The Digital Cook-out
Unc is sitting here. That’s the thought that settles in as the blue light from the laptop cuts through the dark like a quiet lighthouse. I’m surfing the web, as I often do, sipping cheap brandy and chasing it with a Miller High Life. The High Life isn’t mine, not really—it’s a ritual, a nod to Percy Jarvis, Sr., my father. His drink was Cutty Sark, but this bottle, this pop of the cap, feels like communion. If I had my way, it’d be a Ballantine Ale and a blunt. But tonight, this is the sacrament. There’s a myth—persistent and shallow—that solitude equals loneliness. That a man alone in a room lit only by a screen is somehow incomplete. But this room isn’t empty. It’s dense. It’s thick with memory, with choices, with the kind of peace that only comes when you’ve made your peace with yourself. I could date. I could dance that dance again. But my interest lies elsewhere—in reflection, in legacy, in the quiet clarity that comes when the noise fades. My son is my anchor. My l...