories, and his thoughts.
Cora was a girl of which nothing sweeter, beautiful or intelligent could be conceived — a girl like, say, Janice Muszynski, just to give one the Idea. And William was thinking about how his Uncle Grover would go up to his daughter and go off on her like,
Yeeeeh! Oooooh! Gimme some! Gimme some! Yeeeeeeah, you're a Big Girl now, time to get to know Grover a little better now, eeeh?
Uncle Grover had been quite a drinker, in fact you might say that he was an Alcoholic, though that term suggests certain problems that Grover, as a man who had never Drawn a Sober Breath, ever had down there in Georgia. He'd say,
Bo-eee! Come to your Uncle Grover. Let's see that Thing you've got on you. Geet it out, UUUUUUUU! Gone have LOTS of Saxtons outta THIS'n! Damn, son, the whole WOODS are FILLED with Saxtons, from HERE (and he'd whip his out and give it a jerk). And William, who at that time was addressed as Billy, once got to observe Uncle Grover in Action:
Sit! Sit, boy, and don't you get up! EEEEEEEEHHHHH, this HERE's the Milkmaid's Daughter, so young oh yeah boy so young gone GIT it! Yo Uncle Grover he's gone GIT it! Gone be tight now. Down, Bitch! Yessir, uuuuh, OOOOOH yeah, gone be tight, aahuh. Git ye a little wine bottle and just git it in 'ere 'an loosen it up, now, like THIS! WHOO-EEE! Yes! You sure gotchee a tight one, and now, Here comes Grover! Yes! Yes! Yer getting' fucked by Grover! You're love it. You're love it. WATCH your Uncle Grover, Boy, see how I do it? See?
Oh yeah. OOOHHHH yeah. Now. Now, 'lil Bitch, you're getting' to know Grover a little Better, ain'tchee? YEAH! OOOHHHH YEAAAAH! Boy! Look! Yo Uncle Grover done SHOT! But he can do it again! Yessir. Again! Bitch! Where yo mommaat? Where IS the bitch, Bitch? Time to come know GROWWWWVERRRRRR!
Such behavior as this, executed in grunts and breathlessly while Grover drooled Red Man into the Poor Girl's hair veritably sickened young William. But Grover was strong; he'd been a Logger. There was nothing to do but Join the Symphony in Macon after a few years studying Conducting in Savannah, but even then, while conducting some bad Sibelius piece, he'd miss a beat when the Brass emitted a sound that flashed William's mind once again to the UHH! UHH! EEEEEHHHH! Your Uncle Grover is fixin' to SHOOT! that had so scarred his young consciousness.
There is no therapy for the Surviving Family of men like Grover. Support Groups will not Cut the Mustard.
If you need for yourself a mental image of Uncle Grover's visage, neither I nor fucking Tolstoy would be good enough to so much as Suggest it. But isn't it odd, the Ties of Family, of Heredity, of Blood? The Logical Extension of what Champ was Ruminating on last night, in fact, but, from Time to Horrid Time, William Saxton awoke aghast that this man's genes and those of many others like him were in him, were part of his Makeup, his DNA, his Life.
And all's one can really do is come to terms with one's own Inner Demons, and face them and, as Jung said, Assimilate the Shadow. Actually, he said it in German, but Point Taken.
And at last it Was, that in playing the Bombastic measures at the end of Rachmaninoff's 2nd in Concert, that William flashed unflinchingly on his Uncle Grover's tightened face, and played with yet more bombast, and went on, not missing a note, and so it was that on that night he won a Standing Ovation! And another! And another! And another Young Boy from a Bad Home left the Concert Hall that evening the seeds within him to face his Future and to Become a Concert Pianist himself, to give great Vent to his Emotions, a dream he would later achieve, while all the while Grover was taking barbed dick from Satan in Hell.
Truly God moves in mysterious Ways. But he didn't create the Family for Nuttin'.