Jessie is the nephew of Dale, a 17-year old guitar (gee-tar) guru and one fuck of a kid to hang with. So it’s only obvious as to the offering of beer to Dale on Jessie’s part.

Around 50 years-old, Dale is a bit if a drinker I must say, perhaps closer to a guzzler more so than a drinker. Dale is the father of a kid that my brother and I grew up with while I was an early teen. His round small spectacles rested on his slender face atop his mass of a beard, giving him the persona of a biker-pirate. This particular night Dale was sporting a blue welding cap/hat that was branding the rebel flag. His swagger is one of similarity to that of Jack Sparrow. A country boy at heart, Dale is pure redneckness.

While walking in, Dale said to Mona, my brother’s dog, “You leave me alone and I will leave you alone.” He then walked over to the table and picked up the bottle of Kentucky Deluxe that my brother and Jessie were sipping on, looked at it and stammered, “Piss water.”

Finding a spot to squat, Dale sat on the treadmill and began to talk his usual shananigan’s of talking shit and being the firecracker of a redneck that he is. At the beginning of his rambleness you could make out what he was saying. But by the end, it was pure drunkardness.

My brother then poured a shot for Dale and gestured to hand it to him. In response, Dale cunningly looked at my brother square in the eye and reached for the Kentucky Deluxe he had just previously denounced as “piss water” and began to chug it while still staring at my brother.

Pulling the bottle from his whiskery dripped mouth, his face shivered from disgust and sheer retardedness. A loud burp followed. “Oh, you poured that shot for me?” said Dale sarcastically. “I told you it was piss water.”

Continuing on with his drunken ramble, Dale got onto the subject of how he hated people. “I hate people,” he said to my brother. “But you’re not people, you’re a person Nate,” he continued while pointing at him as if lecturing him.

My brother listened attentively as though he showed genuine interest. But as I know my brother and myself, he listened so Dale wouldn’t sound like a complete rambled drunkard.

“But you know what?” continued Dale looking intensely at my brother, “I’m a veteran of the United States and I was proud to serve my country,” standing up squinty-eyed while swaying to defy gravity and drunkenness. “You should be over in Iraq right now serving your country. Why aren’t you? Why haven’t you signed up yet?”

As Dale sat back down and my brother shook his head I interjected, “Because he doesn’t need to be fighting a president’s war.”

I then became Dale’s squinty-eyed drunkard attention, “And who are you?” he says in his redneck twang.

Now let me remind you that Dale and I go back to the days when I was a young teenager. He and I shared a couple left handers and he watched me sneak out of my bedroom window a few times just to laugh at me. I knew he knew who I was, but just not that particular night or moment.

“I am a veteran, you respect me. You don’t know how many people died for you.” Dale said forcefully.

“I didn’t say that I don’t respect you,” I replied. “I thank you for what you have done. He just doesn’t need to be fighting a war that is purely the president’s.”

Not wanting to hear what I was saying or that a young buck was standing up to this, Dale began to ramble under his breath. My brother then intervened, “No, no, no Dale. You know who this is? That’s Brad, my brother.”

Dale’s demeanor quickly changed and the issue was dropped as quickly as it had started. I reassured Dale that I was stating a view and not disrespecting him and the conversation turned to how I don’t have all my curly hair anymore.

The drinking continued and Jessie began to get a bit canned himself. Standing to exit the situation, Jessie walked to the kitchen. As Jessie walks by Dale into the kitchen, Dale says, “I hate when people move around me. I am the only moving object that I need around me,” said Dale paranoid as he scanned the area around his feet.

The ramble continued as everyone in the room forgot about Jessie and his condition.

Jessie lay flat on his belling in my brother’s kitchen. A kitchen that you definitely would not want to find yourself almost passed out drunk, on the verge of getting saucy, face down. I felt bad for the kid considering we had just smoke a left-handed reefer stick on my account and he had over indulged on the piss water and Budweiser that flowed abundantly.

“Jessie, you alright?” Dale yelled, forgetting he was in a 20×20 alley house.

Flailing his right leg and left arm in response, Jessie responded with the utmost capabilities.

As if he were speaking to a congregation Dale dutifully says, “Ya see, Jessie’s my nephew…I gotta look out for him.”

“I need a bowl,” Jessie slurs.

“What’s that?” says my brother jokingly.

“I need a bowl,” Jessie slurred once more.

Stumbling over to Jessie, with Dale maneuvering around the space between ensuring no one invades, Nathan grabs the dog’s empty water bowl and slides it across the floor. And Jessie then begins to hurl.

“You feelin’ better,” clammers my brother.

No response. Another hurl. Jessie then pushes the bowl from his Kobain like wig.

And with no hesitation at all, one of my brother’s dogs casually walks to its water bowl and begins to lap up the piss water and Budweiser Jessie had just over indulged on.

“Mona’s thirsty isn’t she?” says Dale like a NASCAR fan.

“Mona!” my brother carelessly exclaims.

And Jessie grabs back the bowl and gives one last flail of the right leg and left arm from his belly. A signal to his signing out.

“Mona…” Jessie slurs. “This is my bowl tonight…”