Grandpa is a creature of habit. I tend to wonder off in thought or conversation when giving directions but Grandpa didn't miss one. He says the same things, at the same spots,
"This elevator is the slowest elevator!"
"If this radiation is so good for me, how come nobody stays in the room with me?"
He's losing his hearing, and I imagine sometimes that it becomes lonely or discouraging, but Grandpa does his best to at least entertain himself.
He reminds me for the umpteenth time how Kinsey reminds him of me. "That girl, she can do anything." He inquires after our work, but Grandpa is more of a doer . . . and has also been down to Bayport elementary school to ask after a job for me.
He tells me about a cousin applying to work for the prison. "I'm not sure he's cut out for the job."
"Why's that Grandpa? Am I cut out for the job?" (I take after my Grandpa I guess, because I'm laughing at my own jokes too).
"I'm not to sure," Grandpa starts, "You might be to concerned about the prisoner." (I'm instantly quietened by his observation). "They asked me when I started if I'd shoot a prisoner if he was escaping, I said, 'Do I have too?' And they said yes, so I said yes too. I'd shoot him in the thumb first."
I pictured Grandpa shooting an escaping prisoner in the thumb.
We went back to our place for soup and sandwiches. The Russians are working on our siding. Grandpa asked why the boys weren't doing the work. I didn't know. Grandpa laughed,
"Wait until I tell the rest. The Petersons had to hire out help."
I'm not sure I found it as funny.
I had to be at Target for an interview. Grandpa and Tolga ran some errands, and as I came out of the office, they had already finished and were waiting at a bench. Grandpa asks,
"Did they give you a raise yet?"
It sure is nice having a Grandpa on your side.
I brought Grandpa home, to his town of Bayport. Small houses on wide streets, his house blending in with the rain, the fall, and the quiet of fifty years.
I wouldn't mind walking these streets.
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