Shoot Me Already

Autobiographical vignette

 

Shoot Me Already

 

Grandpa sat sunken in his old easy chair, a throw under him and over the chair, his eyes cast inward, his usual day or two of stubble speckling his face. Nana and Grandpa’s living room was always a jumble of mismatched furniture, their neighbors’ outcasts, except for the two etched glass lamps purchased with S&H green stamps, and an old glass-fronted bookcase, its small skeleton key sitting in its lock. Their couch, a creamy white pattern when it wasn’t covered with a throw, might have been original to them too, and maybe the glass and metal coffee table, on whose surface was always a globe shaped cut-glass container that held hard candies. The desks, wooden and metal file cabinets, throw rugs, large metal closet, chests of drawers, and assorted lamps, were all rescues, though, and they lined every inch of wall, in places jutting out into the room. On some walls the treasures were piled nearly ceiling high. Grandpa had repainted worn, but formerly stained desks a dark brown, hoping to improve their looks.

 

I was visiting their small one bedroom garden apartment in Bayside with my mother, and both of my brothers. I was 17 and my brothers 13 and 6. There was not much space anywhere, but my mother and Nana, were in the small, white kitchen, with my youngest brother, K, who no doubt was getting a “Nana” glass of milk. (A Nana glass was a glass of any liquid filled all the way to the brim so that you had to sip it before it was moved or you would spill it.)  I walked around the living room, looking at photos, looking for the playing cards, stopping to check out a slide rule, then a book, my brother M doing much the same.

 

Outside it was early Spring. There were the chirps and songs of sparrows and finches, if you were outside, and the forsythia buds beginning to open. Nana had not yet worked her garden of roses and annual flowers below the living room window. We heard or saw little of the outside that day; their casement windows were closed tight. Instead we wandered among precious castoffs in the filtered light, with little chance of maneuver or escape. Grandpa in his chair, his knees bobbing up and down in pain, muttered a question “why don’t they shoot me already and get it over with?” He wasn’t searching for an answer, and I did not give him one. It was only then that I was aware that he was in pain. I don’t believe M heard the question, or if he did never said. We simply never spoke of it.

Reviews

[Bill Hancock]

That is a great story. It could probably be a thousand different houses at a thousand different times throughout the last couple of centuries but it's a solid story and story most of us have lived at some point in our lives.

I read that and remembered my own grandparent's house and my little brother and I always looking through it because my grandfather had old radios from the early 1900's and my grandmother had other "antiques". To them, they weren't "antiques", they were a part of their lives that they had collected over the years.

That story brought back some great memories.

And, to quote my grandfather the last few years of his life before he passed away Valentines Day of this year "Son, I have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel."

Great story!

~Bill

[Creepy Swine Guy]

The power of this story is in your descriptions. You see things that I would have felt, but I don't know if I'd have seen and conveyed them as clearly as you have. The "Nana glass" was gold to my ears. What a precious bit of detail, only from the eyes of a child. I typically like a story that is more plotline than snapshot. I guess I'm a victim of modern society and want desperately to get somewhere. But this was a stop in a small Bayside apartment that I enjoyed.

[[untitled]]

the first paragraph is gold...but the rest seems incomplete...whether it's the full names of the brothers or the question of how the grandfather is dying and, especially, how the teen Really feels about this... a flood of memories between the two would fit nicely and give depth two the main character and the grandfather...

[R. MonaLeza]

BRAVO, BRAVO, BRAVO. This is an exceptional piece of work! The detail is fascinating, I walked through the room with you. Such great attention to setting, down to the finest details. And...in the midst of all of the aged, discarded objects, your grandfather, feeling aged and discarded with them. Beautiful.

[Krystal Waters]

I am so glad I get to review this first! Magesty!!! A work of art like a painting. I could see you walking through the apartment and looking at everything. The milk that was over poured! Your grandfather sitting in pain and nobody realizing until he finally just said it. You were the one who realized... so amazing and then no one spoke of his pain. I wonder why? Was it because he was Grandpa and he wanted to be strong? You didn't want to tell him that you knew... Well written... so descriptive in every line.