"Auntie Larry" from On The Upswing of Life, Love, and Regret by Christopher Gutierrez


My uncle Larry was flamboyant. Wearing pink pantyhose and hair curlers he would entertain us children with his in-depth analyses on how remarkable disco was and tales of unrequited love from local underage grocery check out boys. He also insisted we refer to him as "Auntie Larry." Despite all of this, I was oblivious he was gay until I was a teenager. For all I knew, he was the Mexican Little Richard.

He lived with my other uncle, John, my two aunts, my cousin, and my grandmother in a 1 bedroom, roach-infested apartment on Chicago's west side. In retrospect, I can't even imagine what it must have been like sashaying up and down the street, strutting his hot pants in the ghetto. My family lived in the suburbs. Every Sunday after church, we would make the reluctant forty-five minute drive to their apartment for tamale-making parties my grandmother would host. I loathed these trips. Sitting in the corner, my half-sister Tracy and i would jump from chair to chair, avoiding the emerging roaches that would sprint out from behind the gold plated pictures of Jesus and the last supper. Eventually making a game of it, we would take bets on whose roach would make it from wall to wall first. The remainder of the six hours, we would sit in our ill-fitting, polyester church clothes, itching from the fabric that would stick to our bodies, a constant reminder of the lack of air conditioning. Those evenings would draw to a close with my father reeking of vodka and starting a fight at the local tavern or with one of the random addicts who would knock at the door to buy weed off of my Uncle John.

"Auntie Larry" was the only person that would step in between and attempt to diffuse the situation. He was always there to alleviate tension, to hide alcohol from my father and to dish good family gossip. Our relationship began to deteriorate with Auntie Larry and that side of the family in the late 1980's when my parents separated because of my father's inability to manage a family along with his alcohol and cocaine binges.

In and out of jail for everything from a DUI to tax evasion, it seemed every month we were accepting another collect call from our father calling from jail. Pleads of, "I need bail money," wore thin on my mother, and ultimately she instructed us to refuse the calls. Mustering up the courage, my once passive and timid mother eventually evicted him from our house. But he was persistent, using every angle to get back into our lives, going so far as to recruit his family to join him in his assault of harassing phone calls. This was where my mother drew the line; she could take it from the father of her children but lacked the tolerance in dealing with condescending guilt trips from alcoholic convicted felons who were not blood related.

Years later, the night when my mother mentioned that my "Auntie Larry" had died, I was stunned. Thoughts of the many nights when he would hide the car keys from my father in order to keep us kids safe from another drunk drive home ran through my head as I left my mothers house. She had asked if I would be interested in going to the wake that night. I said no. She said she understood and that we were most likely not welcome.

Driving home, I couldn't stop thinking about how, despite being on welfare, Auntie Larry would spend money he didn't have on presents we didn't deserve, nor appreciate. I felt ashamed for the spoiled little kid I was.

I looked up and saw the exit for 18th Street; the street where my mother said the wake was to be held that night. Curiosity drove my car off the expressway and down that exit ramp that night. It was dark outside, any wake should have been over and done with by now, but I had to find the funeral home just to see if I could recognize any stragglers hanging outside. I drove down 18th Street and into the Mexican neighborhood of Pilsen until I came upon a funeral home. It came up fast, I lowered in my seat and slowed to a crawl looking for a familiar face. Not one. I made a u-turn at the end of the street and made another pass, i did this two more times, until I thought to myself, "This is ridiculous. Just park and ask someone walking out whose wake it is." I parked behind the building with the engine still running. Looking out the window, I saw families and couples walking hand in hand. Some were sobbing and some were just speechlessly staring at their shoes. I opened the door and the cold shook me back to life. I saw an older man getting into his van.

"Excuse me, sir, you wouldn't happen to know whose service this is, would you?" I asked politely.
"No hablo Ingles," he muttered.
"Shit," I thought to myself, "God doesn't want to make this easy for me."

I popped my head around the corner to the small crowd amassing out front. Just then, a somber looking couple walks towards me.
"Pardon me, whose wake is this?" I inquired in just above a whisper.
Her arms wrapped tightly around her husband, the woman stammered, "Larry's."

And there it was, the sinking feeling. Similar to getting the wind knocked out of you. I stood frozen just around the corner from the entrance to my uncle's wake. I knew this was one of those defining moments in life. I knew what was in that building: relatives I hadn’t seen or talked to in over ten years and, worst of all, my father.

After the fallout of the separation, my father spent his life in and out of jail and drug rehabilitation hospitals. Eventually, my mother changed our phone number and did her best at keeping him a safe distance away from us. Using kid gloves, she did her best to explain why she couldn't let him back in the house. Making it clear we understood that our father, "was sick," and that it were better for him to live somewhere else. The state took care of this for good when, in 1988, the doorbell rang. I ran downstairs, past the room where my father was watching television on one of his 'surprise visit' days, and opened the door. Standing there were three state policemen with papers in their hands.

"Is Charles Gutierrez at home?" the one with the mustache said.
In all my youthful naivete I said, "Sure, hold on. Let me get him." I turned and yelled, "Dad, there's some police here for you."
"...OK, listen; I want you to call your mother and tell her that I am going to prison," and that's how we kept him out of our lives for good.

But that night, my feet frozen to the ground and my heart in my throat, I knew I had to make the choice to face him again. Whatever it was that caused me to take that 18th street exit was now moving my feet onto the sidewalk, through the small crowd outside, and in through the doors, only stopping to pause for deep breaths.

Inside, the room was packed from wall to wall. Again, I stopped frozen. Surveying the room I recognized no one I knew. "Maybe this is the wrong service," I thought to myself. Just as I let the fear talk me into turning and walking out the door, someone grabbed my arm. It was Tracy, my half sister, who I haven't seen in over a decade.

"Holy shit, YOU came?" her eyes wide as saucers. "Who did you come with?"
Despite being surrounded by family I said, "No one."
"Are you ready for this?"
With clenched fists and hot breath I said, "No," and I meant it.

Still holding my arm, she took me around to people I haven't seen since I was still too young to pour my own drinks. Now I know why I didn't recognize anyone. Everyone looked fat and tired, like they went on a reverse makeover show.

"Uncle Tommy, look who came," Tracy says, directing me to a rough looking older Mexican.
"Wow, Christopher. i haven't seen you since you were dancing in my living room," he said with a genuine smile.

My Uncle Tommy would have dancing contests for the neighborhood shorties when I was young. He would blast whatever disco was popular at the time and I would stand in the middle of the floor, eyes closed jumping up and down flapping my arms. Uncle Tommy always had a smile and would take us out for ice cream when the adults would get into arguments or when my Uncle John would beat my Aunt Margie in front of us. It all came to an end the night my Uncle Tommy beat a member of a rival Latin King gang to death in a local park. He got 18 years, but that night, at the wake, he recognized me right away. "If there's ever anything you ever need, you just let me know," he said, "but I know you have to go see 'other' people here, I won’t keep you." He knew why I was there. By that time, word had spread through out the crowd that I was there. Everyone was on edge waiting for me to finally talk to my father.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Tracy asked, "You don't look like you do."
All the while telling myself that I had made it this far and hadn't died yet. "Sure."
"Dad," she said to this short gray-haired man with his back turned, "look who it is."

He turned, looked at me dead in the eyes, looked back at Tracy, and says, "Who is this?"
"Um Dad...it's your son, Christopher," Tracy says with a look of disappointment.
"Oh, hey," extending his hand, "how are you doing?" he says, like we were old work buddies.

I can feel my heart beating so hard it feels as if it's pushing vomit into my throat. My feet want to run, but someone's nailed them to the floor, my mouth wants to move, but it's stuck halfway open.

"So how's your mother and sister?" he asked.
"Um, fine." For a kid who prides himself at never being at a loss for words, this was a first.

I was short of breath and the room went numb. All I hear is his voice, but no words. At that moment, the sound of his voice is enough to bring back the alcoholic nights of him stumbling through the door drunk, the sound of my mother crying, the memory of our electricity getting turned off, and not having money for food. I feel the warmth from my chest reach my neck and face. The kind of warmth you get five seconds before a fist fight. In my head, I reminded myself, "You are at a wake, be respectful." But I couldn't think of much more than putting my fist through his fucking face. For every night my mother spent crying, for every college I couldn't attend because my savings went for his bail, for every hooker he raped, I wanted to tear his chest apart with my bare fucking hands.

But as suddenly as it began, it left me, like someone had sucked every ounce of hate from my fingers and toes. I stood taller and my chin rose from my chest, because I finally saw him for what he really was: just a confused, mixed up kid. I saw the paradox of compassion and selfishness in his eyes. It was the precise moment you don't see your parents as ideal anymore. I felt a certain empathy; I saw him as a human. A human that had pissed away his life and the many opportunities that would never again knock at his door. A smile passed across my face. He wasn't a hero or a demon, he was a short, old man that had simply made bad choices. Noticing something different in my eyes, he stood there motionless and quiet.

"Dad, I want you to take care of yourself," I said, leaning in for a hug, "please."

Stunned, he stood rigid and motionless.

I stepped back, looked him up and down, took a second to remember what this moment felt and smelled like and said, "Goodbye." Both of us knew it would be the last time.

And it was.