PLOWED

Nature must resonate with the elderly when it comes to choosing their final independent living situation. Pine Estates; Ocean Villas; Cedar Village. I’m temporarily living in Cedar Village and feel strongly that Blizzard Penitentiary is a more accurate representation of what I’ve experienced.

I’d like to take you on a journey now… a journey of a young man living with his elderly Greek-American grandparents, all trying to break free from the shackles of mother nature while holding on to the delicate threads of sanity. The following tale is mostly true aside from unavoidable distortions in memory caused by stress. It’s told in the present tense because as I write this, I’m brought back, post traumatically, to the blizzard of 2010.

DAY 1: WARM THE CAR UP?

“Warm the car up.”

My grandfather’s Mercury is buried beneath a 6 foot snow drift.

“Papou, there’s a 6 foot snow drift covering your car.”

Papou (pronounced Pa-poo) is the Greek noun for grandfather. He sits patiently scratching his Psoriasis (itchy, flaky skin pronounced sore-eye-oh-sis). My Yaya (Greek for grandmother pronounced Yie-yah) helped him dress this morning as if he’s going places. Dressing a man of 83 years as if he’s going out is like putting a leash on a puppy with no intentions of walking him.

“You don’t have to go outside. Just use the automatic starter.”

The blizzard is over and our neighborhood is invisible. From the front window, I only see roofs and front windows. Papou shakes his head as if I’m the one not getting it.

“Greg, why is he going to warm your car up? Did you see outside: it’s a blizzard! No one is going anywhere; we’re in a state of emergency. And our governor - and the acting governor - are both on vacation. It’s just ridiculous! Now go sit at the table.”

Papou and I are in the kitchen, which is also the TV room (both rooms spill into each other without walls or partitions), eating Cream of Wheat. Both the kitchen TV and the big TV are on and I’d like to shoot Whoppi Golberg. It’s painful enough to hear one Whoppi but with a delay in the big TV, I’m hearing two Whoopis. Papou is using his spoon to investigate his breakfast for lumps & inconsistencies.

“Did you warm my car up yet?”

Yaya’s wig levitates as the heat rises from her horns below.

“Jesus Christ, Gregory! Are you losing it? He’s not warming up the goddamn car! We’re trapped in here!”

Deep in thought, he stirs for a moment longer.

“I know that, Thalia, but if he warms the car up, the snow’s gonna melt in the driveway.”

There is approximately 2,025 square feet of snow covering the driveway (I did the math). In order to melt 2,025 square feet of snow within the time-frame Papou expects, you’d need a volcanic eruption.

“Go warm the car up for your grandfather,” she responds while implying credit to his illogical hypothesis. 

I grab his keys and hit the horn three times, igniting his engine from inside the house. Off to the shower.

This is me showering now. Hi.

There’s a pounding on the door and someone is screaming inaudibly.

“What? I can’t hear you,” I scream back, “just open the door!”

Enter Papou. “I said - why are you leaving my car running?”

DAY 2: DID YOU HEAR THAT?

“Did you hear that?” Plowing is happening somewhere; I’m surprised he heard it. Usually a television on maximum volume signifies a hearing impairment, yet Papou surprises everyone with his selective hearing super-abilities.

Papou gets up from his Lazy Boy and scampers to the front window.

“Goddamnit,” as he peers out the window; he scratches his Psoriasis. Back to the chair. He’s dressed again as if he’s going places.

32 minutes later

The sound of a construction vehicle is backing up in the distance.

“Did you hear that?” He’s up again and waddles to the front window.

“(He’s making noises with his tongue that used to signify one of his grand kids doing something wrong),” as he shakes his head disapprovingly and scans the roofs & front windows.  Back to the chair he goes.

45 minutes later

“Oh that’s just terrible, Pearl. I’ll let everyone know… you too!” Yaya hangs up the cordless. She’s in the Lazy Boy and my Arthritic grandfather has been demoted to the stiff, rigid chair beside her.

“Pearl said that her son said that Monmouth County is in a state of emergency.”

Just yesterday she spoke with Pearl and they had the same conversation. Old people repeat themselves but it’s not dementia in Yaya’s case. I’m convinced that the psychological impact of getting old creates a difficulty in her finding new material. It’s like an antique record player reaching the last song but refusing to give up so it continues to play bits and pieces of the final track.

Someone yells in the distance; sounds kind of like, “Back it up! Back it up!”

“Did you hear that?” Papou gets up and makes his way to the front window.

DAY 3: GOING TO WORK?

“RYAN?”

One flight up & two rooms back is the attic. I keep my stuff there. I’m sifting through clothes, trying to find my favorite mint colored beanie while pretending not to hear her.

“RYYYYAAAANNNN?”

I’m an astronaut whose spaceship ran out of gas around Mars; I’m looking for that suicide pill they gave me back @ Cape Canaveral.

“I’M IN THE ATTIC, YAYA! AND I DON’T FEEL IT’S APPROPRIATE TO BE SCREAMING ACROSS THE HOUSE UNLESS IT’S AN EMERGENCY!”

My face is red with frustration and lack of oxygen.

“RYYYAN?”

What is it about old peoples’ homes in regards to traveling sound? You could hear someone whispering from a distance if you’re in the attic but scream aloud from the attic and no one hears you.

It’s rude to phone your grandparents when they need you and you’re in the same 2 room cottage but experience dictates that a pointless question looms on the horizon and my travels are unwarranted. I reach over, grab my cell and dial the home line.

“CALL FROM - VERIZON WIRELESS.”

Included in the cable package was call monitoring that appears, and speaks, through the big TV. Since the volume is permanently at capacity, I hear every call made to the home, along with the television’s robotic pronunciations of those calls.

“Thalia! Don’t pick it up, it’s an 857 number! I don’t know it!”

Papou is fucking with me unintentionally. I’ve told them hundreds of times that I kept my Boston phone number.

“CALL FROM - VERIZON WIRELESS.”

“Don’t pick it up, Thalia! It’s Chase Manhattan calling about the mortgage!”

FUCK! I’m up; I’m up and coming. And off I go to the loft that overlooks the TV room that is also the kitchen where two TVs are blasting The View at different speeds as Papou sits in his Lazy Boy, dressed as if he’s going somewhere, and Yaya holds up the cordless as she inspects the missed call from an 857 area code.

“Yes? Hi… up here. Yes; hi! What’s up Yaya?”

She looks up at me as if she hasn’t seen me in ages and smiles.

“Hi Ry!”

“Hi. What’s up? I was in the attic.”

“Ry…”

The pause is an eternity.

“...is your mother going to work today?”

Patience - I thought I had it once. Here are two people who’ve opened their home to me (and my mother - she lives here too - and our dog), who love me - who cared for me as a child as they sat through temper-tantrums and went elbows deep in soiled diapers - and I want to muzzle them like stray dogs.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve told them three times that work is closed,” my mother screams from under her pillow as she attempts to sleep in her bedroom behind the loft. Yaya cannot hear her though because the laws of traveling sound in the homes of the elderly say otherwise.

I’ve made a decision, refuse to answer and start back to the attic.

“RYYYAAAANNN?”

Stopping in my tracks, I head back to the ledge and peer down into the eyes of my tormentor.

“Yesh, Yaya?” I bite my lip and remind myself that I love her.

“Is your mother going to work today?”

“Yaya, the entire neighborhood is snowed in and Monmouth County is in a state of emergency! All roads are closed and they’re considering calling in the Coast Guard. So…” She gets it now; she has to.

“But Thalia,” my grandfather chimes in, “How’s she getting to work if all the roads are closed?”

DAY 4: THE DOG?

Max is watching squirrels in the backyard - the year is 2002 and he’s looking out the window in our old home in Tinton Falls. But in the present, we’re in Neptune City and Max is laying on the cold wooden floor on day 4 of being snowed in. He perks up every so often because of visions his mind displays on a wall near the front door. After 13 good years of life, Max is slowly slipping backwards through time and space.

Papou: I think the dog has to go out.

I look at Papou as he sits in his Lazy Boy - impeccably dressed as if he’s going out today - and wonder what visions he himself is having. I can’t blame the old man for his paranoia. Since we moved in, Max has unintentionally etched neural pathways that lead to memories of stained carpets and a furious Yaya.

Prior to the blizzard, I was sent to Wegmans for stain remover. Down the pet aisle, I had choices, but nothing seemed good enough.

Me (having a one-sided conversation with a disinterested employee): Nothing seems to really get at the urine, you know?

Employee: hmmm (as he tapped his chin)

A chubby lady with fake eyelashes and a coffin purse (her purse was a mini-coffin with leather straps) overheard and suggested using Nature’s Miracle over Resolve.

Chubby Lady: It’s especially good for stubborn urine.

I held the bag open for Yaya to reach in.

Yaya: No, no, no, no. Does anyone listen to me when I talk?

Me: (In my imagination, I answer no 4 times to her question) I assumed she knew something we’ve been missing all along.

Back in the present, Max gets up and relocates slightly to the left.

Papou: I think he’s gotta go out.

I know he doesn’t have to go out. And I count 3, 2… Max plops down on a new spot. Yaya’s wooden floor is a dog’s equivalent to a pillow: when it gets too warm, Max needs to find a cool spot.

My pup grunts and the echo travels through an episode of M.A.S.H, stinging Papou in his good eardrum.

Papou: Ryan Michael, I think Max has to go out.

Not even 15 minutes ago, Max and I went outside. My mother’s gloves, my sister’s sweatpants, a mint colored beanie and the plastic Wegmans bag that I shoved in my pocket with no intentions of using. Worse case, one of the elderly spies decides to watch Max poop and I’d have a bag ready. But I’m guessing with visibility so low, I was free-and-clear to bury whatever he pushes out in the snow.

The snow fell in such a way that it left a patch of land untouched beside our home. I watched Max spin around as if each turn introduced new and uncharted grass. He did his business like a champion and I commended his efforts with a “that’s good little poopie boy”.

Max does not have to go again. And if he did, he could hold it for a while. So as we engage in conversation outside of the dog needing to go out, I treat Papou’s urging as if it were a tick caused by Late-onset Tourette Syndrome.

Max: Woof?

Papou takes this woof as proof that Max has to go out and shoots me the ‘I told you so’ face.

Max: Woof? Woof, woof, woof!

There’s a moment between Max’s communication with the squirrels on the wall and Papou’s vision of Max shitting on the carpet.

Papou: Ry?

I get up to appease a man who used to come to my Little League games even though I rode the bench.

Me: I know, Papou.

DAY 5: THE PLOWS?

I’ve been warming up the car in five minute intervals to his heart’s content to no avail. I’m numb. No matter the request, I’ve relinquished my common sense and refuse nothing, no matter how counter productive (or asinine) the request may be.

It’s night time on the fifth day of a blizzard that ended five days ago. As the chain of command calls for, he speaks with her, they strategize and upon a compromise, she translates his demands.

“Your grandfather cannot afford to waste anymore gas…”

As always, Yaya pauses for an eternity. She’s standing beside his throne; her wig is perfect. And after 76 years of laundry, her periwinkle bath robe is as bright as the day of purchase.

“... so you’re going to shovel around his car…”

“Just have him dig out the front and I’ll run right through the goddamn snow like a tank!”

“Just do what he wants.”

My mother’s gloves, my sister’s sweatpants, a mint colored beanie and a concealed cigarette in hand as I crouch behind a snow drift just beyond his car and attempt to make sense of nonsense. I’m thinking about science and the people I’ve met who tell me about science and how all of life’s questions will be answered in time. “But,” I’ve responded, “what about the why?” Everyone is all about the how, but the why often goes unanswered.

* why do we live?
* why is their existence in the first place?
* why am I digging out a car when the road ahead is paved in endless miles of frozen water?

From a distance, a construction vehicle scrapes its appendage against the pavement. I can hear the roar of its diesel engine and the safety beeping that’s wired to sound in reverse.

“Back it up! Back it up!”

20 houses (10 on my side, 10 across the street) away is a front loader clearing snow from the road on the fifth day of a storm that’s caused me irreparable psychological damage. And below the roofs of every house are front windows. And inside each window is the silhouette of a home owner - who is at least 55 according to Cedar Village’s bylaws - watching the front loader as if it were a unicorn. Genius strikes me and I take action.

“I need 10 dollars,” I ask my master.

“Thalia, get Ryan 10 dollars!” he calls out from his throne. She counts 10 singles from her purse and without question, hands me the dough.

Back outside, my sneakers are wet but I don’t care - I’m traveling to see the unicorn - to validate its existence - and to sway it to satisfy the demands of an outrageous ruler. I’m not the only one though. There are no more front window silhouettes. In unison, garage doors open as I pass by and quicken my pace.

“Are you here to do our driveways?” Asks an old man dressed as a snow-ready G.I. Joe.

“I’ve gotta get to the pharmacy,” chimes in G.I. Joe’s 200 year old neighbor. She’s covered in dead animal fur and pointing at the front loader.

The spies are out but I have two advantages: One, I’m able to walk through the snow without risk to life-and-limb. And two, old people (not all, but a decent number that I’ve met during my stay @ Cedar Village) are gullible.

“Um, yeah, we’ll get to everyone,” I report as if I’m the foreman of the cleanup crew, “but we’ve got a situation just down the road that needs immediate attention.”

A child is driving the front loader. Compared to me, he’s a child, but he’s probably of legal age to operate heavy machinery. I assume anyone who looks younger than me must be in high school because the fact that college is over and I’m now 6+ years in the real world hasn’t sunk in. He opens the plastic door, allowing me to lean in.

“Yeah, hi, I live on 61 Redwood (I’m pointing)... second house on the right if you’re coming from the other way… and I need your help.”

I place the 10 singles within his reach.

“My grandparents are driving me fucking insane. I’ve been trapped inside with them for 5 days straight and I’m considering saying things that I can’t take back…”

He reaches down, picks up the 10 dollars, looks around and places it inside his jacket pocket.

“I need you to stop plowing the street and dig out our driveway. I know they won’t be able to go anywhere, but I can’t do this anymore by myself; I can’t; I’m starting to lose control. And I need you to help me.”

The child smiles and tells me to wait for him in my driveway. I start my trek back and turn to him: “I’ll wait for you!” I scream as a tear trickles down my frozen beard.

“Is he gonna do our driveways?” Asks a man wearing goggles and holding a snow blower that hasn’t made the slightest dent.

“Everything’s going to be just fine,” I assure him, “help is on the way!”

17 minutes later

I’m watching a front loader gracefully dig around my grandfather’s Mercury Montego. It only takes minutes to clear 2,025 square feet of snow from our driveway. The snow pile on the front lawn reaches a height upwards of 15 feet and I’m sitting on top of it smoking a victory cigar. From this view, I can see a lot of nothing - a world still buried in snow - except for 61 Redwood Drive… we’re the only paved driveway that leads to endless miles of unpaved roads.

“I did it!” I report to Yaya.

“Good boy! GREGORY?” She yells from the kitchen.

Enter Papou. He already knows; I can tell by his attire: warm jacket, cab driver cap, newspaper under his arm and keys in hand. I follow him outside to bask in the glory of what I’ve accomplished. Although useless in every way, I’m proud of the work.

This is the moment he’s been waiting 5 days for. Papou starts his car and gets inside. He puts the car in drive and books it down the driveway (a move of less than 10 feet). I watch him curiously. What happens next? Does his Montego have snow climbing abilities? Does it hover?

At the end of our driveway - facing snow that covers every road in Monmouth County - he throws the Montego in park. The window is cracked and I can hear sports radio. He reaches over, grabs his newspaper, opens it on his lap and begins with the local section. This morning, he dressed himself for going out.

Written with love to my Poops and Yaya-in-a-bun