My Grampa turned 93 this weekend. Not Poppy, the other one. Despite the walker and near-blindness, he's a goddamn five-foot powerhouse. In fact, he's thinking of buying a house, because his apartment complex will not allow him to keep a certain kind of plant on his porch that he can't pronounce, but he knows it's green.
Grampa is not a gardener. He's a peaceful, bitter, sovereign hermit, like Obi-Wan Kenobi, who reheats day-old cold coffee in the microwave and refuses to follow rules that infringe on his basic goddamn rights to own garish, porch-consuming potted plants that he doesn't want or need in the first place.
And he's got this harem of elderly bitches in his apartment complex that call him "Eddie" and make him play bridge every Tuesday. He feigns agitation, the sly old coot.
So I guess he's not like Ben Kenobi.
No, fuck it, Kenobi was a total pimp, and you know it.
But yeah, it was his birthday, and I gave him a hug, and he took his old man hands and gently shoved me into a door and gave me an ancient label-less handle from his liquor cabinet.
"Now you share that," he wags a hand in my general direction, with the other firmly gripping his walker.
I open the jug and smell it. "Grampa, no one I know drinks gin except for me."
"Your grandmother drank gin. And she was nearly as much trouble as you, oh boy."
"Do you have any olives?"
"Do I look like a market? Oh, boyohboyohboy."
"No olives? Jesus, Grampa, what are you, a communist?"
"If you're lookin' for a knuckle sandwich..."
"Does it come with olives?"
"How about you go heat up some coffee for me like a good little girl, and save that gin for when you go home and I don't have to listen to you jabbering anymore."
"How about you go sit in your rocking chair and hum to yourself until you're a hundred? Huh?"
"Oh, I'm not going anywhere until you've learned to be quiet for a day."
"You've got years and years left, sir."
"Don't I know it."