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It was loud; the buzzing of extended family, the unwanted hugging and touching and caressing, pinching, poking, prodding. Stan hated it, he hated the drunken chattering, arguing and giggling, though angry Ned fighting with his drunk dad was rather funny.
To make it worse, Kyle couldn’t come. Usually he was dragged along to all Marsh or Kimble-Kern events, sometimes Stan went to Broflovski events. He didn’t understand some of their traditions but they were always kind to him.
He wandered outside, maybe the quiet and cool air would help. He wanted to rip his skin off, it didn’t even feel good. Stan’s clothes began to feel gross, jeans too scratchy, shirt and jacket too restrictive.. even his hat didn’t seem to fit just right. Wandering along the cars lining the street and yard, in search of a place no one would see him, he settled on the back of his Uncle Jimbo’s truck.
He placed a foot on the trailer hitch, a hand on the tailgate, then his other foot on the edge under the tailgate. Swinging his other foot over the top he clambered in, but to his surprise someone was already in there. Jimbo lay on his back, signature hat, vest and orange top-shirt tossed away.
“Youch!— that’s my fuckin’ head, Ned— oh shit— sorry, Stan.. just overwhelmed,” he looked up at the boy who covered his ears at the yelping. Great. More of this shit.
“Sorry— can.. can I sit with you?” Stan tilted his head, big eyes almost puppylike.
“Sure thing, c’mere kid,” Jimbo sat up, tossed an empty beer bottle out of the way and offered Stan the spot next to him. He wiggled closer to his uncle, knees pulled to his chest. A blanket had been laid under him, probably from Ned, he got winded quickly after years of smoking so sitting in the truck bed helped. A few unremovable blood stains on the plaid fabric from their hunting trips. Despite that, the blanket was soft under Stan’s fingers.
The cottony fabric underneath him and the sound of nothing but crickets was much better than the drinking and loud laughter, rough-housing of the cousins and small talk with people he’d never seen before.
“The party too much for ya?” Jimbo frowned, picking at a fraying patch on his jeans.
Stan nodded, nuzzling into his uncle. “It’s loud, Uncle Jimbo,”
“Yeah,” Jimbo sighs, arm now slung around Stan. “That’s why I’m out here,”
“Mom says I’m different from the other kids—“ he looks up to Jimbo with big, watery blue eyes. “She says I’m special, but it never sounds like she means.. good special. Like when you see someone doing something stupid and you go “yeah, he’s special,””
Jimbo frowned. “You’re just like me, kid,” he pressed a kiss to Stan’s now hat-free forehead. “Your mom thinks it’s autism, both of us.. and I don’t think we should feel any shame in that— hell, I’m fairly out as gay.. I’ve learned more about myself in the last couple years than I did in school,”
He paused for a second, Stan had a deer-in-headlights stare.. he almost looked like a little fawn, the type that Jimbo left their mothers alive so they’d grow up with a maternal figure. He had one himself, yeah, but she was absent and even neglectful at times. He didn’t grow up with a dad either, not until a year before Sharon was born. She got the best sides of both parents, Jimbo got a mom that was so caught up on his dad she forgot about him.
“Uncle Jimbo?”
“Yeah?”
“Mom and Dad have been fighting a lot, do you think they’re gonna get divorced?”
“I can’t tell ya, kid.. maybe— but it’ll be okay, Stan, I promise you,” Jimbo sighed.
“I hate it when they fight.. and the farm.. but I hate a lot of things, Dad says I’m just a hateful asshole,” Stan picked at his dirty converse, rocking back and forth.
“Wanna stay with Ned and I for a couple days..? We have a guest room, it’s a little messy but you can stay as long as ya want,” Jimbo smiled at the boy.
“Thanks, Uncle Jimbo,”