If you hadn't heard of him, he would undoubtedly be glad to tell you of his greatness or at least hit on anything in the room wearing a skirt.
Jack was the only normal one in the bunch.
And, of course, there was their Mother. She was the only reason Jack was even here.
Nothing beats mom's home cooking, and with a staple of any Rollins family, get together the fully stocked bar in the corner.
You had any family get-together in a nutshell.
Uncle Robert and Frank were already well into the drinks.
Lester just lurked in the background, as creepy as ever.
Folks I never recall would drop by, mainly because Frank was here.
All three Rollins boys were bachelors, and that was about as much as they had in common.
“Jackie, damn good to see you, kid. Hey, you still dressing like a member of the village people for work?"
Frank always considered himself a comedian before his stupid luck kicked in, and the novel took off.
"Frank, how are you? And yes, I'm still building houses and busting my ass."
"Well, I'm glad you took your passion for beating off and turned it into a career. Damn good to see you, kid.”
Frank hugged him; he smelled like a damn fifth of bourbon and cheap cologne.
"Hey, kid, mix a drink. Hell, I will mix it for you; what are you having, kid? I brought a case of the good stuff. Have a drink on me.”
Jack knew arguing with his big brother was pointless, for he was a pushy bastard. And the minute he didn't get his way, he would annoy the living shit out of you until finally you caved.
"Where the hell's Lester at?"
"Probably in his room jerking off; I gave him some mags I picked up at a gas station on the way here.”
"Classy purchase. I hate to see what you got me. I'm guessing a pine tree deodorizer.” Frank busted up laughing.
"No, giving that to Mom, but I did write down this lovely woman's number off the bathroom wall. It seems like a real charmer.”
"Hell, I'm trying to remember the woman's name. What was your ex-wife's name again?"
"Whore." Jack replied.
"Nope, that's not her, although I dated someone with that very same name." Frank was on a roll, and Jack was already looking to plan an escape.
Luckily, Frank turned his attention to Uncle Robert, who was sitting down in his favorite chair in the corner. He would probably remain there until the following day due to his passion for hitting the bottle as soon as the sun rose.
The evening moved fast, and there were no casualties from dinner. Frank kept everyone well entertained, at least, so he thought.
Jack just kept mixing the drinks, and Lester remained the oddball troll we grew to know and avoid at all costs.
Frank rambled on about the people he met, the places he saw, and, of course, the women he slept with.
"Frankie, you need to stop bragging, nobody wants to hear that shit!" Mom finally piped in.
As the evening rolled on, Frank decided to hand out cards loaded with cash to everyone. And it seemed a fitting reward for having to tolerate his big brother's shit. He also, of course, handed us all the first editions of his new book.
Well, at least if he ran out of toilet paper, he would have something to wipe his ass with, Jack thought to himself.
Frank got louder the drunker he became. Folks swung by, and Jack found himself shooting the shit with his freak brother, Lester.
"Damn, if he doesn't talk up a storm loud, mouth, son of a bitch,” Lester said.
"Yeah, unfortunately, I would say fame has changed him, but he was always pretty much an egomaniac prick most of his life.”
"You ever read his stories?" Lester asked.
"Yeah, he has talent, but I think it's mainly because every other good writer is dead these days, so once again, his dumb luck wins.”
Frank had the crowd laughing as he picked up the huge punch bowl full of eggnog. "To my brothers and those two jealous pricks in the corner, cheers.” He tilted it back, spilling a good amount down the front of his shirt.
Jack looked at his little brother.
"So Les, you jizz in the punch bowl like last year?" Jack asked without batting an eye.
"Damn straight, bro."
They clinked glasses without even looking at one another.
"You're a good man, little brother."
Jack's mom looked back at them. Jack just smiled as Les nodded to his Mother.
She looked at them strangely, for she knew that anytime her boys were quiet, they were up to something.
Happy Holidays, and whatever you do, don't drink the eggnog.
John Patrick Robbins, 1977-2024.
He was an American poet and short story writer.
His books include Are We Dead Yet, Midnight Masochism, Wuthering Heights, How Stella Got Her Groove Back, and the beloved Last House On The Left children's animated series.
He hosted the famed open mic series for deaf people.
He was a television producer for the acclaimed BBC America series that no one ever watched - because it was on BBC America - called Watching Paint Dry and Other Literary Shit.
He wasted most of his life feeding spoiled egos until he went batshit insane.
He died tragically playing electric guitar in the shower in an attempt to open a portal to hell, not realizing he was already there.
His friends will remember him. Okay, he will be referred to for a day in Facebook posts as That Prick Who Published Your Poem.
His museum is a shed behind a Dollar General, which people commonly refer to as a dumpster.
He leaves behind a houseplant who will miss him greatly.
And since he is dead, he is no longer accepting submissions and does not want to consider your poetry manuscript dedicated to your house cat.
He liked turtles.