Grandpa Is A Pushover
Those who know me know that am fortunate/unfortunate enough to live in the state that many people retire to on the East Coast that boasts more than its fair share of completely round-the-bend behavior. Although the weather here is mild, the residents are anything but.
My home is actually a controlled access condo that I would call the step before the step where you move into a senior’s only community. The buildings are equipped with some unusual modern conveniences for this city in the guise of elevators and doors and access ways that are wheelchair friendly. Unsurprisingly many of my neighbors have downsized from their larger family homes to these stucco condos where someone else is in charge of the routine care and building and landscape maintenance.
To access any of the buildings one must have a white security badge, a 4 digit access code, or the name of a person in the building to call from the call box to be buzzed in. It is common courtesy to hold the glass access door open for your neighbors that are close behind you on your approach to the building.
On a cloudy but mild day, I had just concluded the required afternoon walk of my furry roommate. As I approached the front door, an older model white Oldsmobile sedan pulled into the parking lot and took a space across from the entrance to my building.
Four people emerged from the car that afternoon. I can’t confirm with certainty the nature of the relationship of the parties but it appeared to be a grandfather with two of his young grandchildren and one other passenger who may have been a nephew or the eldest grandson. For the sake of clarity, we will call them - grandfather, grandson, granddaughter, and nephew. The two children had been secured in the back seat of the sedan in those modified child booster seats that kids get when they reach a certain height and weight. The grandson in this story was the older sibling and I surmise that he was 5–6 years-old. His younger sister was most likely in the 4–5 year-old range. The nephew was probably in his late teens or early 20s. If I had to guess, I would say that the grandfather was in his 60s and of a very mild disposition.
As per building protocol, I reached the front door first so I swiped my access card and went to hold the door open to let the merry family party in.
The grandson shouted, “I got it!” and ran to hold the door open with his backside and the force of his weight because he was carrying a small cup of warm Starbucks beverage in his hands. The glass door protested its sudden meeting with the brick wall behind it with a loud crack.
The grandfather cautioned his grandson, “Oh honey, be careful. That door is heavy and you need to be gentle with it.”
As we all filed into the lobby of the building, the granddaughter ran the approximately 20 feet from the door to the elevators and pressed the call button to summon the elevator to the ground floor. She might have had to relieve herself too because she was doing a bit of an antsy-pants-dance while standing in place. At this point, my dog was signaling to me his distress regarding the noisy and boisterous grandchildren, so I bent down to pick him up in my arms. As I was straightening back up, I heard the grandson let out a disappointed shout. I gathered that he wanted to press the elevator button. What happened next is controversial.
The grandson came up behind his sister and said the word, “Coffee” very emphatically. As he did this, he chucked his paper cup at her and it crashed to the tile floor with a plunk draining its contents and splashing the wall under the elevator call button.
I looked up and caught the eye of the nephew who was making a face.
The grandfather said, “Oh no! Is everyone okay?”
We were all fine and no one had been splashed by the drink thankfully, but there was a creamy, sticky mess on the floor. The grandfather gathered up the cup and lid and began to assure his grandson that everything would be alright. The grandson didn’t look concerned; he looked sulky.
Shortly after, the elevator arrived and we all piled on. During the brief journey upwards to the second floor where the family party was going, this exchange occurred between the grandfather and the nephew.
The nephew said, “I think he threw that cup.”
The grandfather replied while shielding the grandson behind him, “Oh no, of course not, it was just an accident. He didn’t mean to.”
I was looking at the grandson behind his grandfather’s legs. He absolutely meant to. I recognize guilt when I see it on the face of a 6-year-old. He was mad at his sister for pressing the elevator button so he threw his drink at her. No one else but a child overreacts to a perceived injustice with such enthusiasm and so little understanding of the consequences.
We all arrived on the second floor very quickly and the grandfather assured me that he would come back down and clean the mess up right away. He never did.
The lobby and elevators are mopped once a week by the cleaning crew but to this day there remains a sticky spot on the floor that attracts dirt. There are also some shiny, yellow streaks on the wall that you may not notice if you had not been a witness to the incident in question. Normally, I would take it upon myself to help destroy the evidence of the loss of the grandson’s temper. Why haven’t I done this yet, you ask? It’s because I am waiting to run into the grandmother in the lobby.
Be you Tall, Grande, or Venti; it won’t matter. Grandma at least suffers no fools gladly.
