Between The Lines Issue 09 SPARK | Page 82

ilu ration : Y i P l st eoln ark Another movie about gangsters plays on TV. The main character flashes a .38 snub-nosed revolver and blows a hole in some poor man’s head. The old man, who is sitting in his wheelchair in front of the screen, looks at me and says, “That was my gun.” This morning, I caught the old man eating cheddar cheese crackers for breakfast. He ate them with a spoon, in a bowl filled with water. All the milk in his refrigerator had spoiled. "That’s the gun I used to have, but someone came into my house and took it. They’re keeping it from me, and won’t tell me where they got it kept.” On Christmas he tried to introduce me to his daughter and her husband, who I’ve known for twenty years. He had forgotten my name back then; I don’t think he remembers it even now. "They’re worried I’ll shoot someone." He turns and looks at me with big, watery eyes. He can’t control his tear ducts, and sometimes he cries without sadness. He used to be too strong to cry. I look at him, but his eyes don’t meet mine. He’s completely blind in his left eye and can’t differentiate red from green in his right. 80 er Ho amn on ig D K B ne w Yu Fction - i ort h S "I've had that gun for thirty years, for safety purposes, of course. Ain't never had to shoot nobody though.” When the old man used to live alone, he watched commercials all day and wouldn’t answer the door for anyone but his children. He went around in his wheelchair and left piles of broken dishes in front of the sink for his daughter to gather up and throw away every Sunday. "Because people know," he says, nodding. "They know when you’ve got a loaded gun on the table next to your chair." By chair, he meant his favorite chair, which we left out on the curb to be taken by the garbage men when we moved him out last week. He doesn’t even know what happened to it. "They know," he repeats, pointing at the mobster on TV who just beat a man senseless for laying hands on his woman, "and they respect you.” As he says this, a stench overwhelms me. I believe my grandfather has just shat himself, again. 81