Like To Be You ✓

twenty six pt. one

My grandfather is the second unhappiest person on Earth to have ever existed after his father and my great grandfather, Hamish Michael Adams.

He is currently smoking his special Cuban cigar as usual, grunting every now and then while my grandmother flutters around him, fussing over him. Their conversation goes something like this:

"Would you like some more roast?"

Grunt.

"Any cookies? They're chocolate chip."

Grunt.

"Do you want me to keep this vase somewhere else? It might break."

Grunt.

"Archie, are you even listening to me?"

Grunt.

"Fancy some whiskey?"

"Yes."

I've been watching him this past hour like a creep, observing his every motion. Here are my specifics on him:

-Likes to fiddle with the gold band on his finger

-Takes really, really long drags of his cigar (I sometimes think his stomach is a portal to a black hole)

-Puts sugar in his ice-cream, probably because his taste-buds are dead from the tobacco filled in them

-Doesn't like hugs

And the most important one:

-Is very possessive of his cigars

I mean it. The man would rather chew off his foot than give a cigar up. The only person blessed with the opportunity to share a cigar from his collection was my dear father. Granddad always had a soft spot for him, though he never really let it show.

"Neil." Mom says. "Have you seen Greg?"

"No." I say. "I saw him chasing Tyler an hour ago though."

Aunt Kate gasps. "Oh, poor Tyler! He's scared of Greg."

"You didn't try to stop Greg?" Mom says, frowning.

I bristle with annoyance. "No. Let him do what he wants to. He's just jealous that Tyler gets more attention than he does."

"I don't remember you being this foolish." Grandpa suddenly says gruffly, puffing out a plume of smoke. I take offense to his statement.

"Well, I don't remember you being this wrinkly and sad."

It's out before I know it. Everyone falls silent, and I see my mother glaring at me. It's not like I said it with malice, but I didn't say it with love either.

"Neil." My mother grinds her molars. "That is so rude and disrespectful!"

I don't say anything. Instead, I wait for my grandfather's reaction, much more relaxed than my mother, when he surprises us by chuckling.

"I knew he was special." Grandpa says, flicking ash off the end of his cigar. Then he does something that makes me gasp. Me, Neil Graham, gasping. Can you believe it? The last time I gasped was when I dropped my eight-piece-chicken-wing-bucket all over the porch nearly three months ago.

Grandpa reaches for a new cigar from the array lined in his sleek box and holds up one to me. My eyes automatically flick between him and my Uncle Leonard before I take it between my fingers. Poor Uncle Leonard has been trying to share a cigar with Grandpa for years, to no avail. I think he's too bubbly for Grandpa's taste.