UFR Weekly Newsletter #3: Don’t Come Around Here No More
David Cotrone
Earlier this week, I got an e-mail from someone saying she wanted to respond to these newsletters but she hadn’t yet worked up the courage. Please know that all of your voices are welcome and wanted. I also got a few notes about wanting but not yet finding time to participate in our call for music picks and reasons for listening. So we’re extending our call; feel free to respond to this message with the songs you’re currently listening to, and why. All of your responses will appear on the site; we love what we’re seeing so far.
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When I was 17, they said in an e-mail that you would get too drunk to function and that you would abuse them, verbally, and do way more than embarrass them in public. They said you’d yell at them and hit their mom for any reason. They put a restraining order on you. But you were my uncle, my favorite relative, my brother’s too. We were eight and you were much older, and in 1999 we cruised through Braintree in your Ford, rocking to Petty, sometimes Springsteen. You called my brother “Spike” and you called me “Fag” and we called you by your name. Once, you took us to the park to play with your golden retriever and to fly kites. You wore your tatty leather jacket and puffed on Marlboros. You asked to be my godfather so my mother said yes.
A few years later you came over for Christmas with your daughters, and you had been drinking. You told everyone that Sambuca makes your shit turn green. Your daughters asked if they could leave, and they told you they never wanted to see you again. They left with their mom. You brought me outside and told me to never be like you, and then you left. And I never saw, or heard, from you again.
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Susannah and I hope your holidays have been warm, safe and untroubled. Speaking of holidays, check out the debut of Exquisite Quartet, a column featuring four writers who piece together a story; this installment’s quartet includes Roxane Gay, Rob Geisen, Josh Goller and Meg Tuite.
Meg Pokrass, via video, prompts you to write with abandon
This is a Door by Amber Sparks
Thank you for reading each other’s stories, for contributing, for submitting, for your support. If you have time, suggest our facebook page to your friends, tweet about us, forward this message to someone you love.
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Now, I think of you whenever I’m downtown, when I hear a car drive by, rocking to Petty. I think of that morning we walked up the path to your house, back when you had a family. Your wife answered the door. The kitchen was bright. It smelled like coffee and brownies. Your golden retriever hurried over. You instructed “up,” caught him by the paws, and hugged him. You turned your head, smiled, and asked how we were.
Be well,
David