My Grandfather (March 20, 2010. Issue 15.)

I was two years old when my grandfather chocked to death on a piece of hamburger from McDonalds. I was his only grandson and, they say, I made him proud beyond belief.

When my nephew Aiden turned two my sister Danielle threw him a big, choo choo train party. My father showed up wearing a conductor's hat and denim overalls.

I came early to help set up the bounce house. Aiden ran around in his Thomas the Engine PJs. Fresh off of a chocolate chip pancake breakfast he was full of energy and brimming with pre-birthday party excitement.

Danielle asked me to take him into the bounce house to try and wear him out. “If he doesn’t take a nap he’ll be cranky all day.”

When I bounced next to him my weight would rocket him into the air. He thought it was hilarious. In between giggles he begged me to stop. “Uncle Mike, please.”

I remember when I was young and it felt like I could die from giggling. I was envious of the little man, so full of life.

Danielle was four years old when our grandfather died. She remembers everything about that day. I was too young to know what was happening. I’m envious of her. I’ve never lost someone that close. I anticipate it with morbid curiosity.

It was the first time she had ever seen our father cry. He was slumped over in the kitchen, one hand on the counter straining with all his weight, the other covering his sobbing face. Our mother stood with her arms tightly wrapped around him, there to make sure he didn’t crack his head on the title floor should he pass out.

They told Danielle Jesus had taken our grandfather away to live in heaven. It’s a wonder any kid could learn to love Jesus with him taking away grandfathers so suddenly and so permanently like that.

I remember the day Aiden was born. My father and I got yelled at for sneaking into the hallway to listen outside my sister’s room. Our place was in the waiting room, or so the nurses said.

We didn’t want to piss off the hospital staff. But once my sister began to push and our little man got ready to make his grand entrance there was no stopping us. They could have chained us to our seats. We would have broken free. They could have barricaded the door, parked a semi truck outside. We would have broken free.

The noises my sister made when she first saw her son were like nothing I’d ever heard before. It was like she was gasping for air and crying and laughing and shouting all at the same time. She was a choo choo train. Her steam whistle was blowing as loudly as it could.

My father and I tried to hide our emotion from each other but both our eyes were fire engine red. There was no stopping the tears.

After my grandfather died my father stayed in bed for weeks, afraid to leave the house, afraid to leave his bedroom. He rarely ate and, when he did, he cut all his food into millimeter bites so it’d be impossible to choke.

My Uncle Michael drove himself to the funeral. He had to pull over on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge so he could vomit into the Delaware River.

You could feel my grandfather’s presence in the hospital room the day Aiden was born. You could see it in my father’s face. You could see it in the way he ran to call his mother when he heard Aiden cry for the first time.

Seeing my father with Aiden gave me back so much. It gave me back all the things I was too young to remember. It gave me back the look on my grandfather’s face when he first held me in his arms. It gave me back the joy in his eyes when he fed me a bottle for the first time, the smile on his lips when I reached up and grabbed his nose with my tiny hands. I saw how proud he was when I said my first words, took my first steps, went at my first birthday cake with my hands, getting more on my face than in my mouth.

Sometimes I wonder if everyone’s just being sentimental when they say my grandfather had the biggest heart. But I don’t think that’s the case. There are too many people saying too many nice things for it to be an exaggeration.

When my grandfather came to America from Italy he was the only one who knew how to speak English. He went on job interviews with all the Italians in his family and in his neighborhood, translating for them, helping them find work so they could support their families.

He came with nothing and worked his way to success. He created his own business. His family longed for nothing. He made sure of it. He was the best salesman who ever lived. If you don’t believe it ask my father or my uncle or my grandmother. If you don’t believe them look at his old filing cabinets, stocked full of satisfied clients.

He loved music. He sat in with local bands, playing the organ too loudly and out of key.

He had a quick temper and a fool’s blind courage. He’d chase down umpires when they made bad calls at my father’s little league games. He chased down a carnival operator when he told my grandfather he was too fat to ride a roller coaster. He’d walk through the worst parts of Philadelphia counting money, daring anyone to try and rob him.

His grandchildren meant the world to him. His grandson, his namesake, became his reason for living. I imagine him looking down on me now, routing for me to meet a nice woman and start a family. His name dies with me if I don’t have a son.

I’m not a spiritual person. I don’t pretend to know what happens after I die. The idea of heaven is nice. I want to be able to invest myself in it. But no matter how much I want to I can’t be certain that my grandfather is up in heaven or some other place waiting for me to come get reacquainted.

He was alone in his car in a McDonalds parking lot when he began to choke. I’ve had food lodged into my throat before, never anything that couldn’t be coughed up or washed down with a glass of water. But I know the horrible feeling. I know how your heart jumps up into your throat and begins to beat as fast as a racecar. I know what it’s like to grab hold of the kitchen table till your knuckles turn white, to see yourself slumped over, your life ended so suddenly.

I imagine my grandfather thought of his family. He thought of his wife, his sons, his daughter-in-law and his grandkids. He thought of all he had made out of nothing. He thought of all the people he had helped, all the people he had touched. He thought of everyone he loved, everyone who loved him.

He got out of the car, his airway completely cut off, and looked for help. He didn’t have much time. If he couldn’t find a way to dislodge the hamburger he would cease to exist. If he couldn’t find a way to dislodge the hamburger his grandson would never know him, would not have so much as a single memory of him.

There was no one to help. He was on his own. He tried to give himself the Heimlich Maneuver. He crashed his stomach into a bike rack in a desperate attempt to clear the airway.

I see him at night sometimes, when I’m trying to fall asleep. I see him coming down on the bike rack with all his strength. I can feel his fear and his disbelief. How can something as silly as a McDonalds hamburger kill him?

I root for him to dislodge the hamburger the same way he roots for me to meet a nice woman, settle down and have a son. I see his dead weight hit to the concrete. I see the paramedics scooping his body into the back of their truck. They race to the hospital with their lights blinking and their sirens screaming. But it’s merely a formality. There is no hope. He is already gone.

It was later discovered that he had a heart attack. I don’t know if it’s the heart attack that induced the chocking or the chocking that induced the heart attack. It doesn’t make much of a difference. Either way, he is gone.

My father rarely talks about his father. If it wasn’t for my prying I don’t know if he’d ever bring him up in conversation. It’s not that he doesn’t want to keep the memory alive. It’s just too painful for him.

This year my father turned fifty-five, outliving his father. He rented a cabin in the smoky mountains big enough for all his kids and his grandkids to sleep in. It was a sentimental trip. “When’s the last time you kids all slept under the same roof?”

I didn’t want to go. I waited till the last minute to buy my plane ticket; secretly hoping every flight would be sold out.

In my father’s mind the trip was his last hurrah. An opportunity to get the entire family together one last time before he had his heart attack, before he choked on his piece of hamburger, before he left his family all on their own.

I know my father has to die. I know it’ll most likely happen before I die. But sitting in a cabin watching him eat a steak, smoke through a carton of cigarettes and drink too many margaritas was too much for me. Seeing his big belly when he took off his shirt to go in the hot tub was too much for me. Seeing how easily he got winded and witnessing his horrible smoker’s cough, the way his eyes turned red and it sounded as if he’d cough up a major organ, was too much for me.

I don’t know if my father believes in heaven. I don’t know if he believes he’ll ever see his father again or if he’ll ever see his kids again after he dies.

I do know that he is scared. He never expected to make it this long.

I’m scared too. I don’t know what I would do without my old man. He’s always a phone call away. He drops whatever he is doing when he sees my number on his caller ID. The thought of him leaving so suddenly and so permanently is terrifying.

Sometimes I dream of my father and I sitting around a white marble table up in the clouds with my grandfather. In my dream we feast on a big bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, pass around a bottle of Chianti and take all the time in the world to catch up. Because, I imagine, up in heaven there is nothing but time.

Table of Contents

Things to Come (November 20, 2009.  Issue 11.)

She sent me an email. She wanted to know how I was doing. It had been a year since we last spoke. She told me, towards the end of the email, if I didn’t respond she would understand. But, “just know,” she wrote, “I was thinking of you.”

I waited a day to respond. I didn’t want to look desperate. I spent twenty-four hours composing a delicate, calculated message. I weighted every word. I wondered if her correspondence to me had been so painstaking.

We made plans to meet for coffee. Coffee was easy.

I was the first to arrive. I sat at a table in the front by the window, reading and sipping decaffeinated tea. I had given up caffeine six months earlier, it made me anxious.

I chewed on the lip of my Styrofoam cup. My nerves would get the best of me. My lips would quiver. My voice would shake. I’d be unable to maintain eye contact. I’d be unable to think of anything interesting to talk about.

I tried reading the book I had brought with me, Girlfriend in a Coma by Douglas Copland, named after her favorite Smiths song. I’d already been through the entire book but brought it with me as a conversation piece.

I thought of the last time we slept together. Shortly after she had broken up with me we gave into temptation one last time.

We had eaten sashimi at Fuji Sushi in Winter Park. She had worked at a Sushi restaurant in college. She loved going out for sushi, it gave her a chance to show off all the knowledge she had picked up while working at the restaurant. She spoke with her eyes and pointed with her chops sticks as she explained what Toro was.

Afterwards I drove her home. We hugged goodbye and I headed back to my apartment. It was a horrible feeling, leaving her to go sleep in my empty bed. I hugged her for too long, holding her too close, burying my face in her hair.

She always smelled good. Even when sweating so much her deodorant stopped working, even when waking up with morning breath, she always smelled good.

On the ride home, through a series of cleverly worded text messages, I convinced her to let me come back to her house. I assured her it would only be sex; sex with no strings attached. It seemed like good enough logic at the time.

She opened the door in a t-shirt so thin I could make out the pink in her nipples. I laid my palms on her cheeks and kissed her. My favorite thing to do was to lay my palms on her cheeks and kiss her. I propped her up against the living room wall and kissed her some more. I ran my hand between her legs, first on the outside of her shorts then beneath her panties. She was turned on. I could feel it.

When we got to the bedroom my nose started to bleed. We were both undressed. She was lying under me. I was kissing her tiny breasts when they became spotted with blood.

“Shit,” I said, touching my finger to my nose.

“What’s wrong?”

“I bled on you. It’s these goddamn allergies. I’m sorry.”

We stood naked in her bathroom. She cleaned the blood off her chest with a wet washcloth. I stuffed toilet paper up my nose and apologized too much.

Once the bleeding stopped she led me by the hand back to her bed. We had sex, her on top. I ran my fingernails up and down her tiny body giving her goosebumps. She finished two times.

I had spent a year convincing myself that she and I didn’t belong together. I had spent a year convincing myself there simply was no chemistry. But when I laid my eyes on her, walking through the front door of the coffee shop, I knew that was all bullshit.

She had dyed her hair dark auburn. She had cut her bangs. They were jagged and uneven, made with a pair of dull scissors. She’d started wearing contacts. I’d never realized how big and blue her eyes were.

I gave her a nervous wave. “Good to see you,” I said, uncomfortable with the eye contact. I hesitated before giving her a hug so brief she had no time to hug back.

“I’m going to get a drink. You need anything?” She asked.

“I’m good.” I held up my cup, nearly spilling hot tea on my lap as I fell back into my chair. She laughed with affection.

Shortly after we broke up I went to a concert at The Social, a small venue in downtown Orlando. She showed up with another guy. I was sitting by myself at a table for two by the merchandize booth, sipping from a can of strong foreign beer. I was hit with a shot of adrenaline at the sight of her. I began sipping my beer much faster as I tried to play cool.

She was consumed by music. It was one of the things that endeared her to me. She wasn’t a casual fan, content with whatever the top ten D.J. was spinning at the moment. She sought out obscure bands. When she found one she liked she’d acquire every piece of music they recorded. She’d spend days on the internet, learning the most trivial details about the bands she loved.

When she went to a concert she always showed up early so she wouldn’t miss the opening bands. She fought her way through the crowds, no matter how thick, to secure a spot directly in front of the stage. She visited the merchandize booth, studying the t-shirts, posters and LPs. She searched out six-inch records like they were gold. She had amassed a large collection, which she kept in alphabetical order along one of the walls in her bedroom.

She made her way, walking shoulder to shoulder with her new friend, towards the merchandize booth. When she spotted me, at my lonely table, with my lonely beer, she came to an abrupt halt. She grabbed the arm of the guy she was with and fled to the other side of the room.

It had only been a few short weeks since we had fallen asleep intimately wrapped together. I could still feel her naked breasts resting against my bare chest. I could still make out the sound of her heavy breathing as she slept.

I made my way to the bar for another can of beer and, maybe, a shot of whiskey.

“I so need this caffeine.” She removed the lid from her Styrofoam cup and began blowing on the steaming coffee. “I’ve been working nothing but ten hour shifts. It’s a wonder I can even hold my head up.”

Conversation was awkward at first. But it took no time for us to find our rhythm. It had been a long time since someone laid an affectionate eye on me. It felt good, like an invitation to be myself.

She embraced all my quirkiness with apparent fascination. She understood my subtle sense of humor, laughing even when I wasn’t trying to make her laugh.

“What’s this necklace?” I asked. She was wearing a beaded necklace with an antique key.

“You don’t like it?” She looked hurt.

“I love it.”

“Really?” She blushed. “I made it myself.”

“That’s awesome.” I spoke in my most flattering tone.

She told me she had started to really “get into” fashion, reading fashion bloggs on the internet and flipping through the fashion magazines at the bookstore. “I do a lot of thrift store shopping. I pick up different pieces and make outfits.”

“I’d like to see sometime.”

“I’ll have to give you a fashion show.” She smiled, touching my leg under the table.

We stayed long after our cups were emptied. We stayed through dinner. I hadn’t eaten in almost eight hours but I didn’t notice. We stayed until it began to get dark outside. We stayed for so long my lower back was aching from the hard wooden chair.

She told me we should hang out again soon. I told her that would be great.

I walked her to her car. She was all smiles, giving me a suggestive look with her big eyes. I thought about giving her a kiss. It would’ve been nice to be able to give her a kiss.

We hugged outside of her car. She got up on the tips of her toes to throw her arms around my neck. I briefly stuck my nose into her hair, just to be reminded of how she smelled.