Tales of my Grandfather

Last month I flew to Florida for my grandfather's funeral, and as is typical for any Rodent family function, we all took part in a bit of inappropriate story-telling - interspersed with some bickering, some eating, some out-and-out fighting, and some hot-boxing of the Ford Focus in the parking lot of a TooJays (never let it be said that a Ford is good for nothing.) As a result, I now know way more than I ever needed to about the lives of my grandparents - such as how to correctly be hidden from the Nazis (hint: ceilings are good for storage), how my grandmother was successfully "wooed" by my grandfather (he chased her down a boardwalk until she had nowhere else to run, and then he tricked her into posing for a photograph), how the two of them overcame boredom (by getting kicked out of assisted living facilities for general maliciousness ), and how my grandfather had once instigated a bar-fight, just for fun. ("It was his birthday," according to my grandmother. "And we were broke. It was the 70s. What else was there to do?")

Flashforward to yesterday: my mother and I were talking on the phone about my Grandpa Murray, and as I was winding my way down Broadway, we somehow segued into the fact that I hate walking anywhere near the TKTS booth on 47th, where crowds like to congregate and change directions every thirteen seconds like Pac Man characters - and she responded with this absolutely insane story about my grandfather.

"He was on his way back to the house with your grandmother," she said, "When some guy in a Gremlin made an illegal left-hand turn in front of him. So your grandfather follows the guy until they get to the next red light, and then he gets out of his car, knocks politely on the guy's window, waits for the guy to roll it down, tells him him to fuck off, rips the door clean off the car, and then just drives off with your grandmother."

"Wait," I said. "You're saying he just... ripped the whole fucking door off the hinges and left?"

"Well, he wasn't going to take the door with him," reasoned my mother. "How would he have done that? Ridiculous."

At this point, of course, I needed to ask that all-important question:"Why the hell?" (which is also known as "What the fuck?")

"He was a fighter," said my Mother. "An iron worker. His parents were immigrants. What else do you expect of a man who manages to claw his way to 90?" And then, as if this should further clarify everything for me: "It was the 70s."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Shit was crazy back then."

"Are you kidding me?" I said. "How do you just... rip the door off some poor asshole's car?"

"You become a bodybuilder first," said my mother. "Although your grandmother told him she didn't think he could do it. She lost that bet."

This fucked-up conversation (like many) of course segued into talk of how blood is crazier than water, and ended with my mother asking, "Aren't you proud to come from such stock?" which left behind the disturbing image of my grandfather as some crazed Donkey Kong - so contrary to the image I'd had from early childhood, of the big softie who'd let me dance on his feet while improvising songs peppered with Yiddish insults, mainly about how my heft would eventually kill him. (The Chorus: "You're so heavy, Oiye vey - I'm falling off my feet, Oiye vey!")

This, of course, made me wonder whether I should question my own inclinations - such as the urge to punch every pedestrian with an oversized camera and/or child on a leash between sixty-sixth street and the village. Or the urge to say, "What do you think 'out of mediums' means, douchebag? Think hard - there might be a quiz." But even more importantly, if my DNA is destined to always be torn between gentle absurdity and psychotic cartoon gorilla behavior, what does that mean for my chances of being properly matched at eHarmony.com? (Fucking online dating.)

Anyway.

This I will ponder for the remainder of my Monday.