greatest things happening

The employee lounge was a dank, windowless room where I found the pharmacy assistant, Linda, nibbling a crustless sandwich in the vivid glow of the soda machine. She nodded at a phone screwed to the wall. Line twos for you. Whoever it is sounds freaked. As usual, I did my best to calm him down. Youre safe. Everythings fine. Ill bring over a video for us to watch later, hows that sound No! Stay where you are! Its not safe here! Grandpa, the monsters arent coming for you.

You killed them all in the war, remember I turned to face the wall, trying to hide my end of this bizarre conversation from Linda, who shot me curious glances while pretending to read a fashion magazine. The key in question opened a giant locker in Grandpa Portmans garage. Inside was a stockpile of guns and knives sufficient to arm a small militia. Hed spent half his life collecting them, traveling to outofstate gun shows, going on long hunting trips, and dragging his reluctant family to rifle ranges on sunny Sundays so they could learn to shoot.

He loved his guns so much that sometimes he even slept with them. My dad had an old snapshot to prove it: Grandpa Portman napping with pistol in hand. When I asked my dad why Grandpa was so crazy about guns, he said it sometimes happened to people who used to be soldiers or who had experienced traumatic things.

I guess that after everything my grandfather had been through, he never really felt safe anywhere, not even at home. The irony was, now that delusions and paranoia were starting to get the best of him, it was truehe wasnt safe at home, not with all those guns around. Thats why my dad had swiped the key. I repeated the lie that I didnt know where it was. There was more swearing and banging as Grandpa Portman stomped around looking for it. Feh! he said finally. Let your father have the key if its so important to him. Let him have my dead body, too!

I got off the phone as politely as I could and then called my dad. Grandpas flipping out, I told him. Has he taken his pills today He wont tell me. Doesnt sound like it, though. I heard my dad sigh. Can you stop by and make sure hes okay I cant get off work right now. My dad volunteered parttime at the bird rescue, where he helped rehabilitate snowy egrets hit by cars and pelicans that had swallowed fishhooks. He was an amateur ornithologist and a wannabe nature writerwith a stack of unpublished manuscripts to prove itwhich are real jobs only if you happen to be married to a woman whose family owns a hundred and fifteen drug stores.

Of course, mine was not the realest of jobs either, and it was easy to ditch whenever I felt like it. I said I would go. Thanks, Jake. I promise well get all this Grandpa stuff sorted out soon, okay All this Grandpa stuff. You mean put him in a home, I said. Make him someone elses problem. Mom and I havent decided yet. Of course you have. Jacob I can handle him, Dad. Really. Maybe now you can. But hes only going to get worse. Fine. Whatever.

I hung up and called my friend Ricky for a ride. Ten minutes later I heard the unmistakable throaty honk of his ancient Crown Victoria in the parking lot. On my way out I broke the bad news to Shelley: her tower of StayTite would have to wait until tomorrow. Family emergency, I explained. Right, she said. I emerged into the stickyhot evening to find Ricky smoking on the hood of his battered car.

Something about his mudencrusted boots and the way he let smoke curl from his lips and how the sinking sun lit his green hair reminded me of a punk, redneck James Dean. He was all of those things, a bizarre crosspollination of subcultures possible only in South Florida. He saw me and leapt off the hood. You fired yet he shouted across the parking lot. Shhhh! I hissed, running toward him. They dont know my plan! Ricky punched my shoulder in a manner meant to be encouraging but that nearly snapped my rotator cuff.

Dont worry, Special Ed. Theres always tomorrow. He called me Special Ed because I was in a few gifted classes, which were, technically speaking, part of our schools specialeducation curriculum, a subtlety of nomenclature that Ricky found endlessly amusing. That was our friendship: equal parts irritation and cooperation.

The cooperation part was an unofficial brainsforbrawn trade agreement wed worked out in which I helped him not fail English and he helped me not get killed by the roidedout sociopaths who prowled the halls of our school. That he made my parents deeply uncomfortable was merely a bonus. He was, I suppose, my best friend, which is a less pathetic way of saying he was my only friend. Ricky kicked the Crown Vics passenger door, which was how you opened it, and I climbed in.

The Vic was amazing, a museumworthy piece of unintentional folk art. Ricky bought it from the town dump with a jar of quartersor so he claimeda pedigree whose odor even the forest of airfreshener trees hed hung from the mirror couldnt mask. The seats were armored with duct tape so that errant upholstery springs wouldnt find their way up your ass.

Best of all was the exterior, a rusted moonscape of holes and dents, the result of a plan to earn extra gas money by allowing drunken partygoers to whack the car with a golf club for a buck a swing. The only rule, which had not been rigorously enforced, was that you couldnt aim at anything made of glass. The engine rattled to life in a cloud of blue smoke. As we left the parking lot and rolled past strip malls toward Grandpa Portmans house, I began to worry about what we might find when we got there.

Worstcase scenarios included my grandfather running naked in the street, wielding a hunting rifle, foaming at the mouth on the front lawn, or lying in wait with a blunt object in hand. Anything was possible, and that this would be Rickys first impression of a man Id spoken about with reverence made me especially nervous.

My 92 Year Old-Grandma Did

Something Crazy To Her Face