Grandpa was pretty much always parked in front of the TV, in his designated spot: a chair directly across from the screen, with a long, low, brown lacquered coffee table to the left. He slept on a fold-out cot—set it up near the TV and was always the last one to go to bed. The cot was old, bulky, springy. No clue how he managed to sleep on that thing. Just thinking about it now makes my back hurt.

Hanging out with Grandpa was great—he let me do whatever I wanted. Usually, it was the three of us: me, Grandpa, and his "drinking buddy," as Grandma called him. I wasn’t supposed to talk to him because he was also a drunk, so I’d just mumble a quick hello through clenched teeth. We’d go down to the local river, Grandpa and his buddy would settle in on the bank with a bottle of something "fun," and I got to wade into the water with my rubber boots still on. I was thrilled—nobody else ever let me do stuff like that.

Grandpa would often pull me around on a sled. When he was drunk, he was the kindest, happiest guy in the world. He’d carry me on his shoulders, and one time we both went down—hard. But it didn’t hurt, it was hilarious. We just lay there in the hallway, laughing our asses off. I must’ve been five or six.

Whenever I think about not having a father, I remind myself that’s not entirely true. Grandpa was probably the only person in our family who never left me with any kind of trauma—by word or action. Solid guy. Proud of him.

As we’ve already established, Grandpa didn’t work and gradually pawned off whatever he could carry. The bookshelf got thinner, Grandma’s china sets started disappearing. Even his war medals vanished. We later found one of the teacup sets at the neighbor’s place—also alcoholics—after we moved apartments.

When I was about eleven, Grandpa got a job as a night watchman at a kids’ camp—my mom hooked him up through some connections. Gotta use those daycare center connections, right? Not exactly a dream job, but he liked it—he could drink in the guard’s cabin and get paid for it. They gave him a room in a stinking, crumbling dorm, but he was happy anyway. Finally, he had his own space and didn’t have to live with his mother, my great-grandmother, anymore. By then, he was pushing sixty. His room reeked, was thick with cigarette smoke, a total mess—and somehow, he still managed to get married. Pure charisma.

At some point, he scored a room in the dorm for me and great-grandma for the summer. He even fixed it up a little—new wallpaper, some furniture from god knows where. Mom drove us there in some new boyfriend’s car. We got into an argument while moving in—by then, I was thirteen and obviously knew everything better than anyone. Grandpa didn’t like that and called me a bitch. Huge fight, Mom tried to throw hands. I was mad at him for a while, but we eventually made up and were best friends again. Mom left, only coming back to take us back to the city at the end of summer.

We bought a tiny TV, and for the whole summer, I either watched old black-and-white cartoons, rode my bike, or played Snake on an ancient Nokia. It was a miserable time. The heat was suffocating—in every sense. One day, Grandpa and I went into town to run some errands. He was already a little buzzed in the morning. We took the bus, he bought me a giant chocolate bar, and we wandered around, laughing. On the way back, I suddenly felt lightheaded from the heat, nearly fainted. Grandpa freaked out, got me off the bus, and we sat at a stop until I felt better. I remember his worried face—but he was the most comforting person in the world. Nothing bad could ever happen when he was around.

Grandpa passed away about six months after his mother, my great-grandmother. When she died, we cried together, holding each other. I had never seen him cry before, and it was so strange—seeing him so vulnerable, so defenseless. He took it hard. He was incredibly attached to her—the only one of her three sons who stayed with her. For various reasons, of course. I can’t say much about the other two; they’d show up for holidays with their families but were pretty much strangers to me.
Then one day, Mom called and told me Grandpa was gone. It was the second time, so soon after great-grandma, that I heard those words, and it felt fake, like a test, like I was supposed to act out grief.

He died of pneumonia. Classic case for someone with HIV. That part—I found out about fifteen years later. His second wife had it, and he knew. He got tested, even took some meds, but by then, it was too late.

Honestly? The world felt a little sadder without him.