MY UNCLE FROMAGE

Naturally, no one's real name is 'fromage'. But there were far too many other people in my father's circle at Beverley Hills High with the same first name for Fromage's real handle to be of much use.

And 'Fromage' as a nickname may have been appropriate.

Short, freckled, and a mathematics genius.
Two years younger than my father.
We always knew him as Fromage, or uncle Fromage.

When he was fourteen he went missing for two weeks. Everybody panicked, until authorities finally tracked him down.


In Tijuana.

In a bordello.

Intoxicated.


No, I do not know whether he was naked at the time when he was located.
It seems a germane detail, but that information was never shared with me. The place where he was, and his condition at the time were the gist of the tale, and what he had actually been up to in the intervening two weeks was never mentioned.

That actually looks like a major oversight, when you think about it.
Surely it cannot be a sense of tact which prevented my father and several other people from gleefully detailing Fromage's escapade more fully - they had already let the cat out of the bag by telling us that he was drunk in a Mexican whorehouse.
Everything else is merely a minor loose end.

Please, share the particulars!

How long had he been drunk in that house of ill-repute?
And was that the ONLY house of ill-repute where he had been?
Was there a full bar, with cocktails and long-drinks, or just tequila?


When I was fourteen, I was NEVER out of my gourd in a house of ill-repute.
I'm jealous!
Of course, 'south of the border' for me at that age meant 'Belgium'.
Not nearly as exciting. Not even interesting.
It's Belgium.
Not Tijuana.
And no, I never got plastered in Belgium.

I've eaten there several times. It isn't the same.
Even getting grease from a rich and juicy roast all over one's face, or dangerously veering close to nightmares and gout by overindulging in humongous piles of shellfish does not come close.

Belgium.

Just Belgium.

Oh well.


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