#emwins

Bael's story: "Grandpa"

[DISCLAIMER: THIS PREVIEW MAY DIFFER FROM FINAL VERSION.]

1. TUESDAY, MARCH 15

It was almost suppertime and the speakers of our living room TV vibrated and hissed with the sounds of Battletoads for Genesis. I sat cross-legged on the floor, only minutes ago pummeling bloodthirsty axe-wielding pigs and rabid ravens off the screen. Now, however, I was failing-yet-determined to beat the third stage and its rushing walls that proved faster than my eyes and reflexes. Dad told me he believed I could beat the stage if I persevered. He was currently slumped in his recliner, eyes closed and tie loosened, after a long day of whatever he does at work; if I beat the stage, my victory cry would surely startle his eyes open. Since today was my turn with the TV, Billy was lying on his stomach, reading one of his monster books, with his finger so far up his nose it looked like he was going to drown in it. This was the book he kept stuffed with loose-leaf papers on which he drew his own creatures, particularly his favorite: a cat with more than 4 legs (the number varied by the drawing) he named Felix, presumably after the cartoon. He often wished out loud for a real cat of his own, though so far Mom and Dad haven’t listened.

“Why did they have to make the walls in this stupid stage move so fast? It’s impossible to beat! This isn’t even fun.” Such were my swirling thoughts after losing all my ‘Toads yet again. “Did I waste my birthday present on this game? Will I be stuck playing it until I get a new one for Christmas? Maybe in nine months I’ll be a lot better at it. Was Dad wrong? Am I not good enough? Why can't I be better than Ben at just one thing? Dammit…” As my frustration subsided and my thoughts slowed, I became aware of time again. Already 5PM? I’d been home for an hour and a half. My PB&J lunch was 5 hours ago, and my stomach was beginning to remind me of it. I turned the Genesis off and switched the TV back to Nickelodeon cartoons that caught no one’s attention. Dad had opened his eyes, but was now reading the TV Guide. Billy had finally excavated his treasure: a pea-sized, pea-colored booger he promptly began sucking on like a lollipop. Yuck! I gagged a little as I watched him. In spite of this, I still had an appetite, so I got up to see how Mom was doing with dinner. When I entered the kitchen, a foul odor rising from the pot of broccoli wafted to my nostrils and nearly made me return to the living room. Mom must've heard my footsteps, as she turned her blonde head and asked, "Bobby, you getting hungry?"

I could only be honest. "Not really." I actually was hungry, I just didn't want to eat what she was preparing. Why couldn't it be pizza or hot dogs or a hamburger? Grilled cheese, chicken nuggets, Mac and cheese? Ben probably has fancy, delicious dinners like Kid Cuisine every night.

"Well, the meatloaf's almost ready, so we could eat a little early. Why don't you go call your brother and Dad and they can help you set the table so we can eat?" I dragged my feet back to the living room, where I snuck up behind the booger-sucker and flicked him in the back of his unsuspecting, gross noggin covered with shaggy Mom-colored hair. “Get up, Sloppy! Dinnertime.” He whined, jumped to his feet, and tried to swipe me in the face with his booger-finger, but missed.

"Dad! Mom said it's time to eat," I shouted in his direction. Billy was still trying unsuccessfully to touch me with his foul finger as I held him at arm’s length. Thankfully, I had gotten Dad's attention, who pushed us both in the direction of the dining room. "Hey fellas," he said commandingly. "Let's not have a repeat of the Moo goo gai pan incident." How does Dad remember that but always forgets the names of the Battletoads?, I thought. While I was certainly no fan of Mom's broccoli-and-meatloaf meal, Billy absolutely hated it, so I was looking forward to seeing him squirm in his seat trying to swallow enough that he could be excused from the table.

Mom and Dad quickly yet carefully set the table with food and plates with clangs and scrapes while we kids just sat at the table and did nothing. Wiggle worm Billy fidgeted in his chair. I wondered if Ben's family was actually rich enough that they had maids or servants or something to do all their chores for them. I would gladly do more vacuuming and toilet scrubbing if it meant I didn't have to eat the meatloaf and onions, though.

As Dad was piling food on our plates, mom cleared her throat with a raspy cough, like she often does when she wants us to pay attention. "I got a phone call today," she said pitifully and with a sour expression, like she was telling us to brace for bad news. My heart skipped a beat.

"It was from the superintendent of my dad's apartment. "Something… happened and Grandpa's gonna have to live here with us for a little while. I talked to Dad, though…he seems like he’s okay. I’m going to pick him up tomorrow."

Dad, elbows on the table, was the first to reply. "Why didn't you tell me this first, Kathy?"

Uh oh, Dad called Mom by her first name. This is never good. A knot of nervousness began to form in my stomach.

"It’s just until he can find a new place. It won't be long at all."

Dad and Mom began to discuss, eventually rather heatedly, the merits of letting this Grandpa Billy and I have seen maybe once in our lives, stay with us, and whether or not we could spare our guest room upstairs for him. Dad didn’t want this relative stranger to sleep in-between our bedrooms, but Mom thought it would be fine. "He's harmless, Joe. And we have the space for him. It’s like it was meant to be." No one in movies or on TV ever says someone is harmless if they're actually harmless.

Dinner had stopped being about the food. I had to speak up. "Is there something wrong with Grandpa?"

"You see, we're worrying, Bobby, " Dad said as he began eating faster, almost frantically. "You know your dad and I don't get along that well. And, again, he's practically a stranger to the boys."

"I know, I know", Mom replied, weakly. "But he's got nowhere else to go!"

“Doesn’t he have that one friend from the 60s, when he was supposedly a starving artist? Pete, I think his name was? Why can’t he stay with him?”

“Dad specifically asked if he could stay with us. He said it was important, the most important thing of his life, actually. Though of course he worded it a lot more colorfully than that. And I could hear him sobbing on the other end of the line as he was pleading with me.”

"Oh, don’t tell me you fell for his manipulative BS again.” Dad had completely inhaled his plateful of food by now. "I completely disagree with this, I want you to know." He rose from the table abruptly. "And the meatloaf was dry." He then walked in the direction of the living room.

Mom began to cry faintly. In spite of the uncertainty around Grandpa and my dislike of seeing Mom and Dad disagree or fight, I saw an opportunity to get out of eating any more meatloaf and broccoli, so I walked over to Mom to give her a hug. "It's all gonna work out, Bobby, I promise," she whispered in my ear as she squeezed me tightly. I felt reassured by her words, and my stomach knot vanished. She smelled nice, like freshly-baked oatmeal cookies. If only Billy smelled like cookies, I might actually appreciate him more.

Now that I had successfully buttered her up, it was time for my gambit. "May I be excused?" I asked. I did at least take a small bite of the meatloaf--and actually swallowed it. More than could be said for Billy's plate, which looked untouched.

Mom thought for a moment before asking, "Did you boys get enough to eat?" We nodded our heads in unison. "Then you may be excused. Why don't you go do your homework and get ready for bed? Tomorrow's gonna be a big day." I wouldn't say Billy and I ran from the table to our upstairs room, but it was close to it.

I stopped in front of the guest room, its door wide open, to ponder it. A few folded blankets were stacked on the small guest bed. A lot of the room’s clutter had disappeared; Mom had obviously cleaned and organized in here before we came home from school. We called it the “guest room” but the truth was we never got any overnight guests and the room and its closets mostly served as storage for Dad’s old stuff and our holiday decorations. Billy tugged at my arm. I shrugged him off reflexively, but my thoughts were interrupted.

“Grandpa’s gonna sleep in here,” he said nasally, as his finger was once again crawling up his nostril.

“I guess so.”

“Don’t you think Grandpa should sleep in our room? I think it’ll be fun.”

“No, Sloppy, I don’t think that would be fun.” He was apparently irritated that I disagreed with him and made another attempt to touch me with his booger-bomb. It was a feeble swipe I could’ve seen coming a mile away. “Come on,” I told him. ”Don’t you have any homework to do?”

“Just some reading.” He followed me into our room and sat on his bed, patting the head of his black cat plush, also named Felix, as if it were a real cat. “Nice kitty. You’re such a good kitty, Felix,” he said in his cat voice, which was slightly higher pitched than his normal one. What a weirdo. Was he never going to grow up? Or was I the same way when I was 7? I didn’t know, but I did still keep my yellow orange poison arrow frog plush on my nightstand just because it was colorful. That's what I tell myself, at least. Billy eventually settled into the bed with his textbook and Felix. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him mouthing the words to whatever he was reading.

I didn’t have much homework to do except for some quick math exercises, so I mostly lay in bed playing our shared Game Boy and Link’s Awakening. Billy had gotten up to Kamu’s sign maze, but couldn’t figure it out. That’s so Sloppy! But as I solved it for, like, the third time, Billy began to stir. “Bobby, could you turn out the light? I'm trying to sleep so Grandpa can get here faster.”

Of course, I needed the lamp on to see the screen of the Game Boy. But the Game Boy’s red battery power light was nearly extinguished… And then I heard Dad and Mom climb the stairs and begin murmuring in their room. I had to hear what they were saying, which required sneaking out into the hallway. “Well, Sloppy, you lucked out,” I told him softly. I clicked off the Game Boy, ended the lamplight with a pull of its chain, then rolled out of bed.

“Where are you going?” he asked. He wriggled like he was gonna get out of bed, too. “No, you stay here and sleep with Felix. Don’t you want to see Grandpa as soon as possible? Just close your eyes.” Thankfully, he rolled over onto his other side and pulled his blanket completely over his head. I crept to our door and carefully turned the knob to make as little noise as possible. It was an old door, so its knob crunched a little as it moved. Billy was undisturbed. This was my chance. I opened the door just as softly as I had turned the knob and tiptoed into the darkness, where I began to hear my parents' voices clearer, but not clear enough to understand what they were saying.

Making my way within earshot, I imagined the hallway was my stage 3, endangered by the evil forces of Ben: bloodthirsty axe-wielding pigs, rabid ravens, and, gulp, fast-flying walls that would crush me unless I sidestepped along the hall in complete silence, one dangerous but thoughtfully-placed step at a time. It seemed to work, as no bloodthirsty pigs or rabid ravens crashed through the ceiling and the killer walls were nowhere to be seen. Every time I thought I heard a pig or raven, it was either the house settling, sounds from Dad’s and Mom’s room or nothing at all. Once I felt safe from the impending threats and could breathe again, I was also close enough to Dad's and Mom's room to hear their conversation, though they were still attempting to whisper as not to disturb Billy’s or my sleep. I stopped in my tracks and cupped my ear to listen.

Dad’s voice was clear first. "He fried his brain in the 60s with all those drugs. If even half the stories he used to tell me are true, it's been that way for almost 30 years. Do you really want Bobby and Billy to be around someone like him?"

“Yes, because that was decades ago. You didn't have to get so dramatic in front of the boys.”

“Dramatic? Kath, do you remember how belligerent your dad got right before Billy was born and demanded that he also be named William Orlando Beal? I mean, He was absolutely fanatical!”

Mom made an affirmative chirp.

“It was scary. And though we gave into him, what else did we do in response?, asked Dad.

She sighed strongly. “We cut contact with him. But this time won't be long, just a few days. He sounded so desperate. He was weeping. He's never done that before, and it just broke my heart. He's just a pathetic old man. It'll be fine, it'll be fine.”

“And did the super say anything about why your dad is being evicted?”

I heard Mom smack her lips, which she does often before admitting to fault, full or partial. “Essentially, just noise. He had been having these big parties that disturbed the entire building.”

“Essentially? Don't make excuses for him.”

She smacked again. “Well, the super thought they might have been sex parties. Dad was warned, but apparently didn't listen. The super didn't want to be responsible for prostitution, pimping, or solicitation on his property, so he had to evict.”

I recognized some of these words from the boring crime shows mom and Dad watch sometimes. Grandpa is… a criminal??

Dad laughed and I felt a little better. “Okay, so old Bill is having orgies and being a nuisance. See, he really hasn't changed since the 60s.”

Dad continued, “But I have to hand it to the old guy, he told some of the most outlandish stories with an absolutely straight, serious face.” Dad’s sentence trailed off with laughter.

“Do you remember the story he used to tell about being on the tour bus with the Rolling Stones?” asked Mom, also laughing.

“Oh, the one where he and Keith Richards went to a hotel that was full of cat and toad people?” I heard Dad almost choke. “These are visions consistent with the use of certain illicit substances, you know.”

Who is Keith Richards?, I thought.

“Maybe so,” said Mom, “but those are the same two animals Bobby and Billy like.”

Oh, so they do pay attention to these things.

“So what are you saying, that our sons have a stash of LSD tabs in their room?”

“Of course not, just that Dad’s imagination and theirs seem to be on similar wavelengths. I think he and the boys will get along great.”

Billy and I…are like Grandpa?

“I guess he is more of a weird, funny old guy than a dangerous old guy. All right, all right, I cave. You win again, babe. So you’ll pick Bill up tomorrow?”

“Yeah, if you drive the boys to school.”

Since the conversation's intensity had cooled and I had heard enough anyway, I turned back down the now danger-free hallway, taking normal, carefree steps. Ben and his minions were clearly busy with other things tonight, anyway. I opened our door normally and Billy was purring asleep, just as I knew he would be. I flopped on my bed where unseen fingertips pinched my already-heavy eyelids together instantly, and, by the time I had my next thought, it was morning.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Some thoughts on "Grandpa": Preoccupying myself with the writing process has been immensely therapeutic and part of me doesn't want it to be finished; though, little by little or in big chunks as they come to me, the whole inevitably advances towards completion. I am glad I didn't rush, as taking my time is what was needed to form a cohesive narrative.

& Special thanks to @dijeh for editing/proofreading/suggestions!

What I've been reading

A few months back I shared that I was dissatisfied with the quality of my written prose. The fix? Reading! Obvious, right? Not when you're a dummy like me who always wanted to write fiction, but never read fiction. It's mind-boggling.

My current reading plan is finishing The Lord of the Rings: I've read Fellowship, am on The Two Towers, will immediately jump into Return of the King, and then I'll move on to what will likely be my summer book, Moby Dick--something I was supposed to read in college but never did. I'm so sorry, McGurrin, you were trying to tell me something but I wasn't smart enough to listen. And the creative writing I did do in college? Real stinkers, I should share them sometime. Could be instructive.

And speaking of reading assignments from McGurrin 20 years ago I didn't take seriously, I finally read Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass and it was undoubtedly the best poetry I've ever read--and made me reconsider my "dislike" of poetry. Every time I read it I discovered a new turn of phrase or poetic image; it's definitely a masterpiece. It's probably something I should read weekly, tbh. Reading poetry is probably the key to better prose.

Check out my Goodreads!

Personal update

I said last month that Grandpa would be finished by now save for the sudden emergence of a catastrophe. Well, the "catastrophe" emerged twofold: the Botox finally got injected, meaning therapy started up again; and, I've had to spend a lot of time and effort trying to find a job. It's not horrible stuff, mind you, it just means my free time has been eaten into suddenly and significantly.

Honestly, no major differences are apparent in my arm after the Botox. At this point, I really don't expect my arm/hand to meaningfully improve for years--either from regular therapy or with scientific advancements in treatment, which are happening constantly--but even the most promising of these are also years away from even the human trial stage and further away for the millions of patients who need them to return to normal life. I sometimes think my 40s are just gonna be a wash. But hopefully not! That's why I want to write while I can.

More distressing for me day-to-day than my leg or arm not working is the inconsistency with my voice. It's definitely better than it was a couple years ago; it's just so inconsistent if I'm going to have a decent voice day or a mediocre one. Very frustrating.

If only I could estimate a "recovery percentage" or something, like if I'm 50% of the way there; unfortunately, this kind of injury isn't so straightforward. I honestly don't know!

??????

Youtube channels I appreciate

2-3 years ago, when I was out of the hospital and recovering, I often thought about writing a retrospective of my entire experience to reinforce to myself it was all finally over. You know, a long essay like those found on my Blogger. Well, it's 2026 and the recovery process is still ongoing with no real end in sight. One thing I wanted to write about was Youtube channels I would often watch or look forward to watching. With a harrowing experience like a stroke and a subsequent recovery, having something to look forward to every day is an important ingredient in keeping your spirits high. To give a taste of something I've intended to share for literally years, here are a couple channels I regard highly:

EmWins

Em is one of the most genuine Youtubers I've ever encountered (her reactions never seem forced/fake/exaggerated, which is something I can't stand and why I dislike most popular gaming Youtubers/streamers; if you're a Streaming Knowledge watcher, you may have noticed I'm hardly reactive to things myself.) and I think she's the most entertaining of the channels I've seen that focus on the genre of "Person's first playthrough of old game." She's currently playing through Final Fantasy VII and it's been a hoot.

Jeremy Parish | Video Works

I've actually been following Parish for over a quarter of a century now, from The GIA/Toastyfrog to Gamespite to Talking Time and now via his Video Works series, which are uploaded consistently every Wednesday. He's the best historian/journalist of classic gaming out there.

Post roundup

Selections from Stealing Knowledge, from now and from then.

The recent best: The "victory guide" art, part 1; Most SMT art has passed through this blog in some form or another, this obscure set puts it one step closer to comprehensiveness. Part 2 of these will be soon.

From the archive: [Aug 24, 2022] A Satan designs "gotcha"; Disliking Doi Satan was/is contentious in some circles.

Buffy (the cat)

A recent pic because I just love this friggin' cat.

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