Story about an apple . . .

Da Motts

Ray Timmins

“Yo, yo, yo, I got Da Motts,” Vinnie said, walking into the front yard where we were sitting waiting for Uncle Freddy to roll the joint.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Darren said, waving his hand at Vinnie, dismissing the claim.

“Yo, check it,” Vinnie said, pulling out a dime bag full of bright green bud.

Uncle Freddy licked and rolled the joint. He reached his hand out to Vinnie: “Let me see dat shit!”

Vinnie handed it over.

Uncle Freddy opened up the baggie and sniffed its contents. His eyes bulged from his skull. “Roll it up, mo’,” he said, at last.

“Naw man, I’m sellin’ dis shit.”

“Muthafucka, it’s always the same wit’ choo: you go braggin’ ‘bout the shit you got, then you neva smoke any of it. Meanwhile, you smoke all our shit,” Darren said, fuming.

“It’s Da Motts, man. Sellin’ it—twenty dollas.”

Uncle Freddy rolled the joint on his forehead, sealed it with a kiss and lit it. He took a hit, passed it and said, “Twenty bucks for dat little bag?”

“Hey,” Vinnie said, “it’s Da Motts!”

“I don’t give a shit what you call it, I ain’t paying twenty dollas for a dime bag dat’s light to begin wit,” Uncle Freddy said, making a shooing gesture with his hand.

“A’ight!” Vinnie said, reaching out for the joint that was being passed around.

Uncle Freddy slapped his hand away. “Put in if you wanna hit it!”

“Awe, c’mon,” he said, “Lemme get just one hit.”

“You got!” Darren yelled.

“Let him get a hit,” I said, “He smoked us out the other day, remember?”

“Dat skinny fucking joint? Dat Cheech joint?” Uncle Freddy said.

“It’s my weed,” I said, “let him hit it.”

“Thanks, Dell.”

“Shriveled up little joint, like yaw dick, Vinnie,” Uncle Freddy said.

“Just one hit though, we got a lot of heads here,” Darren said.

“Yeah,” Vinnie said, hitting the joint long and hard.

Uncle Freddy got up and took the joint from Vinnie: “You smoked half da fucking ting down, asshole!”

“Didn’t,” Vinnie said, smoke billowing from his mouth and nostrils, coughing a bit.

“It’s OK,” I said, always the diplomat.

It got quieter. We passed the joint around till it was done. I put the roach with the rest of my stash.

I searched the sky absently, looking for nothing in particular. A parrot flew by. According to my dad and Uncle Freddy, there had been flocks of parrots in Brooklyn for years now. They escaped from captivity, somehow, and bred. Indeed, I had seen a number of parrots since I’d been in Brooklyn and it always brought a smile to my face. Now was no exception.

“What choo smiling at?” Uncle Freddy asked.

“Just saw a parrot.”

“Easily amused.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” I said, looking at Darren who was busy rolling another joint.

“You don’t get any of dis,” he said to Vinnie.

“Gotta go anyway,” Vinnie said before thanking me for the hit and opening the gate to leave.

“Da mooch,” Uncle Freddy said loud enough for Vinnie to hear.

Vinnie flipped him off.

“Why don’t you say dat to my face, muthafucka?”

Vinnie kept on walking.

“Dat muthafucka ruined my mawning. I need a beer,” Uncle Freddy said.

“He’s gone now, Uncle Freddy. Don’t worry about it,” I said, trying to calm him down.

"Yeah . . .” he said, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a can of Budweiser. He cracked it open and took a long swill. He put the beer down and patted it like someone might pat a child on the head for being good. Beer was definitely Uncle Freddy’s best friend.

Marty came walking down the court.

Uncle Freddy yelled, “Look what da cat drug in!”

Marty smiled. One of his front teeth was missing so it always amused me when he smiled. He waved at us and ambled our way, can of Bud in hand.

Marty was Uncle Freddy’s old friend with whom he worked. I had been working with them too since I’d moved to Brooklyn. They paid me fifty dollars a day to help them with various roofing and drywall jobs. One benefit I brought was my car. I drove us to and from work sites, went out for beer and papers when we ran out, and carried things, mostly. Occasionally, Uncle Freddy or Marty would let me get my hands dirty and assist them with the labor. So I had been picking up a few things here and there.

Today we were going to my other uncle’s house in Staten Island to build a deck in his backyard. So, this was something different than we’d been doing the last few weeks. I looked forward to seeing Uncle Billy. He was the more responsible sibling of the family and had two kids my age, Dianna and Little Billy. Little Billy usually had and hooked us up when we visited.

Marty opened the gate and sat down on the stoop, sipping his beer. Darren lit the joint he had just finished rolling, hit it and passed it to me. I hit it and passed it to Marty.

When we finished smoking, Darren said good-bye and Marty, Uncle Freddy and I headed to my car. Uncle Freddy drained his beer and took a new can out of his other pocket before he got in the car. He cracked it open and took a long first sip as he got in. And we were on our way to Uncle Billy’s.

We stopped at the bodega to get papers and another beer for Marty. We took the parkway to the Verrazano Bridge and crossed into Staten Island seven dollars later.

Uncle Billy was in the backyard when we pulled up. Uncle Freddy immediately hit him up for the toll.

“All I got is a five,” Uncle Billy said.

Uncle Freddy stared him down: “You lyin’ fuck!”

“Alright,” he said, handing over the seven dollars.

“Cheap muthafucka!”

“Dell, how’s ya dad?” Uncle Billy asked.

“Doing alright,” I said, “still up at Greymoore.”

“It’s good for him. When your dad’s soba he’s one of the best, most reliable guys you’ll ever know.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone says.”

“It’s true. Still can’t blame yaw mom for taking you away from him years ago, but it’s good you get to know yaw family again.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Now this fuck,” he said, pointing to Uncle Freddy, “I can’t say nothing about this drunk.”

Uncle Freddy held his can of beer over Uncle Billy’s head.

“Watch it! Like yaw gonna give up any a dat beer, right?” he said, laughing in his face.

“Where’s Little Billy?”

“Why?”

“Just wanna know.”

“He’s inside, you drunk fuck!”

Uncle Freddy called to me and we went inside the house. Little Billy was in the kitchen getting some juice from the fridge.

“Little Billy!” Uncle Freddie yelled.

“Hey, Uncle Freddy! How you doin’?”

“Alright. Hey, you got any herb?”

“Just picked up.”

“Can we get a nick?”

“Don’t worry about it. You got papers?”

Uncle Freddy handed them over.

“I’m gonna roll yous up something nice.”

“Alright! Dat Little Billy,” he said, motioning towards him with his thumb.

Uncle Freddy and I went into the backyard. “Hey, Marty, Little Billy’s gonna roll us up a fatty!”

And indeed he did. It was the biggest joint I’d ever seen in real life. He must have used six papers to roll it.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ would ya take a look at dis!” Uncle Freddy said. Then he looked me square in the eye, his eyes popping out of his skull like a cartoon character: “We gonna get fucked up!”

Little Billy and Uncle Billy didn’t smoke, so it was just Uncle Freddy, Marty and me on this gargantuan doob. Little Billy’s girlfriend, Mary, joined in. She was pretty young but still had thoughtful conversation to add to the blazing madness as we passed that giant bone around. I think Little Billy enjoyed getting Uncle Freddy high. He was smiling from ear to ear watching as the three of us got red-eyed and completely blitzed.

“How’s dat doob, Uncle Freddy?”

Uncle Freddy held up the joint and nodded, his head wreathed in smoke—a pot halo.

“So,” Uncle Billy began, “you gonna do dis right, Freddy?”

“What da fuck’s dat supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry,” Marty said, “me and Freddy’ll do dis right by you. You’ll see. You’ll love it.”

“We know what we’re doin’, don’t worry ‘bout it, Billy. You’ll see,” Uncle Freddy said, then,

“Man, we should put dis fuckin’ ting out: I’m so fuckin’ high I can’t feel my fingas!”

Marty and I agreed. Uncle Freddy snuffed the remaining half of the giant joint out.

“Awe, c’mon, Uncle Freddy,” Little Billy said.

“No fuckin’ way, it’s goin’ out faw now.”

Uncle Billy stood up and got out his car keys. “Guess I’ll go get beer faw yous drunks. Wanna come, Dell?”

I stood up and walked with Uncle Billy to his car.

“What do you drink, Dell?”

“I like Guinness.”

“Ah, a true Irishman, alright. Don’t drink like Freddy and Marty. Take a lesson: you don’t wanna end up like dat.”

“No.”

“But at least they can function when they’re drunk. Not like yaw dad—he can’t do shit when he’s drunk. Dat’s why he needs to be soba.”

Yeah. I just drink a few Guinnesses, don’t get too drunk. No big deal.”

“Yeah, just watch it, though. I been down dat road befaw, too.”

“Alright, I will, Uncle Billy.”

“Alright.”

We bought a six pack of Guinness and two cases of Budweiser.

“Doze drunk fucks drink a lot,” he said as he was paying. “I don’t wanna have to come back faw maw.”

I laughed, but knew what he was saying was true.

“They’re funny as hell though!”

“Yeah, they can be, but the joke’s really gonna be on them in the end if they keep up their shit.”

I thought of how Uncle Freddy had told me that he used to build sets for TV shows back in the day. And how he smoked out John Belushi and Dan Akroyd, among others.

“Bet you held your own. Made them laugh too.”

Uncle Freddy just smiled and told me how he had won the talent show competition at Beefsteak Charley’s once with his routine. That he didn’t even plan any material.

“You have some kinda magic, that’s for sure. This ability to light up a room. You really know how to dig to the source and show someone his weakness or his joy like few people have the ability to do. You can make dreams possible if you wanted. You should use that magic and get make a place for you in comedy, Uncle Freddy. You’re fucking hilarious! Live your dream. You and Marty should make up a routine, but instead of Alice, you send his skinny ass to the moon.”

“Yeah,” Uncle Freddy blushed, the shy schoolgirl inside him showing.

Marty was there, silent, but he heard me say, “Will you beat some sense into this motherfucker’s head, Marty? Stubborn Cancers, never listen to anyone. Always gotta figure shit out the hard way.”

Marty held up his can of Bud, nodded with a wink and said, “I’ll find a way, Dell. How many lumps should I give him?”

“As many as necessary to make him see the light and get his ass in gear.”

“Dat sweet ass . . . hahaha!”

We drove back and when we got to Billy’s house Uncle Freddy was already establishing markers where the posts would be put in. Marty was cutting down the 4X4s that would serve as these posts.

Uncle Billy and I put the beer in the fridge. Uncle Freddie and Marty came into the kitchen for a cold beer.

With the beer and the pot in place, Marty and Uncle Freddy were set for the day. At the end of the day all the posts were put up and part of the deck was constructed. As it got dark, Uncle Billy brought out his boombox and played Harvest Moon. This was the first time I’d heard the album played through and I fell in love with it. We sat around smoking and drinking, listening to the music and talking. Uncle Freddy discovered a bottle of single malt Scotch in the kitchen and began drinking it from the bottle.

“You fucking drunk, put dat away,” Uncle Billy said.

“What—you see how much work we got done. Now it’s time to relax.”

“I bought you a case of beer apiece and now yaw drinking my Scotch!”

“It all goes down like wata now. Ha!”

Uncle Freddy hit the bottle fiercely. Little Billy had rolled us another joint—a more modest one than earlier but still a big one. The three of us passed it around while Uncle Billy and Little Billy sat back watching.

“Ya know that stuff’ll make you impotent the way you smoke it,” Uncle Billy said.

Uncle Freddy smiled, “Like I need maw kids.”

“True,” Uncle Billy admitted.

Marty tried to grab the Scotch from Uncle Freddy, who slapped his hand away. “Get yaw mitts off my Scotch!”

“Awe, c’mon there, Freddy. Lemme get a taste a dat.”

He reluctantly passed the bottle over to Marty, who took a long pull.

“Alright, give it back already!”

“You know I got something for you two,” Uncle Billy said, running inside, through the kitchen. He came back out with a camcorder. “Smile! Yous drunks!”

Uncle Freddy immediately got out of his seat and faced the camera. While Neil Young played in the background, Uncle Freddy turned around, pulled down his shorts and tucked his balls between his thighs, waving them at the camera. Marty unzipped and flashed the camera.

Go ahead, you motherfuckers, I thought with a smile: Show the world what you two really are. A giant asshole and a little dick!

“Get outta hea wit dat string bean,” Uncle Freddy yelled at Marty.

Uncle Freddy then lifted up the Scotch and took a huge pull for the camera.

“Don’t drink, kids,” he said, “save it all faw me!”

I sipped at my last Guinness, happy I wasn’t nearly as drunk as Marty or Uncle Freddy. I took another hit of the joint since they were busy playing it up to the camera. Often it had been said that Uncle Freddy and Marty were like Ralph Kramden and Ed Norton from the Honeymooners. They looked the part, they sounded the part. They did their bit for the camera, exchanging insults and wisecracks. Uncle Billy, Little Billy and I sat back and watched the show. It was quite entertaining.

Dianna came out for a second, rolled her eyes with a smirk and went back inside.

At one point, Uncle Freddy fell on top of Marty and they struggled for over ten minutes trying to untangle their limbs from each other. Which was kinda cute, actually. Uncle Billy caught it all on tape. The two of them could watch this when they were more sober and get a kick out of it. Or maybe decide to quit drinking, as it were. But probably not. These two had been drinking together and cutting it up since they were kids.

I managed to get the two of them in the car and drive home. Uncle Freddy still had the bottle of Scotch tightly gripped in his hand though it was about empty. Marty had a beer. The two sipped their drinks solicitously, almost desperately, as if it would sober them up somehow.

I dropped Marty off in front of the projects, where he lived and drove Uncle Freddy and I back to the court where we lived. He lived two houses down from my grandmother’s. I helped him to his door and he stumbled inside, saying he’d see me in the morning.

I got inside my grandmother’s house. Everyone was asleep: Nana, Aunt Lindsey and three of my cousins. I stepped around my cousins who were asleep on the floor in front of the television which was still on. I grabbed my stash, my pipe and my notebook and went outside to sit on the stoop like I did every night. This was reflection time. The only time I could truly be alone. The moon was full and high and Harvest Moon was playing in my head. I packed a bowl of roaches and lit it up, taking just a small hit, flipping through the pages, reading what I’d jotted down in my notebook the night before. I stared at the words and doodles and took another hit.

I heard a noise then saw someone entering the court. As he got closer I noticed it was Vinnie.

“Yo, yo, yo,” was all he said at first.

“Yo,” I said back. He entered the gate and sat down in a chair next to the stoop where I was sitting.

“Try dis shit,” he said, producing a small joint from his pocket and lighting it up.

I hit it, it was good. I passed it back.

“You like dat?”

“Yeah.”

He took two long hits and passed it back.

I took another hit. I began to feel lightheaded. The stars were leaving trails. I put my notebook aside and leaned back on the stoop, staring into the sky.

“Da Motts,” was all he said.

We smoked it till it was gone, which didn’t take too long, but I was fucked up. Vinnie sat for a few minutes, also staring at the sky.

“What are you doing tonight, Dell.”

“Just sitting back enjoying the night. We were at Uncle Billy’s today, building his deck. Uncle Freddy found the Scotch. He and Marty were drunker than I’d ever seen them.”

“Yeah. They’re stupid when they’re drunk.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, I gosta go. Take it easy.”

“Yeah, you too, Vinnie. Thanks.”

He nodded then left the yard, then the court. I was alone again. Just me and the moon and the stars. I got my notebook out and began making some random lines on the page. I drew some sort of figure holding an apple. Then I wrote a poem inspired by the moon and stars and the loneliness I now felt, sitting outside waiting for the day to end. Eventually I began yawning and made my way inside. Aunt Lindsey was asleep on the couch, her daughter Alicia asleep in her arms. I pulled up some cushions and a blanket and made my place on the floor surrounded by my cousins and fell asleep.