Uncle Larry

Some say the adventure began when Uncle Larry, as he was referred to in town, ran across Mrs. Mayfield’s front lawn completely naked and frightened her so thoroughly that to this day she still speaks in gibberish. Uncle Larry was admitted to Sunnyside mental institution the following day, for his mid-summer day stroll through Mrs. Mayfield’s garden wasn’t his first time. The county judge based his verdict on the theory of three strikes and you’re out, and with one swing of the gavel, Uncle Larry was gone. The town was quiet wihtout him, and very boring. Every day around noon, I would look out the back window toward the hill upon which Sunnyside mental institution rested, hoping to see my friend running down the hill and back into town, but every day was the same. All I saw was the mighty oak tree next to the gate of the hospital.

One extremely windy night something happened that I won’t soon forget. I heard a light tap on the window. I ignored it and went back to bed, but when I heard it for a third time, I was beginning to get a little bit worried, and very scared. I slowly crept toward the dark window and quickly peered out the window. There, standing in the wind, dressed solely in hs birthday suit was Uncle Larry. A large grin upon his face was enough to make me smile and open the door. As Larry told me the story of his grand escape, my eyes filled with wonder and disbelief. He had saved small packages of salsa from the cafeteria since the day he arrived at Sunnyside, and when the guard came to check on him that evening, he poured them onto the ground and laid on top of them to create the illusion of suicide, and when the guard bent down to examine the man, Larry quickly gave him a forearm shiver and the guard was knocked unconscious. He quickly removed the keys from the pocket of the watchman, and sprinted to the front door. He unlocked it and ran down the hill, removing his prison garb and tossing it into the high branches of the oak which stood alone next to the black gate. He clawed his way up the tree and jumped out of its branches and onto the cold cement. He had escaped, but he knew he wasn’t safe at my house. Before he left, I offered him a towel, pants and just about everything in my closet, but he declined. He left my house that night, never to be seen or heard from again. All that the sheriff found from Uncle Larry was a tattered prison suit high in the branches of the oak tree. I never told anyone about that night, or that I knew Larry at all. The kids in town invented wild stories about Larry escaping and killing a man with his bare hands as he fled town, but I knew the truth. Sometimes I hear a late-night howl from far away, and I think about Uncle Larry.