A Million PLS
I picked up my phone with a rare sense of benevolence, the kind of mid-afternoon charity that usually only strikes when one is feeling particularly flush or at peace with the world. I dialled Uncle Nidge first, listening to the rhythmic, agonising drone of the ringing tone until it eventually clipped off into the cold indifference of voicemail. I could almost picture him at the gym, sweat-soaked and focussed, punishing a heavy bag with that relentless rhythm of his, entirely oblivious to the fact that his phone was vibrating against a locker bench. He had no way of knowing that I wasn't calling to hound him about the debt—that nagging cloud of owed money that had been hanging over our relationship for months. In fact, I was prepared to tell him to forget the whole thing, to wipe the slate clean and let us move on as kin. But as the silence of his non-answer stretched out, my altruism curdled into a sharp, jagged spike of resentment. If he can’t be bothered to pick up his phone, t...
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