Within Close Range - Albert

Albert's scared the shit out of countless people over the years.

Despite this (or rather because of it), he's been an integral part of the family since Mom brought him home from a golf trip to Pebble Beach, California in the mid-seventies.

Ever since then, Albert's just hung around. 

Year, after year, after year... after year.

He's of average height,  a gray-haired gentleman, with a full beard - both of which hint of their ginger youth. 

He's originally from London, but he’s classic Scottish from the top of his thick, tousled hair to his argyle socks.

Always in Glen Plaid and corduroy.

In the pocket of his kinsmen’s plaid, for as long as we’ve known him, Albert’s always carried his pipe. In the same pocket, he used to keep a battered, old tin of tobacco - Prince Albert to be precise, the very man he was named after - until some sibling of mine borrowed the rusty, bright red tin (likely to store their weed) and never returned it to the old man.  

Albert never said a word. 

But that didn’t surprise any of us.

Because that is Albert.

Always in the background.

Still and silent.

Growing up with Albert around, we quickly learned two things: he was never where you thought he was, yet he was always somewhere.

You might find him sitting in the sun porch staring out at the lake, or lying beneath the covers in one of the boy’s twin beds. He might be in the front seat of a car one morning, or on one of the chaises, lounging under the stars, one night.

His familiar, but frightening figure, silhouetted in the shadows of the darkened house, frequently made my heart skip a beat as I snuck to the kitchen for a midnight snack, shuffled to bed after a midnight movie, or through the house after curfew.

But Albert never tattled.

It simply wasn’t him.

Most people never really knew who Albert was:  an uncle, a grandfather, an unsocial grump... a corpse?

He was our quiet sentry. 

His dark, squinted eyes ever-fixed on the room. 

Out the window. 

On you.

Never blinking.

As we speak, he’s probably sitting in the basement of Mia’s house, where he continues to startle guests just looking to use the exercise equipment.

A bit unnerving, our Albert, but dependably docile… and pliable.

Even after years of family and friends forcing him into the most unflattering positions.

For the amusement of others. 

Creepy?

Maybe.

But it's what we've been doing to Albert for forty-plus years.

And he's entertained us endlessly.

Besides, who knows where he might have ended up had Mom not told the manager of the Pebble Beach Pro Shop she loved him and wanted to take him home.

Surely he's been worth the $200 Dad paid for him… 

... and the battle of wills which likely took place between Mom and Dad before the shopkeeper lifted Albert out of the display window, packed him in a box, and shipped him off.