blank slate

short story

Steven’s Uncle Doug was not born—he was quarried.¹

Presumably from the prominent slate quarries for which his hometown of Slatesville was named. It was fortunate the town had the slate quarries otherwise it’d probably be called Truckerstown or Trailorton or Dirt Bikerstan or something, let alone exist as the bastard mongrel of Upstate New York and Vermont it was, half of it in one state and half in the other, with all the latter’s remoteness but none of its charm and all of the former’s penchant for cosplaying as a member of the Confederacy. For a time, almost all of the slate used in the United States came from Slatesville, Confederate or not. All the old buildings in the village of Slatesville had slate roofs and all of the neighborhood yards had landscaping with slate fill of the full spectrum of beautiful earthen tones slate can be.

Much of it was transported to the railways and subsequently the rest of the country over the past half-century by Uncle Doug’s family trucking company, Morrone Trucking. “Look, all of Uncle Doug’s big red trucks!” Steven’s dad would point out when they passed by the lot, even after Steven got too old to care about how awesome trucks were anymore.

Steven’s dad was also from Slatesville. Uncle Doug was his sister’s husband. Second husband. Her first husband was her twenty-something year-old high-school history teacher who she shacked up with shortly after graduation and pumped out three of Steven’s cousins, because this was the kind of thing that happened in Slatesville. And because he was the kind of man who married a former student, he was also the kind of man who you get divorced from.

Despite her early and forgivable naivete, Steven’s Aunt Molly was smart and resilient, which was how she ultimately came to speculate, mine, and carve out a place for herself in Doug Morrone’s heart.

It was the first wedding Steven had ever been to and it established a lot of expectations for weddings that would be abolished later on in his twenties: ceremony in a church, reception on a house lawn with a tent, kids everywhere. Steven’s sister would always tell him: if a groom doesn’t cry at the ceremony, the marriage won’t last. No groom he ever saw compared to the stoicism Uncle Doug: an igneous jaw, lips a flat line, eyes like they’d practiced gazing through the eons from behind his rimless glasses. Then Uncle Doug and Aunt Molly went and lasted for thirty years.

So when Steven found out his Uncle Doug had prostate cancer, it was like finding a scarecrow had bowel disease. That the man could have internal organs at all seemed a stretch. As a young teen, Steve didn’t even know what the prostate was or what it did. He did some googling and found that masturbating near-daily reduced one’s risk of acquiring the cancer.

Damn, Steven thought, I’m NEVER going to get prostate cancer!

When the cancer first struck, it was handily beaten back into remission, which gave everyone a chance to get a grip on it. Steven’s dad and aunt shortly afterward coordinated a weekend get-together for Steven’s family. They called it a ‘summer barbecue’ but everyone knew it was a ‘maybe say hi to and appreciate Uncle Doug before the cancer comes back and he’s too sick to be himself’ event.

Uncle Doug was not a big talker. Much like at his wedding, he was not someone who enjoyed being the center of attention, even the attention of one, let alone many. Everyone did their best to swirl around him with happy faces so as to include him without involving him as he sat in his Adirondack chair on the deck he built himself, with a plate of fruit salad and baked beans, a terrier curled up on him, salivating but very respectfully not begging, and a golden retriever sitting upright by his foot, leaning its body against the pillar of his shin.

It couldn’t have been comfortable for the dogs to rest on him. Doug Morrone was a hard and hulking man, wide shoulders, big thighs, with a posture Steven had never seen before and attributed to driving a tractor trailer for a living.

Steven sat in the other Adirondack chair beside Uncle Doug, mostly because he also did not like talking, at least not at these family things where most talking was answering various platitudinal questions about how school was going or whether he had a girlfriend or if he was enjoying marching band.

The silence between himself and his dying uncle eventually proved too much for even Steven.

“The dogs love you,” he said, reaching over to pet the golden on the head.

“Won’t leave me alone. Especially when I don’t feel good,” Uncle Doug said in his flat, blank monotone. Steven was going to ask ‘Oh like when you’re sick?’ before he remembered yes, of course, his uncle had cancer. The silence returned until their plates were cleaned of food.

“Wanna see something cool?” Uncle Doug asked, the turn of his body and uncontrolled smile betraying a slight enthusiasm that surprised even himself.

Now, there have probably been many uncles who asked this and followed it up with something less than savory, even upon denial, but Steven was so bored and eager to escape the monotony of extended family that he gave a confirmative: “Sure.”

The dog leapt from his lap as Uncle Doug got up and led Steven to the garage. He opened the door to reveal what Steven would have described as an expensive-looking dune buggy or ATV.

“It’s new,” Uncle Doug explained with reverence.

Uncle Doug did alright financially what with his father owning the trucking company, but he and Aunt Molly still lived in a modest ranch home with a finished basement. It seemed very much like a ‘fuck it I’m dying’ sort of purchase to Steven.

“Whoa, cool,” Steven said. Trucks might not have been cool anymore, but this thing was. Too cool for Steven.

“Wanna take it for a spin?” Uncle Doug’s voice edged dangerously close to emotive as he asked this.

Steven wanted to say no. He wanted to say he just ate and it might upset his stomach. He wanted to say his parents wouldn’t let him. He wanted to say he was scared, which was the truth.

But can you say no to a sick man?

He replied with an affirmative and Uncle Doug showed him how to buckle up into the passenger seat. Never had he rode in anything so close to the ground, and as they set out upon the graveled slate driveway to the country road he had doubts upon doubts gathering as to the safety of the venture and found himself wondering if his parents would have even approved of this, especially when Uncle Doug hit the gas and they got up to 30, 40 mph, which when you’re in a dune buggy feels like roughly the speed of light.

Steven gripped the bottom of the seat as the wind strained tears from his eyes. He looked over at his Uncle Doug. The posture found in driving a dune buggy was certainly not the same one affected from driving a truck. A smile started to chisel itself out upon Uncle Doug’s face as he enjoyed Steven’s fear. He began to emit a repetitive, low sort of moan—no, it was laughter! A chuckle, at Steven’s discomfort.

Uncle Doug slowed (barely) and took the turn into a dirt bike track down the road, the one Aunt Molly always complained about because it could be heard at their house on race day. There were no races that day, but as they churned dirt beneath them and headed for the first of many hills, it was apparent Uncle Doug intended to have a race of their own.

“Uncle Doug, no! Slow down!” Steven pleaded, but they went over the jump anyway and the scream that was stuck between his throat and chest emerged mid-air, where it felt like they stayed for an eternity but it was only a moment, a moment at the other side of which Steven found something had been released with the scream, like it was a plug upon his inhibitions.

As they landed in a cloud of dirt, Steve and Uncle Doug were laughing, shaking with laughter as they rattled within the confines of the vehicle, hooting and hollering as they continued on.

When they returned to Aunt Molly’s, the silence resumed. This time, the dogs sat with Steven as they had ice cream for dessert.

Long after Uncle Doug passed, when Steven would be out driving on the highway and when he’d see a tractor trailer pass by with a big red cab, he’d think of Uncle Doug and his rimless glasses, his hardness and silence, and wonder if that truck was hauling slate too.

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BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS:

How is masculinity portrayed in this story and how does it relate to the slate?

Slatesville itself is a character. What role does it play in shaping Uncle Doug?

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thanks for reading PNP, where we encourage you to get checked for prostate cancer regularly if you’re a male of a certain age. if you liked this story, you might also like my novel, the big T, posted here on Substack:

the big T

1. Taken from Bill Shankly’s description of soccer player Tommy Smith.