The kids were so excited to come home from school to find Scoot sitting on the porch.  His backpack was on the floor, and he was practicing the chords for Folsom Prison Blues. Marianne managed to tear herself away long enough to let me know with the required after-school phone call to check in.

“Mom, guess what!  Uncle Scoot is here! “

At that news, I wrapped the coiled cord of the business’s landline around my neck and pulled. I often did this as a joke to amuse my colleagues, but today?  Today I did want to strangle myself. 

Neither I nor my husband were related to Scoot.  Greg and he had gone to high school and college together and enlisted in the army during their sophomore year – the both of them falling down drunk at the time. Greg managed to get out of the commitment, but Scoot was failing all of his classes and was going to get kicked out of State at the end of the term. He went to boot camp. 

Greg had a few letters, but they eventually lost touch.

I came home from work one day after picking up the kids at daycare to find a homeless guy sitting on our porch.  While he was indeed homeless, Scoot was not exactly a stranger. 

Greg was overjoyed to see him.  They carried on, reminisced, and had a fine time drinking and playing their guitars until late in the night. I enjoyed the first and second evenings until Greg, who didn’t generally drink, threw up all over our new carpet. 

We woke up the next morning to find Scoot gone and a note on the kitchen table. 

Dear Greg and Sally,

I don’t want to wear out my welcome, so I’m leaving. Thanks for the place to crash and the warm shower.  Sally, the food was great.  Your kids are great. I hope you know how blessed you are.

Scoot

P.S.  Greg, I took a twenty out of your wallet.  I also took the jar of peanut butter and the half loaf of bread.  I’m sorry, but I’m just completely tapped out.  I’ll make it up to you.

He took more than the peanut butter, the bread, and a twenty-dollar bill.  None of it was all that important, but it was annoying. My stapler, for one.  Greg’s bowling ball.

The kids had to buy their lunch that day since we had no bread. They thought that a treat — another reason to like Uncle Scoot. 

Well, he didn’t make it up to us. But he continued to stop in once a year, sometimes twice. When he’d leave, we’d find the most baffling array of stuff missing, including my box of tampons. 

I just can’t imagine.

Greg couldn’t get anything out of him about why he was homeless.  Greg was still friendly with Scoot’s parents.  They were confused and hurt.  They hadn’t heard from Scoot since he left for boot camp. Scoot wouldn’t talk about it.  He’d just strum on his guitar and avoid eye contact.

The third year, he showed up at Christmas time with elaborately wrapped gifts for the children.  Turns out the city mission had a program for their people to choose gifts for the children in their lives. Volunteers from the Junior League wrapped them.

The toys were dollar store fare, but still, it was kind of sweet. A plastic dinosaur. Play makeup.

Christmas morning, Scoot played the guitar and taught the kids all the words to Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.

The kids loved Scoot. 

This went on for years. 

After his funeral, we sat around talking about Scoot.  Our daughter, then in her 20s, told the story of how in high school he’d stolen some of her CDs and the joint she’d been given to try pot for the first time. She had been waiting for the right moment to smoke it. Scoot beat her to it. 

Scoot’s parents paid for the burial. They didn’t want him buried in Potter’s Field. There was even visitation at the funeral home. It seems Scoot had a bunch of families he would visit for a couple of days at a time. The place was crowded, though nobody but us and his parents went to the gravesite.

His dad, with red-rimmed eyes, gave Greg Scoot’s guitar. 

He said, “I offered Scoot a used car when he turned 16, but he turned it down. He wanted a guitar. This one. I want you to have it.

Writing Prompt found posted by Rebecca Makkai at
https://rebeccamakkai.substack.com/p/731-weirdly-specific-writing-prompts.
Put someone deeply sketchy into your story. Not a villain, just a really sketchy person. A guy who sleeps on people’s couches and steals their peanut butter.