WHEN UNCLE GEORGE CALLS, IT’S ALWAYS WORTH PICKING UP.
My Uncle George lives in a home with a few other people like him. He enjoys a simple life — no smartphones, no internet — no communication is limited to in-person and old-school landline phone calls. He has a girlfriend, Carol, and they get married about once every two weeks. He tells me she thinks I’m handsome, and I tell him to tell her “thank you.” It’s not clear whether Carol exists.
My uncle and I have always shared a special bond — and my middle name, George, is a point of pride. Still, when I was around 5 years old, I asked my parents what was wrong with him. Anyway, they said nothing was ‘wrong’ with him exactly, but that Uncle George was mentally disabled.
Back in the day, George would periodically ask for my cellphone number and write it down. He’d call a bunch of times and then abruptly stop — because he had lost the piece of paper with my number on it. This went on for years, until at some point, around six years ago, he committed my number to memory. Ever since then, about once an hour from 7 am to 7 pm, he calls me 10 times a day, without fail, 365 days a year. Though I love him quite a bit, I answer maybe two of those phone calls a day.
Our phone calls always follow the same structure, using one of three fantasy realities, courtesy of George’s imagination. In one, he’s my dad and I’m his son (in this role, he enjoys scolding me for cursing). In another, he’s Major Charles Winchester, from the 1970s TV show M*A*S*H, and I’m Captain B.J. Hunnicutt, reporting for duty. In the last, we’re both lifeguards, strategizing the rescue of a drowning person.
When the person rings, I always say “Hello?” as if I don’t know who is calling.
“Hi, George,” I’ll say.
“It’s your dad, George!” Or, “It’s Major Winchester!” Or, “This is Tower 1. Tower 2, can you read me?”
We go back and forth in character for about a minute and a half, only breaking the bit to laugh hysterically. Then he’ll go quiet.
“You’ll know something, Tommy,” he’ll say. “I’m just calling to say you’re the best guy I know.”
“So are you,” I reply. “The two of us!”
“The two musketeers! All for one and one for all!”
We both laugh. Then, he’ll ask what I’m eating for dinner, or if I’m watching the Mets game, and wraps up telling me he’ll call me back at a specific time.
The conversation has been repeated verbatim multiple times a day for years. No matter what’s going on in the world — no matter how shaky life’s underpinnings — the consistency of these calls is something I can count on. At my most stressed and vulnerable, angry, and sad — during painful breakups and professional setbacks — that phone call nevertheless rolls in, allowing me to escape reality for a bit and just laugh and act like a kid again.
Because George doesn’t understand things at an adult level — he has no idea what I do for work, for example — it’s impossible for him to comprehend certain aspects of my life, or to truly attune to whether I’m having a good or a bad day.
Instead, he’s able to bring me the same energy, the same love and acceptance, no matter what. It’s an incredible gift. Because I know that even at my worst, when I feel like I’m drowning, I can count on Uncle George, up there in Tower 1, to call down from his perch through his mighty megaphone and tell me I’m the best guy he knows.
It’s an act of love that saves me, just a little bit, every single day.
