That's George, and that's Doug.

Despite re-uniting with my family and moving back to Seattle after 30 years away, I don't often see them. Mom and my sister Katrina join me for breakfast twice monthly, and occasionally I see my other surviving siblings.

Mostly, though, I'm still the prodigal son-brother-uncle. When we communicate, it's via text messaging.

My brother Dick lives 15 miles from me, and we text almost daily, but I haven't actually seen him in a year or so. That's a sudden realization that saddens me, but not enough to want to bus over to his house.

My nephews and nieces are local, too, but even more distant. Counting their spouses, there are nine of them, but the only one I truly know is George. He's the oldest from that generation, was already in his teens when I vanished in the early 1990s, so we remember each other from the before times. When I moved back to Seattle, our relationship picked up where we'd left off. Which was never close, but at least cordial.

His kid sister, Kimberly, was 7 or 8 when I left, and all my other nephews and nieces were even younger — little kids or infants. I was a missing person while they were growing up, and they remain nearly strangers to me now, and me to them.

I've made no effort to get to know the extended family. I should, I know, but meeting "new people" is something I go out of my way to avoid, and my non-George nephews and nieces are all "new people" to me.

I haven't invited them to dinner, and none of them have invited me — which is not a complaint. Not sure I'd even accept the invitation if one of them said, "Doug, come over on Thursday, we're having roast beef!" What would we say to each other?

So my family is Mom and my brothers and sisters, and their spouses, and my nephew George, and maybe, maybe his sister Kimberly.

The extended family, and especially their children, are unknowns to me. I'm not hostile to them, and wish them well, but I wouldn't recognize them if we passed each other on the sidewalk.

My hermit philosophy is that 99 out of 100 Earthlings aren't worth getting to know (yes, absolutely, I'm among the 99 myself), and being kin doesn't change those numbers.

Nephews and nieces are people, and people are aggravating, difficult. You can work hard to get to know them, but usually they'll disappoint you if you do, so why bother?

And so, I stay in my recliner at home, talking to the cat, or go alone to the movies or for a hamburger.

♦ ♦ ♦     

Take my nephew, the aforementioned George. In the entire family, he's the one who's put the most effort into getting to know me, but I've only seen him 2-3 times since I came back in 2022, and I've rebuffed a few invitations from him.

We text frequently, and sometimes about topics more serious than the weather. And I love that — small talk be damned! If there must be conversation with the other humans, give me "big talk," please.

And yet, there's no potential of a real friendship with George. His "big talk" perspectives come directly from Andy of Mayberry: Praise God, respect the police, family values, etc, and when I hear any of that, all I want is to argue against it.

In a text once, he mentioned the Vietnam War, and I replied that it was a war crime, not a war. He answered by saying, "So you're a pacifist," and then came a wall of words about war heroes who protect our freedoms.

Another time, I texted a wisecrack about cops and doughnuts, which earned a long retort about the violent anarchy we'd be enduring without police to protect us.

That's George. I enjoy his texts, but he's simply not someone I could relax and be pals with. And when he gets on my nerves, my hermit instinct is to sorta push him away. That's Doug.

When I text him about my epic bowel movements or something, George doesn't seem to appreciate the disgusting details, so when he says something too Republican, I reply with something slightly gross. It's childish of me, but it temporarily stops the Republican talking points.

Texting George from the bus a few days ago, I apologized for a typo by saying that the bus ride was bumpy. He replied that buses are for poor people, and I should get a car.

I hate cars and George knows it, so me being my insufferably anti-social self, I texted, "I've got a weird grayish blue fungus under my testicles again. Smells funky. Happens whenever I forget to shower for a week."

"Oh, ick," he replied, but once started I couldn't stop.

"It's better after I scratch vigorously, but then my fingers stink the rest of the day."

No reply.

"I visited a friend yesterday, and her dog was just sooo curious about the stink, nosing at my crotch."

Actually, I have no friend to visit, the friend has no dog, and there's no fungus under my balls. It was all fiction, and George almost certainly knew it.

"Last time the fungus struck, the slime leaked down my pants, stained my underwear grayish blue..."

George started a story about his job, but this being text instead of face-to-face, I ignored it and continued.

"There's an ointment I put on it, but it burns my balls on contact. Scorches like a flame-thrower. The internet says I should skip the ointment and soak it in milk and mayonnaise instead, but have you ever tried soaking your balls? Such a mess! Like I want milk and mayo all over my beloved recliner? It's the ointment for me, and it's roasting my walnuts right now. Too much of it, though — you can hear my gonads when I walk, squish squish..."

And I didn't hear from George for the rest of the day — another a victory for Doug the Hermit. I'm undefeated!

... But I also kinda missed hearing from him.

9/15/2024   

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