Papa

“ Grab me a Yuengling!”

“Make me a highball, Elaine!”  Papa fills a coffee mug with Canadian Club. He can usually be found on the white and green porch, watching over the lawn and the lake, making dog noises and shouting demands at Grammy. Since the age of five I have known that the Yuenglings are kept in the back porch fridge and the highball glasses on the top shelf. This lake house is in Lackawanna County, Northeastern Pennsylvania, half an hour from Scranton, once known for anthracites, garments, and steam trains. Houses sit on the lake and trailer homes surround them. The people up there do their best to make their trailer homes not look like trailer homes. Porches, decks, and awnings are usually the go-to method. Papa and Grammy live comfortably on his ridiculous pension from teaching psychology; they aren't fancy or lavish and probably couldn't afford to be. 

“I am thankful for this meal and our health,” my grandmother stated plainly at the Thanksgiving table. 

“I am grateful for Jordan, Amen,” Papa bellowed.  Cousin Jordan was currently in Cambodia doing god knows what. Jordan’s father Jerry was flaky during Jordan’s childhood, so Papa decided to pick up the slack. Papa taught him how to ride a bike; he liked to think that he was Jordan’s true father. If anyone deserved that title, it was definitely Papa. Unlike Jordan, five other cousins were present at the table.

Ella’s wet eyes glared at Papa in confusion as Aunt Katherine shrieked, “DAD!”

He retorted, “and Oliver, and Henrietta ... and Daniel and Max,” and after a mashed potato slurp, “also Ella.”

I’m not sure why Grammy is still with him. He constantly yells at her and blames her for anything that goes wrong, while she does everything: dinner, gardening, painting, cleaning, bills, paperwork, and appointments. 

“Why don’t you get unmarried from Papa?” I asked when I was five.

“People change, but I love Papa. When you’re married you vow to stay with your spouse,” she stated with a wobbly lip after a short pause. Her morals were rooted in the church and the ‘50s. Her only escape was her children and their children. It’s a really sad situation. I would go crazy if I had to live with him. The whole family pities her and leaves Papa blameless, “Oh, Papa.” 

During the summer Papa loves to golf. The only three things he enjoys even more are drinking, Lucy, and teaching golf. He and Lucy, the overfed beagle, would waddle in unison down the porch’s creaky green stairs onto the chipped yard. Papa would take you by the arm and press his bulbous stomach into your side while clamping his red meaty hands on your wrists like tiny teethless crocodiles. “Swing like this, you gotta swing!” he would instruct as he suffocated you in a maternal rocking motion. The lesson would not end until you hit the ball perfectly. Your face would be a hot sticky red from his sandpaper scruff and pillowy midsection; he was practically a ball on legs. I would rather eat a lily pad than do this yet I did it anyway, we all did. Even when Mom said we shouldn't, we did, I’m not sure why.

We tried to love our grandfather.  My mom’s father had died so Papa was all we had. But Papa did not make it easy. 

The best part of golf was dessert. Papa loved Manning's Dairy Farm. They made the best ice cream on earth. I’m sure everyone has a “Best Ice Cream on Earth” but Mannings truly is the “Best Ice Cream on Earth.”  My brother Daniel and I hopped into his golden sedan. I was probably going to order Graham Central Station. 

“Daniel, you're a lucky one!” he boomed, “I have always wanted to be named Daniel! Like my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, an Irish tradition! But my father had to name me Robert, and you kids call me Papa. What a shameful man.”

“Sounds like a bastard,” exclaimed Daniel as he fidgeted with a John Cena action figure. Daniel always had a dirty mouth—he had a record for how many times his mouth was soaped. 

“Now Daniel, you're not allowed to curse unless you want to become a thug! You’re lucky you’re named Daniel! And that your father is named Daniel!” He had begun to pull the car over onto a strip of green grass before a green cornfield.

“You're lucky! I have always wanted that name so I am just gonna take it! Call me Daniel from now on!” Papa raged as the car stood still. 

The summer of Lucy’s death was the end of it all for Papa, the tipping point into the abyss of age. She wheezed, she waddled, and she was loved. Her swollen body being dragged wherever Papa went was a sore sight. I idolized that beagle when I was younger, but as Papa’s grasp on her deepened, I slowly started to hate that dog. Lucy shared Papa’s appetite: hamburger for Papa, hamburger for Lucy, a Thanksgiving plate for Papa, a Thanksgiving plate for Lucy. And, unsurprisingly, this killed her. She shat blood for a week and then croaked. “Lucy was an amazing dog,” he muttered, a far better compliment than he’s ever directed at me. The strange neighbor, Lenny, buried Meat Log, Lucifer or Disgusting, which are some nicknames she assumed in her later years.  Lenny was the same neighbor that Papa called the police on for “violating property lines,” but with this burial they also buried the woes of stakes, spray painting, property lines, and shouting.

This same man threatened Mom a week before, “Get your fucking dog and children on a leash, you city slicker piece of shit!” he exclaimed, moving ever closer to my mother while Papa sat on the porch and watched like one of his Westerns. My immediate family is not from the city, but the puny black Prius was all that Lenny needed to see. Mom never trusted Papa after that one; she hates his fat guts. Papa wasn’t passive about much which made this situation surprising. It pissed me off.

Aunt Maureen bought him a fine black and white portrait of her majesty, Lucy. Her chin rolls rippled like molten chocolate and threatened to burst the frame. The portrait was treated like a newborn. Papa brought the frame wherever he went, outside to the porch, down at the dock, everywhere. One particularly bad night Papa had set himself by the lake with his mug, his new “ultrasonic” stereo and lightly salted Lays which “weren’t too bad for your cholesterol”— unless you ate an entire bag. ABBA soared through the yard. “Elaine, I can’t turn it down!! Or else the children won’t be able hear it!” Papa ruined ABBA for my family. This particular night turned into a week, a month and then two months; I guess ABBA helped with mourning. The next summer the ABBA tape went missing and Papa was given headphones for Christmas, thank god.

His shenanigans entertained all of us. It was far too late for therapy or AA or meds, so why bother helping? He would deny being off his rocker anyway. With the exception of Grammy, we all had a similar relationship to Papa. Slightly toxic, ironic, and gentle. No one got too close to him. The cousins and I could have used a present grandfather. I wonder what it would have been like to have one. 

My siblings and I loved Cooper’s, a tacky seafood restaurant in Scranton, and so did Papa. I usually wouldn't trust seafood in a landlocked state, but they ordered from Southside Seafood, one of the few trustworthy things in this post-industrial apocalypse of a city. This city was falling apart faster than our grandfather. I have always liked Scranton. It has real character but is at least thirty years behind. According to my father they should be celebrating ‘89 this New Year’s. The vacuum cleaner store where Dad was taught piano is still open; it is a weird and unchanging place. Papa let us order dessert and would sponsor at least ten goes at the toy crane. He slobbered down his spaghetti, with occasional commentary. His sparse white hair glistened under the white string lights and shivered as a toy train passed on a model of the famous Pennsylvanian viaduct that hugged the walls. Best clam strips I’ve ever had.

The Fourth is the holiest holiday in northeastern PA. Our neighbors, The Coleman Family, threw quite the barbeque, fireworks included. Holidays were an excuse to drink. Papa probably would start with at least two Yuenglings with family lunch; hamburgers and hot dogs are served every lunch for those hot three months. The Coleman’s party started at five but I personally attend when the fireworks start. They lived in the woods all year long, and I think that since they have no one to talk to, their words get all crammed up and when there are finally people around you could probably hear, “Heyna or no!” from a football field away. They were atrocious. The one thing I admired about that family was their famous rice pudding.  When I walked over I spotted my family, but the only person missing was Papa. I scanned the crowd to find him as close to the dock as possible where the fireworks are launched. I walked a bit closer and spotted a half-empty tupperware of rice pudding in his right red hand and a mug in his left. I turned away so fast I almost slipped on the cold grass. This was going to be a good night.

“TOMMY DOG” CRACKKKKK “BATMAN” CRACKKKKK “TOMMY DOG” CRACKKK “TOMMY DOG” CRACKKK “MASHED POTATOES” CRACKKKKK 

Papa was screaming as loud as the Colemans, and I could barely see due to the excruciating pain of laughter in my abdomen. Tommy Dog, Papa’s cousin, was the usual firework cheer but these were some new ones. I don’t think we ever figured out why he chose Tommy Dog. It was solely for fireworks, unlike his habitual barking.  He usually doesn’t scream like this in front of strangers—it was quite the treat to watch. Papa had a strange sense of the world outside our family. When someone visited, Papa shaved and kept the yelling to a minimum; he seemed to care about strangers quite a bit. He was a real people person. 

After the show Papa decided to get kielbasa and mingle. As he rocked forward, the curved aluminum lawn chair began to bend, his legs began to slowly rise into the night air, and his head gracefully hovered inches above the the grass. He looked ready for take-off. 

“HEEEELLLLLPPPPPPP”

My family watched, frozen in delirium. Cousin Max’s signature cackle filled the silent yard. In the voice of Aunt Amy I thought to myself, “Jesus Mary-Anne Joseph.” The only people who ran to help were Kevin Coleman and Grammy. She and Papa bossed around poor Kevin who had the task of raising a weak three-hundred-pound man. Papa, surprisingly, only required two firm hand holds. Thank god the rice pudding survived the crash. Last summer we used that chair to support an entire boat.

After a half hour of relative peace, “GREEN ONIONS!”

After five more minutes, “MASHPOTATOES!”

After three more, “BOOKER T. AND THE M.G.’S!”

Even after decades of neighborship, Kevin seemed to not understand that giving in only makes it worse. “Sure ‘Mashed Potato Twist’ is a classic,” he kindly replied.

“Now, how does this here thing work?”

“You search a song and yous play it through Wi-Fi.”

“Now here lemme have a look!”

“Don’t worry Bahb, I’ll play more later!”

After the “Mashed Potato Twist” came “Green Onions” followed by a not-so-short exposure to the entire history of popular music. It was almost one a.m. and everyone was tired, except for him. Daniel, Max, Henrietta and I had the pleasure of getting Papa home. Imagine a hippopotamus balancing on its hind legs. Now imagine it after a case of Yuengling, half a handle of whisky, and knees that worked as if they were made of Ritz Crackers.  I really could not tell if I was pushing him home or keeping him up. The ten-minute exercise left our arms sore, I wanted to vomit, he was disgusting. Afterwards, we stole what was left of the rice pudding. Henrietta and I smoked behind the white cement brick garage and then returned to Daniel and Max inside and presumed to eat pudding and play cards around the kitchen table until we ran out. This is summer. This is family. 

That summer, I think it was after my sophomore year, Papa asked me a favor.“You know how Kevin has an invisible speaker?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to invest in one, now, how does that work?”

“You need Wi-Fi, but you guys don’t have that.”

“How do you get it?”

“It’s very expensive, and you would need a new speaker and a phone, a lot more complicated than your stereo.”

“Well then how is it gonna work?”

“You can burn CDs.”

“OK, I'll pay you to do it! DVDS, I like the sound of that!”

After I retrieved a steno pad he began,“All the Elvis classics! ‘Hound Dog,’ ‘Jailhouse Rock,’ ‘Satisfaction’!” He knew every song’s album, year and artist, yet last week he swore it was 2014, two years ago.

“Happy Birthday Oliver!”

“Aw, thanks for the call Papa.”

“You know how I know you’re fourteen! You were born with the century and it’s 2014!”

“Papa, that’s a cool trick but I’m sixteen. It’s 2016.” I wasn’t upset that he didn’t know my age. I would never expect that much from him. 

He went on for hours with songs.  My head whirled, it was awful, and he wasn’t nice about it either. I would have to listen to every single song because there were at least ten other covers. I had to go to five electronic stores to find the freshly archaic Compact Disc and burn them for hours. My pour thumb became callused where I had to rip open each plastic CD case. At some point I was spending more time on CDs than homework. My computer barely handled the songs, the CDs didn’t burn right, they were out of order. Every single batch I brought him did not work. I wanted to do this because I really thought he was going to die any time now, like a going away present.

“Oliver! You’re irresponsible! You said you could do this!”

“I’ll fix it and it will be ready next time! Sorry!”

“Oliver! You’re irresponsible! You said you could do this!”

“I’ll fix it and it will be ready next time! Sorry!”

This happened the entire summer and well… until Christmas. I really couldn’t get this working. That Christmas he harassed me the entire time. I had begun regretting taking this on. The importance I placed on his mortality faded. He could go anytime now, and I began to despise him; I just wanted this to be over.  

“Why aren’t they ready?” he demanded. “Call BestBuy! GEEK SQUAD! I saw it on television,” he cried. “I paid you good money,” he screamed.

The next week I got phone calls and messages every day. I really had been trying my best, but it just didn’t work. This wasn’t fun and this wasn’t funny—very different from his summer spectacles where you could watch from a safe distance and crack jokes.    

“Oliver, it’s time to call it quits,” stated my father.

“He’s crazy,” stated Mom, “you have to stop letting him bully you. We’re making you stop.”

“OK, but I spent his money.”

“It’s OK, we will pay him back and don’t worry about a punishment. You’ve been through enough,” said Dad.

“ Hello Papa, it’s Oliver!” I said through the phone.

“Are they ready?”

“No, I’m sorry Papa but I will not be able to finish them. My computer doesn’t work. I can pay you back.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I cannot do it.”

“OK, goodbye Oliver,” he murmured.

I don’t think I have ever heard him so upset. I don’t think I have ever been so disappointed in myself.  It was as if I had killed Lucy. I was ashamed yet at the same time still angry; I really wanted to finish those CD’s—just for personal satisfaction.  He is a bitter mashed-potato-filled walrus whom I had let down. I bet I could find a million more Papas in America. He is truly a product of American culture—he’s going to consume until one day he can’t. One of my biggest fears is that I’ll end up like him. After getting a pension in god knows what, I’ll drown myself in whisky and eat like a king—it’s the dream. 

At this point he is a burden. You either have to avoid him or take the risk of your brain cells forming a suicide pact and offing themselves. It’s exhausting but nonetheless funny. I find it amazing to see the lengths to which family members go to avoid him. He hasn’t been invited to Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter or my family’s home in years. He’s also a ticking time bomb of health problems: heart issues,  high cholesterol—the works. Everyone is waiting. Even when Papa was right in the head, he was not a great person. My father often reflects on his mediocrity as we joke, “Maybe this year for Christmas we’ll drown Papa in the lake. What more could Grammy ask for!?” Every time I hug him I hope it's my last. I'm not quite sure if he is a good grandfather or not, but I do know that he is ready to die. One day I will gladly read, “Here lies Papa: golf champion, lover of Lucy, disc jockey, and grandfather.”