Pinky Potter
For a book fair, one day they put him in a Hogwarts robe, his dad’s glasses, a painted-on scar, and a wand. His dad called him “Pinky Potter.” Pinky Potter made a determined face.
If he were to cast “Expecto Patronum!” what would we see? Mine is a white doe. Surprised by this, my sister said, “Even now? After all this time?”
“Always.”
My friends called me “Le Dauphin” and “The Little Prince.” It was meant to annoy me. It did. I wasn’t the “Little Prince.” I was “The Half-Blood Prince.” But you’d only know that if you got almost to the end of the book series.
Having decided there wasn’t so much trick to this baby-having business, my sister packed her bag and waited for the hospital to calculate her bill. Sitting on her hospital bed, she gave me the squirming pink thing. It takes a ridiculous amount of time for hospitals to calculate your bill, even using computers. By the time clan Cooke was ready to roll out, Uncle Boyd and Pinky Potter were on a trip to the stars in slumberland. His daddy took a photo.
The Titanic didn’t sink quickly. It took hours, with the boiler rooms on fire, the ship listing astern in the frigid waters, before a starry night, just before it went under, it split in half. There were no lovers saying goodbye on a floating door, only the terrified and the dead.
Back on Berlin Drive, Pinky Potter was a baby with a colic. Nobody could make him stop crying sometimes, not momma, not grandmomma, not daddy, not the maid. Uncle Boyd’s arms were a salve. The baby got some much-needed sleep.
A visit from Uncle Boyd meant one thing. “Get in the truck!” The Ford F150 wasn’t designed to be a jungle gym, but it sure seemed to work as one. Number one son was an adventure kid. He photographs surfers and bikini models now. The Golden Girl child had a lot to say. She still does.
You hear a lot about how horrible it is to be the middle child. It’s not really. For one thing, you can get away with just about anything because everybody is watching the others. That can be the weakness too. Everybody is watching the others. Pinky Potter learned a few ways to get enough attention for himself. Uncle Boyd learned to climb tall buildings and eat the Mezcal worm. Kind of the same thing, but not really.
“Uncle Boyd doesn’t come around so much as he used to. What’s wrong?”
“He’s not having the best time with his wife.”
“Oh.”
The children never forgot about me, but it sure looked like I forgot about them. Their mother would leave children’s gifts and cards at the door to my cave. “Please come out, Uncle Boyd. We miss you.”
No reply.
My acting teacher became the acting teacher for all three Cooke children, but Uncle Boyd was in the cave. I knew what was happening because I had spies. I always have spies, but I wasn’t there.
“I should go to the hospital, or I’ll die.”
Pinky’s mom met me there. I hadn’t seen her face in ten years. I didn’t die.
“Do you need anything from your apartment, UB?” Pinky asked.
“Um, yeah. My dumbbells, but they might be kind of heavy.”
“Hey, no trouble, dude.”
Pinky and Uncle Boyd were reunited. This time, I had the colic, but it was happy, and getting happier.
Pinky found an ancient love and took her to wife. Ancient loves sometimes return.
“She’s an actor. That can be difficult. Trust me on this.”
“He’s grown. We love her.”
“I will love her, too.”
In the Amerigo Parking lot, under a starry sky, as the Mississippi air turned to Christmas crisp, I offered her my sword, my spurs, and my shield. I am her knight. He is my ward. I am, The Uncle Boyd.
