When I was nine my family attended a relative’s wedding. During the reception, I kept to myself. I avoided the other kids, because I thought that they were weird. With my parents and sister up and mingling, I had nowhere to sit without being a sitting duck for some strange woman to come ask me why I wasn’t playing with the other kids, or to stoop down to my eye level and strike up a conversation in which she inexcusably asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I always wanted to tell people that when I grew up I wanted to be someone who didn’t ask kids what they wanted to be when they grew up.
                One person who would undoubtedly not ask that question was my great-uncle Walt. I had never met him, but Jen had told me about him. He had lived alone for a long time, and was an alcoholic. When he became too old to take care of himself his daughter took him in. Deprived of his booze, he was more miserable than ever.
                He sat alone in one of the hall’s large circular tables, which could seat nine. He was quite a sight. Unhappiness emanated from his general area.
                I was drawn to him. I fixed a plate of food and sat down at his table, leaving one chair between us. I took my seat without smiling or even making eye contact, saying only “Hi,” and then began eating. He regarded me silently and suspiciously, then resumed his business, which was scowling and ferociously clearing his throat. I loved it; two lone wolves. I could tell I had thrown him off, though, by not doing anything to justify one of the nasty responses that he gave to maintain his solitary possession of the table. When I rose to get another plate of food I asked him if he wanted me to bring him anything. He grunted that he could get his own damn food. That response amused me, because he obviously still had no justification to be rude to me, I hadn’t crossed any of his lines, but he was pitifully groping at his best chance to keep up appearances.
                When I sat down again he stared at me for half a minute or so. Finally, he said “You’re a smart kid, aren’t ya?” I nodded. “Maybe you can tell me something.” He turned to glare at the next table, where a group of guests, including his daughter, had been continuously breaking out in loud bursts of laughter. “Tell me what the hell is so goddamn funny.”
                After a few moments, all I could say was “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” We resumed our silence, but those words had instantly burrowed into a nook in my brain that they would never relinquish. He could have talked for hours without revealing as much as he had in that sentence. In the end, the laughter stops. It was never real, it could maintain only until old age’s indifference to consequence pulls its plug. When it’s all said and done, you still don’t know what the hell was so funny. My Uncle Walt had lit fire to my suspicions that the happy arc of life may not be for everyone, that the world and its people were not necessarily aligned correctly. A few minutes later his daughter came by to check on him. She was baffled by my choice of company. “Why aren’t you playing with the other children?”