The recommended videos on the app’s homepage were foreign to him. One summer of handing his niece and nephew control of his phone and he’d lost his own identity in an algorithm of nonsense. Almost. At the bottom of the screen was one suggested video calling just for him—Liza Minnelli singing the title number from Liza with a “Z,” her 1972 television special directed by Bob Fosse. Patrick smiled and hummed to himself—he hadn’t completely been obliterated. He pressed play and watched as Liza expertly walked the microphone over to the stand. Her white blouse cut as low as her white tuxedo pants were high. She was luminescent, iconic in her Cabaret hair and dark eye makeup. Patrick hummed to himself as she spoke to the audience. In his mind he was the one clad in a white tuxedo, wowing a room, leaning into a mic stand and complaining that he had a problem with his name. People call me “Uncle”—WRONG!
He glanced up from his phone to see if anyone was watching. The hotel was empty, save for a woman across the lobby who stood with a walker, but she was preoccupied, waiting, he imagined, for a van. No chance he was bothering her. He jumped back into the video in time with the music.
That’s Guncle with a “G” not Uncle with a “U,” ’cause Uncle with a “U” goes UUH not GUH.
It’s “GUN” instead of “UN,” “CLE” instead of “CLEE.” It’s as simple as can be . . .
GUNCLE.
The sound of heels across the tile floor made him sit at attention, dropping the phone in his lap. Alas, the shoes disqualified their wearer. Clara wore more sensible footwear, suitable for walking, breathable for the heat. Patrick glanced and recognized the hotel’s concierge, she’d been back and forth across the lobby a few times now. She smiled at him in passing and Patrick returned his attention to his phone, already playing the next video in sequence: Liza singing “Ring Them Bells.” He searched for his own channel and for the video Maisie had surreptitiously posted. It now had two hundred and thirty-eight thousand views. Patrick lowered his sunglasses to make sure he was reading that number correctly. Almost a quarter-million people cared about some random video with Maisie and Grant? Unbelievable. He scrolled through a number of comments.
Y’all these kids is cyoot.
Hilarious.
Now one with Patrick, please.
I thought this guy was dead?
What did I just watch? This is some white people shit.
I wish Patrick was my uncle!
And several dozen comments that just read: First. Whatever that was supposed to mean; these anonymous viewers all thought they were Columbus.
The opinions were endless. He scrolled back through his camera roll, starting to consider what other content he might have. An audience of a quarter million wasn’t nothing. If he were to give in and post a third video, what would it be of? Him? The kids? He was so deep in the quandary, he almost missed his sister as she walked through the lobby’s sliding doors. Clara looked more confident than she had when she’d first touched down in the desert; she had acquired, at least, the proper wardrobe, and her sunglasses remained squarely on her face as if she were attempting a disguise. Patrick shrank in his chair, forgetting momentarily that his purpose here was to confront. He waited until she was right beside him.
“Ahem.”
Clara froze in place. Above them, floors of open corridors; a housekeeper running a vacuum across the top-floor hallway filled the open space with a gentle, distant hum. Whether it served to amplify or defuse the underlying tension, Patrick wasn’t sure.
“How did you find me?”
Patrick stood, leaving the backs of his thighs on the tacky chair. He ignored the smart of his legs and motioned for his sister to follow him. “Come.”
Clara drew her shoulders back. “I’m not doing this, Patrick. Not without my attorney present.”
She has an attorney. He motioned again, this time toward the back door.
“Oh, no,” Clara said, as if she’d seen one too many episodes of Dateline.
“I’m not kidnapping you, for heaven’s sake. You can follow me to a second location.”
“I said, not without my attorney.”
Patrick stared until Clara blinked, then marched deeper into the lobby toward the pool. He didn’t look back; he knew that she would follow, and lag no more than ten steps behind. She wasn’t the type to leave things unsaid.
“How did you find me?” Clara wanted an answer. They paused at the sliding doors that led outside.
“Like it was difficult. You would never stay anywhere without using points.”
Outside, only a few people were swimming. Families mostly, with kids. It was late July now, not exactly peak season. The city was dead. It was the hardest thing to get used to for a New England native, where the summer months counted for everything. Patrick surveyed the pool deck. A young man in a white polo shirt and shorts approached with a drink tray. Patrick removed his hat and sunglasses, then ran his hands through his hair. For once, he wanted to be his most recognizable. “Excuse me,” he said, stopping the pool attendant. He had an enviable tan. “I was wondering if we could use one of your cabanas.”
The young man looked back in the direction of the shaded tents. “Those are usually reserved for parties of six or more.” His face softened as recognition set in. Patrick could always sense the exact moment, the release of adrenaline perhaps,
