Hogswatch 1-10

I pulled up after a hard night's shift at McDonalds and noticed there was a strange car parked at my folk’s house. It was an old style car from the 70s that must have taken a fortune in fuel to drive. Made with real old-fashioned 100% steel, it was a hulking presence next to my half-sister's used Lexus. Nobody made or drove cars like that behemoth nowadays. I drove a used Kia piece of trash that I probably couldn’t give away if I wanted to.

It was such a departure from the usual cars that were parked in my parent’s driveway that I almost felt sorry for the poor shlubb who had to stop and ask for directions with those two looking down their noses at him. It had to be a "him" because as I walked by the car on my way to my garage apartment I noticed a box of cigars sitting in the passenger seat.

I opened the door to my dark garage apartment. When I had turned 18 my stepfather had my room cleared out and all my stuff dropped off in the section of the garage where the third car would have been parked. Apparently now that I was an adult he felt no need to continue in the charade that I was his son. That had always been the friction between us. My mom had turned Dr. Allen’s roving eye and she had been the perfect mother for his three perfect daughters. The fact that he had a son, let alone one like me, was something Dr. Allen never told people.

I was often pawned off as the yardman’s boy, or the plumber’s boy. Only rarely if my parents and half-sisters had no way out of owning up to me was I acknowledged as Dr. Allen’s son.

You see, I am fat. This might not get you ostracized in most families, but it certainly did in mine. Dr. Allen was a very successful plastic surgeon. My mom, who used to be plump, had become a fitness fanatic shortly after my father's death. All my sisters lean towards being thin, as in supermodel thin. I, on the other hand, weigh around 342lbs.

So for the last two years I have been working to save up money for college. I should move out of the garage, but at least this way I don’t have to pay rent although my stepdad is charging me two hundred bucks every month. He’s mad I haven’t left the garage yet, and I am kind of happy to be sticking it to him every morning as he sees me sleeping on, as he walks to his BMW.

As I turn on the lights for my section of the garage I notice that someone is sitting in the swivel chair that I keep by my computer and desk. It is no one I know; he sits scrunched over in the chair working a Sudoku puzzle. He is an older gentleman, probably in his late 50s or early 60s. He is wearing a large T-shirt with something about the Shriners on it. He is a big man who clearly weighs almost as much as me. He reminds me of a scruffy, beardless Santa Claus. He is halfway through smoking one of those stogies I saw outside; a cloud of smoke billows around his head.

As I enter nervously, this intruder swivels around his chair and looks me directly in the eye.

“Stephen Renbock?” asked the stranger.

“Yes,” I answered, not knowing who this stranger could be.

“Stephen, I am your uncle, Al Renbock. There are some things I need to talk to you about.”

I looked at this stranger with amazement. Mom had never told me my father had any family; I just assumed that he was an only child. She rarely ever spoke of Herb Renbock, and never willingly. The only thing I knew about my father was that he had died serving in Operation Desert Storm. Al must have seen the look of perplexity on my face so he started talking.

“ I can see your mother still holds our family in low esteem. Apparently you have not been getting any of our letters.”

“Letters,” I said in a spluttering voice.

“Yes, we send one for Christmas and for birthdays. When you hadn’t responded to any of them and you were of age, we finally decided to see how things stood. I can see that your mother and stepfather are taking good care of you,” said Al with a suggestive look around the garage.