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POPS

3 of 3

Winter was harsh, but both my business and my grandpa had survived, and things started looking up. 

 

“How many?”

“39”

“Break even point!”

“Getting there.” 

 

The bell rang. I went to the door. It was the door man delivering a spinach pie someone had left for grandpa. I put the pie on the table.

“Look, someone left this for you pops, looks good, aye?”

“Who left it?” He asked, squinting.

“I don’t know, someone.”

“What do you mean someone?” He looked out the window as if he was trying to spot a burglar. 

“I don’t know, someone!”

“I’m calling the police,” the mad man said. 

“It’s a spinach pie, why would you call the police?” I tried to knock some sense into him. 

“What if it's poisoned?” he doubled down. 

“Who would send you a poisoned spinach pie?” I asked.

“One of my enemies,” he replied confidently. 

“You have many enemies?” I asked. 

“Yes.” He called the police on speakerphone. The whole scene looked like something out of ‘A confederacy of dunces.'

 

I sat there with my hand covering my eyes. Poor grandpa wasn’t able to explain the situation eloquently, so I took the phone out of his hands, turned off the speakerphone, and went to the kitchen to talk. “Please disregard this, my grandpa called by mistake.” I went back to the table. “They’ll look into it,” I said. 

 

The phone rang. He picked it up in speakerphone. “Hello?” he said. 

“Hello my friend! Did you try it?” I recognized his friend’s voice, he used to call frequently. 

“Did I try what?” grandpa asked. 

“The pie! The pie! Did you try it?”

“It was you? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” 

 

....

His body and mind had started to deteriorate, but he was still lucid for the most part. My family had chipped in to get a lady, God bless her soul, to help him during the day. Breakfasts were still my duty. 

“How many?”

“107.” 

“Good.” 

“Yeah, new record.” 

“Y’know…I talked with you for about an hour yesterday…”

“Yeah? What did I say?”

“Oh, I don’t know…this and that.”

 

That night we threw a block party to celebrate our one year anniversary at the Burger Joint, or at least that was the excuse. Deep down the four of us—two owners and two employees who were our friends—knew that hosting a party would increase our chances of getting girls. I was particularly interested in this one girl who I had gone out with two times, but she hadn’t shown me any romantic interest whatsoever. Not even a kiss. Four months chatting, two perfect dates. Not even a kiss. 

The stage was set. We brought the speakers to the streets, closed the sidewalk with cones and ropes as if we owned it, filled a couple of plastic barrels with ice and beers, and put two giant bottles of whisky on a table outside for anyone and everyone. We filled the block. We felt like kings. 

 

By the time she arrived, I had already taken my t-shirt off—many of us had—and was participating in a sort of improvised skate competition. We were taking turns jumping over empty bottles of beer. It was a very adolescent scene, but that’s exactly what we were.

 

As soon as I saw her, I left the skate and walked towards her. Grabbed her by the hand. We walked around the block where people couldn’t see us. We stopped on the porch of a closed restaurant and lay against its bricks. It was almost completely dark. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she responded.

I pulled her towards me and kissed her. I put my hand down her jeans. She put her hands down mine. It’s always been a mystery to me how these things work. Four months chatting. Two perfect dates. Not even a kiss. And now, this. Timing is everything, I guess.

 

I told my friends I was leaving by cause of force majeure. I was immediately relieved from any cleaning and closing responsibilities. We walked to my place. 

 

While walking, I painted a dreadful picture of what the apartment looked—and smelled—like so that when she got there, she’d think “it’s not that bad.”

We entered silently and went to my room. “It’s not that bad,” she said. We resumed activities. We stopped caring about being silent, which caused my grandpa to wake up. I heard a loud yawn from the next room. Then I heard him pick up the phone and activate the speakerphone. He dialed a three-digit number, “beep… boop, boop.” I jumped out of bed, put my pants on and ran out of my room, “Grandpa, don’t call the police. It’s me,” I shouted. 

“Diego, is that you?” He asked. 

“Yes, I’m in bed.”

“I thought it was a thief.” He hung up. “Good night.” 

“Good night.”

 

I went back to the room. We laughed. I opened the laptop and put The Cure on YouTube. We resumed activities. Twenty minutes later I heard noise coming from the next room. He was getting up. “Probably going to the bathroom,” I thought. I heard the steps. Before I had time to notice that he wasn’t heading to the bathroom, my door opened. There he was, the six feet tall, 200 pound, 80-year-old man. No dentures on, wearing his translucent white tank top and his urine-stained sky-blue boxers. He was squinting but I knew he couldn’t see shit without his glasses, so I didn’t even cover. 

“Diego, are you alright?” he asked. 

“Yeah, just listening to music… I’ll turn it down,” I said.

“OK, good night.” 

“Good night.” I put OK Computer on YouTube. We fell asleep. We slept together for the next hundred days.

 

....

 

Eventually, grandpa got sicker and had to be hospitalized. The last time I went to visit him he was at peace; he had been talking all night with grandma. He forgave her for leaving him alone so many years, it wasn’t her fault. They’d be together soon. 

“How many?” 

“281.”

“Almost 300!”

THE END

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