Sand Fish

Last Monday morning my cousin Andy died. I was not particularly close to him. As a matter of fact, the last time I saw him was at my Aunt Desi’s funeral, which was at least 5-6 years ago. He was a slight fellow, pale and hunched over a bit with freckles and reddish blonde hair. He always wore this wicked little smile like he was in on a joke that you did not know about and he talked slow, even for a southerner. I remember him mostly from my childhood. Once he convinced my brother and I that fish lived under the sandy bottom of the creek that ran behind our house. We spent all morning with sharp cane poles trying to spear the elusive “sand fish”. Andy kept us going until lunch and then finally let us in on his little joke. I liked him so much that I wasn’t even mad. Another time we went fishing with Andy and his Dad (my favorite Uncle Tony). I don’t remember much about that day except riding in the back of my Uncle’s little truck while Andy sang, “Show me the way to go home. I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I had a little drink about an hour ago and it went straight to my head.” It was the first time I had ever heard that song and I was wondering why he was singing it. I had been with him all day and he did not drink a thing. I was always such a gullible little fuck. Sometime during my teens Andy disappeared from the all-knowing radar of my mom’s family. Occasionally, I would hear gossip about him:

“Andy got caught trying to sell drugs to a GBI man and is going to jail.”
“Andy got married/divorced and married again to a Korean lady.”
“Andy’s wife had a baby that died.”
“Andy has his own painting business.”

The final bit of “Andy” info reached me Tuesday night. My mom called me on my cell phone and dished the bad news to me slow like she was offering me a piece of bitter pie. It seemed like she talked for ten minutes before she reached the horrible punch line, “Andy had been killed Monday morning in a car wreck.” It was the kind of news that surprises you but does not surprise you at the same time. He was 42 and the accident occurred 100 miles south of Tampa, Florida in a place called Arcadia. His funeral is Friday and like the rest of my family, I am looking for reasons not to go:

“I didn’t even know him. He is practically a stranger to me.”
“I haven’t seen him for years”
“No one else is going.”
“Arcadia is so far away.”

I can’t help but think that my grandmother is looking down upon the lot of us, and is ashamed.