Flyaways

Think Tank #124

Most days after work, I visit my grandfather.

He’s ninety-nine years old. A real tank. He served in the U.S. Navy during World War II, worked just about every job under the sun (usually two or three at a time), and after three hip replacement surgeries and more falls than I can count, he’s still walking around the Brooklyn apartment his father built, on legs that his doctors told him were so arthritic they should’ve stopped working years ago.

One thing about being old and homebound is that, as your days become increasingly predictable, so do you. My grandfather’s life is governed by routine. Because of this his conversations are, too, and ours usually go something like this. I tiptoe in at approximately the same time each day and, after confirming that he’s not asleep in his chair, I say “Hey!” and ask, “How are ya?”

“Lousy,” he responds.

“Ah,” I say. “What’s the matter?”

He’ll let out a noise that falls somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, and after this point the conversation will start to vary. Perhaps he’ll tell me about how his knees hurt, or about something my mom did that annoyed him. Maybe he’ll be in the process of paying some bills or rifling through a pile of junk mail. Occasionally he’ll want me to schedule a doctor’s appointment or take a look at something that’s wrong around the house. Afterwards he’ll ask me how I’m doing, and I’ll usually say “good,” or “not bad,” and give a small rundown of what I have going on for the rest of the day.

Today, when he asked me how I was, I said, “Lousy.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and I proceeded to tell him about my new position at work and how much more I enjoyed the old position that I had, which I complained about all the time while wishing for the one I have now.

“I never had that problem,” he said. “I always liked work.”

Isn’t hindsight funny?

We chatted for a while about the weather and the people passing by. We talked about how the block wasn’t as busy as it used to be, about how today the sky was gray and the air was still and the trees which usually swayed in the breeze didn’t even budge. “It’s dull,” he said. All of life was dull.

That’s the outlook he admits to out loud, anyway. Sometimes, the things he says betray something different. Today I said that I was excited for the leaves to turn, and his response was that they’ll be bare soon—life is weird like that. Then he mentioned that he wished people were like trees, able to spend half their time recuperating and the other half able to do anything.

I agreed, but I noticed that we placed emphasis on different things. I wanted to hibernate. He wanted the superpowers.

Then a few birds flew past the window. “I should’ve been born a bird,” he said. “You can go wherever you want, do anything.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You don’t have anyone telling you what to do.”

I wondered if the bird looked at us with the same feeling of envy. “I wish I were born a human,” he might say. “It must be so safe and comfortable in those houses, and I’m forced to fly around all day.”

When Grandpa and I run out of things to say, the routine begins again.

“Alright, I’m gonna get going,” I say. “Is there anything I can do for you while I’m here?”

“Shoot me!” he’ll say—a joke with just a bit too much truth to it. When he’s feeling particularly lousy, and when the words carry a bit too much truth, he’ll mutter, “There’s only thing I want and no one wants to do for me.”

Sometimes he’ll smirk wider than usual as he gives his signature reply, and I’ll say, “You don’t actually mean that.”

He’ll respond, “I know.”

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