Call the Shots by Don Calame

back in the days of my youth.”
    “Well, count me in as being fooled,” Matt adds, shooting me a meaningful look. “That was a brilliant performance.”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Doug glances up at the Buffalo Bills clock over the sink. “Consider Uncle Doug sufficiently lubed up. Let’s get on with the reaming.”
    I look at my friends, then back at Uncle Doug. Screw it. There’s no subtle way to do this.
    “Okay.” I shake my head. “I’m just going to say this because . . . well . . . I sort of feel bad about it, but I’m desperate and there’s no one else I can turn to.”
    “Uh-oh, here it comes. The International Bank of Doug.” Uncle Doug leans back in his chair and takes a long pull on his cigarette. He blows the smoke out and smirks. “Come on, already. Let’s have it. How much do you need, and what do you need it for?”

U NCLE DOUG IS DEAD SILENT after I explain the whole situation. He strokes his long bristly beard and regards us with his piercing, bloodshot eyes. His neck is stained an angry red, highlighting every little bump, mole, and broken capillary.
    I can’t tell if he’s getting ready to blow his stack or if he’s just thinking really hard. The thick scent of smoke and stale pizza and uncomfortable silence chokes the oxygen out of the kitchen.
    Uncle Doug crushes out his cigarette. He sniffs, then clears his throat. “Okay,” he finally says. “Let’s do a little role reversal here. If you were
me,
and I came to
you
with this request, what would you do? Be honest, now. Uncle Doug’s got a finely calibrated bullshit meter.”
    “He’d give you the five K,” Coop answers. “Because he could see the upside of the whole sitch. The exposure. The advertising. The Doug’s Rugs product placement. The community goodwill. Not to mention the chance to turn a small investment into a mega-fortune.”
    Uncle Doug smirks at Coop. “Thanks for the sales pitch, P. T. Barnum.” He turns back to me. “But I want to hear it from Seanie. Would you lend me the money or not?”
    “I don’t know.” My gaze drops to the scratched-up wooden kitchen table. “I might.”
    “Might? Or
would
?” He leans to the side. “Come on, now. Meet my eyes like you’ve got some huevos rancheros. I want a firm yes or no. Do you lend me the cash?”
    “It would depend, I guess.”
    “On what?”
    “On if I thought you could pull it off.”
    “Fair enough.” Uncle Doug nods. “So, now I need you to look me square in the face and tell me if you honestly think that you’ll be able to produce a motion picture decent enough to generate enough money for you to pay me back.”
    My eyes slide over to Coop and Matt, who look like they want to bolt.
    “Uh-uh.” Uncle Doug beans me with an empty pack of cigarettes. “The answer’s not over there.” He reaches over and pokes my belly. “What’s your gut say? Can you do it or not?”
    I want to look over at my friends again, but I force myself to focus on my uncle. “Yes,” I say. “I think we can do it.”
    “Wrong!”
Uncle Doug roars, slapping the table, which causes a thin cloud of tobacco-scented dust to rise in the air. “You
want
to think you can do it. But you don’t really believe it. Not deep down in your scrotum, where it counts. I can read you like a hockey stats chart, Seanie.”
    “So . . .” My stomach winces. “You won’t help us out, then?”
    “I didn’t say that.” Uncle Doug grabs the extinguished joint from his ashtray, straightens it out, and relights it. He takes an epically long toke, then blows the smoke in my face. “
Yet.
I’d like to see your business plan before I make my decision.”
    “Business plan?” I blink, my eyes dry and stinging from the smoke. I use it as an excuse to cup my palm over my nose and take a reassuring whiff.
    “No business plan, huh?” Uncle Doug says. “How about a list of expenditures?”
    “A what?” I ask, sinking down in my chair.
    “A budget,
dummkopf.
” Uncle Doug reaches