weekends at grandpa's

by Peter Bertlessen

In perilous times such as these, I'm reminded of one of my Grandpa Jim's favorite sayings: nothing in life is guaranteed except death, taxes, and fascist regimes burning their country to the ground. Been thinking about my grandpa a lot over these past few years, ever since his passing.

He died of COVID, by his lonesome in a convalescent home. Where he was placed after complications from the stroke he suffered. A stroke that rendered him speechless after being run over in broad daylight by his wife in her new truck, or an accident, the authorities would come to call it. His crudely abrupt departure from this world didn't allow me the chance to say my proper goodbyes.

We had a bond like no other, and were as thick as thieves, Grandma would say. He'd greet me with noogies and monstrous bear hugs. He wasn't just my biggest fan and best friend; he was my hero. Quite literally. He saved me from drowning after I'd fallen into the deep end of his swimming pool at the age of three. Splashing and floundering, I sank to the bottom, and if it wasn't for him pulling me from the clutches of death, this would be a much different and shorter story. And although my mom and Grandma have wildly different versions of the event, where my Grandpa was only a hero because he wasn't watching me in the first place, and that he didn't dive in to save me until he'd removed his wallet and watch for safekeeping. I venture to say those details are semantics.

He was an Army vet who was stern yet had childlike vigor. His wit was sharp, and his humor was dark. The man was a Rolodex of one-liners and zingers that'd not only make you laugh but helped shape the man I'd become.

On Politics:

·     Not all politicians are full of shit. Reagan was, but some mean to do good for others, I mean, I haven't . met any, but I'm sure they exist.

On Life:

·     Quit tying your dick into a knot; it's easier to gift your package with a bow.

He'd pick me up on the weekends to hang out or just call me to share his excitement about a new movie trailer he'd seen. In fact, he never called a movie by anything other than a picture, unless he hated it, then it was just a piece of garbage. Although I will say, there wasn't much he hated. The man who screamed like an escaped mental patient at someone lightly tapping their brakes in a manner he deemed inadequate. Was actually a rather patient and loving individual. He truly had to be, having been married to my Grandma not once, but twice. However, that's a story for another day.

My parents struggled to find me a sitter during summer vacation. Several were willing to take in my sisters but not me. Listen, I know I wasn't the easiest child to get along with, but some of the babysitters were just assholes. Leaving my parents in a strenuous situation. My Grandpa, now divorced from my grandma for the second time, was retired, single, and had moved away to a trailer park in L.A. My Dad was hesitant to ask his father. I recall him saying, Weekends are one thing, this is like two months. He made the phone call, and Grandpa was there later that evening. Thus, I spent the better part of each of my summer vacations with Grandpa from that day forward.

Which meant weeks on end of nothing but binging inappropriate movies. Consuming kung fu epics, schlocky actioners, war pics, and whole franchises of movie series like Police Academy, Meatballs, Porky's, and the Cheech & Chong collection. It wasn't until I returned home singing the boot camp's marching anthem from Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket that my mother questioned his choices, and by that time, it'd been too late. That was probably three summers in, and thousands of hours of blue material consumed.

It didn't come without fault; I was socially awkward with kids my age. Hyper aware of things I definitely shouldn't have been. And the shenanigans I pulled were something straight from a zany '80s coming-of-age comedy.

Seriously, the best example of that would probably be, I told my little sister Kimmy that the mint-flavored dental floss was candy, knowing full well she'd be gullible enough to try it. I just never thought she'd eat the whole damn roll. I'll never forget my Mom screaming at me from the restroom of Jo-Annes fabrics, as she pulled the fecal-covered string out, winding her hand over paper towel-covered fist. Sweat dripping from her brow, she placed her heels along the stall and thrust outward in a never-ending game of tug of war. She battled for what felt like hours, reeling in a creature from depths unknown, recoiling the entire spool.

Shenanigans, I tell ya'.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Grandpa coached Little League and collected cans at the ballpark, which he'd exchange in order to take me out when I was over. He let it be known that between his pension and social security, his finances were always tight. And while that may have been, he was also notoriously cheap. He once scrounged up enough money to take me miniature golfing. When the lady at the ticket booth asked him if it was for one senior and one child, he took offense. It truly struck a chord. As if she were wrong, as she looked at the wispy grey horseshoe hairline atop his bald head and thought, he must be an old man. He began to sarcastically respond when she beat him to the punch and told him it was at a discounted rate. For the rest of that weekend, everywhere we went, he asked for that senior discount.

One night, we made spaghetti in his trailer, just a can of tomato sauce and noodles. Sans any meat or seasonings for that matter. We were posted up in his living room, on his Pic ‘N’ Save knock-off La-Z-Boy’s, with TV trays, watching The Last American Virgin. He just completed a diatribe about my aunt and some stray cat she had while she stayed with him a few months back. Explaining the cat piss smell, and that no matter what he tried, he just couldn't get rid of.

I was coming back from the kitchen with my plate of spaghetti. I watched as the noodles sloshed back and forth on my plate, sliding to and fro amongst the red watery sauce. I tried steadying my hands to stabilize them when they flipped right off and on to the floor.

I was nervous, expecting him to yell at me, but he never did. Instead, he said it was ok and that accidents happen. "But unfortunately, them’s the only noodles we have. Go ahead and toss them in the strainer and rinse them off. And run a little water in the sauce, if it's getting low."

And I did just that, rinsed the noodles in a strainer. Pulling the cat and who knows else's hair from my noodles. Ran a little water in the now even more translucent sauce and then sat back so we could finish our meal and movie.

While I remember that time fondly, I also vividly remember choking back tears that I blamed on the movie’s sad premise. Which was really me gagging at the thought that I was probably swallowing noodles entangled in saturated cat piss carpet fibers.

In the 5th grade, we traveled the country by car, forty-eight states in sixty days. With a pit stop in Canada for good measure. Nothing but me, Grandpa, the road, good tunes, and Grandpa's little brother, Uncle John.

Uncle John, the Army vet, was drafted to the Vietnam War despite doctors' orders attesting to his lack of mental aptitude. He made for good, if not interesting, company. Grandpa loved his brother, but John had the unique talent of getting under his skin with literally anything he did.

There was this hilarious game he'd play, or at least he thought it was. Where he'd remove his false teeth and threaten to touch me with them while I squirmed on the edge of my seat, almost atop the dashboard. Grandpa would shout, and he'd settle until I was comfortable enough to slide back into the chair. That and his infamous renditions of classic Motown hits still make my nerves on edge when I recall his high-pitched shrill.

But it was the song “In the Jungle” that finally made grandpa crack. He slammed on the brakes, veered off the highway, and yelled until the air in his lungs faded into a soft crescendo. In fairness, Uncle John was on about his fiftieth take, and two hours of A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh... Is about all any man can take, really.

Uncle John lent more than a few fond memories that, while were a pain at the time, I wouldn't trade for the world. For one, even though he considered himself a huge Elvis fan, and pleaded that we make a stop at Graceland. He got us kicked out. He got bored, broke ranks from the tour group, slipped past the stanchion, and snuck upstairs, which was off limits. Security found him moments later banging a heater in the stairwell. He didn't sneak off because his curiosity got the best of him; he did it because he really just needed a cigarette. Still not sure if Grandpa was more embarrassed or pissed, never got clarification on that.

We made our way to every national monument, ghost town, fort, and battlefield across the greater US. Grandpa sold my parents on how educational it would be to see and visit the places, instead of just reading about them. That road trip was more educational than he could’ve imagined. Though I took in a lot from the sites, it was the conversations on the road that stuck most. We talked about life, women, and the pursuit of happiness.

On the South:

·     Ever notice that all the Civil War reenactments only take place in the South? That's what you call . . . . .‍ ‍. being a sore loser. Take that ass-whooping and move it along.

On Racism:

·     Of course, there are people who hate others based on the color of their skin. There are people who . . . . think the Earth is flat. And most of the time, those people are one and the same.

On Trust:

·     You can't trust a used car salesman, a pastor on TV, Tricky Dick, or Old Ollie North. They're all selling ..‍ ‍. a bill of goods that'll get you nowhere.

On Girls and Relationships:

·         That one will talk your ear off sideways.

·         That one ain't missed a meal in her lifetime.

·         That one there will break you in two, and make you ask for seconds.

·         I love women; they come in all shapes and sizes, and that one there is a circle.

·         She's built like Brutus from the waist up and Olive Oil from the waist down.

·         I ain't ever seen a toe with feet before, but she does have a nice smile.

·         She's had more work done than the 405 (freeway).

·         She looks like she wrestles alligators.

·         I've always been a sucker for a good woman, and a few bad ones too.

·        Love is like a plate at the salad bar, your options are endless, but eat with caution, or you'll get sick ‍ ‍. sick and stuck with a bill you can't afford. One is better than some, and never cheaper than none.

 .        Remember, not all women are liars; your grandma is, but some aren't. I haven't met any that I could . vouch for, but I never met Neil Armstrong either, and I'm pretty sure he's real.

Our origin story began with us as roommates. He had moved into my parents' house and bunked with me as a newborn, while he was in between marriage one and two with my grandma. He had a Sears portrait oil painting of him and a three-month-old me that hung on the wood-paneled walls of his living room for decades thereafter.

However, our relationship slowly eroded over my high school years, and our weekends turned into phone calls that turned into text messages. He re-married and I started a family, but it wasn’t until he moved from L.A. to Arizona and then again to Florida that the communication came to a halt. I have a few regrets, but the biggest is that he never got to be a great-grandpa to my children, in any semblance or fashion of what he was to me. And that all I have to pass on to them, from him, is his words.

BIO: Peter Bertlessen was born of midnight movies, mixed tapes, and creased-spine paperbacks. While he ventures to say he writes, a more apt description would be that he stabs the pages to watch them bleed. His previous works can be found in Punk Noir, Frontier Tales, Starlite Pulp, Bristol Noir, Close To The Bone, various literary journals, and random scraps of paper strewn atop the nightstand. The self-described counterculture enthusiast lives with his wife and their four boys in Southern California.