Television-static corneas make his eyes seem blue and he sits lounging in the living room chair, his gut sticking out like the Pillsbury dough boy. When he laughs, the chair’s wooden frame rubs against itself and the squeaking shivers the inside of the house. He’s graying now, and the signs of his age pour out from his ears, trace his jawline and freckle the crown of his head. He wears his age like a costume.

A blind man may imagine him a youthful 45 although he’s approaching 70. He tickles the room with dirty jokes, making the humored smirk and the humble frown and groan. He’ll shamelessly grab the ass of an in-law, making them jump and swap at him, disrupting the harmony of a family gathering. He’ll wink at me saying, “You can’t grab a whopper with one hand, you gotta use two.” My grandfather is and always has been the king of any party. The carpet runs red under his feet, regardless of where he treads. He pours himself drink after drink, and with every new drop of Pepsi, he becomes louder and louder, echoing through the hallways and up the staircase as if he was loaded with alcohol. He mumbles the lyrics to all of the latest hip-hop singles, never missing a word. I’ve caught him dancing in the kitchen, shaking his hips and arms when he thinks no one is looking. The change jingling in his pockets creates music that echoes down and around into the basement. Discovering his audience, however, only encourages him to emphasize every step.

I’d spend afternoons at his house as a child. Often, I’d come waltzing through the front door after school and find him eating a burger and fries — from McDonald’s of course — with his hands shining and greasy. I’d watch him grab four or five fries at a time, dragging them through the pools of red ketchup he’d so gracefully squeezed into piles and shovel them into his mouth like a miner shoveling coal. When he’d notice me standing in the doorway, I’d walk over and grab a couple myself. The blue tile in his kitchen matches the suspenders he always wears to hold up his pants. The rim of his pants seems to tuck itself neatly under the bulge of his belly. His shirts are raunchy, immature and golden even. They advertise bold statements, loudly and clearly like “I’m a jokester, a womanizer and a thief — ready to steal your heart” or “Whoop ass now and take names later.”

There isn’t a moment looking at him that I don’t see a tiny bit of myself, and even more of my mother. He’s the cheetah-print in a white room, the beer in the wine cellar, the dirt on your Sunday dress. He’s not the tainted, but he can bend the rules with his breath. Simply, he is my grandfather James L. Bass, and oh, how I love him so. Too bad heaven couldn’t wait for you.

Brought to you by Fences, in theaters nationwide Dec. 25.

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Phillip Lambert

Writing since December 2016 · 1 story contributed