July 25, 2010

My grandfather is dead.

My grandfather is vice president corporate executive officer for Tishman Construction. He works in an office on the seventy-second floor of a building. My mom takes me to visit him. I lean against the glass wall of the office. Below me, a big hole in the dirt: Century City Plaza. Tall building, big hole. I feel a tingle in my tummy. My grandfather looks like Fred Astaire. 

My grandfather smokes Camel cigarettes, soft pack, forty times a day. He takes me for rides in his Lincoln Continental. The Lincoln Continental is a luxury car. It is distinctively styled and highly equipped. My grandfather takes me to the exclusive Country Club. The roads along the hills go round green slopes that are steep. My grandfather runs the air conditioner to get air. I get sick from the smoke in the luxury car. My grandfather pushes a button, opens window a crack.

My grandfather gets drunk every night after work, comes home late, sleeps with different women. My grandmother stays up, watches TV, waits for him, yells at him as soon as he enters the door. After my grandfather goes to sleep, my grandmother and I watch more TV, eat ice cream in den. My grandmother tells me she and my grandfather make love every night. My grandfather looks like Fred Astaire.

My grandfather sits down a lot. He sits down on his king-sized bed in the morning, stares at clock. He sits down in his Lincoln Continental luxury town car. He sits down on his soft leather chair in his office, stares out window. He sits down in a restaurant for lunch. He sits down in his office, again. He sits down in his favorite bar near Century City Plaza. My grandfather gets in his Lincoln Continental luxury town car, sits down, drives to a woman’s house or apartment, sits down with the woman. On weekends, my grandfather and grandmother are together. My grandmother takes me shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue. My grandfather sits down somewhere in the mall, says something indistinguishable. When it’s time to leave the mall, my grandfather walks ten feet, gets tired, sits down. My grandfather looks like Fred Astaire.

My grandfather, grandmother move to Tucson, Arizona. My grandfather tries to get help. His smoking is severe. His alcoholism is severe. The desert is hot. I spend the summer there, learn to swim, get an ear infection. My grandfather tries to give me medicine, says funny things, makes me swallow medicine when I laugh. My grandfather, grandmother move to Anaheim Hills, California. My grandfather uses a tank of oxygen and a tube, sits a lot, stops drinking. The clinic seems to be helping. My grandfather dies.

My grandfather gets drunk on Listerine mouthwash in the morning, dances the Charleston at night, tells jokes. He is the life of the party.