Grampa Jack; 4 of 4
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Category: I mean, look at the time, gods’ sakes Writing and Poetry

A Poetical Examination[1] in Three Dialogues of the Spheres of Kierkegaardian[2] Existentialism, With a Fourth Dialogue Positing an Alternate-Primary Sphere; viz., Pragmatism, Serving as Exposition

or

Grampa Jack
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4/54 [3]

Pragmatic[4]

            Jack Till lived in East Tennessee.  He claimed that he was on the verge of retirement (He was not on the verge of retirement. He was only fifty-four years old, gods' sakes.), and he said he wanted to be 'real good at it' when he got there, so he practiced for it thus:  He built a rough chair from the corpse of an ancient Post Oak.  He would take this chair out and set it in his vast, sloping back yard, and sit in it with various lettuces and corns and nuts – squirrel-stuffs.  He'd been practicing for retirement for several years, and had, over the course of those years, thrown these squirrel-stuffs minutely, gradually, bit-by-teeny-bit, closer and closer to his chair and his person, until he no longer needed to throw them at all, but would instead place them strategically about his body, on his shoulders and knees and in the palms of his hands, and, thus situated, bellow in his Tennessee basso profundo: "Come, boy.  Come," and the squirrels would run out of the woods adjacent to his property and congregate on him;[5] a Disney Movie, except instead of a fair-skinned, nubile, virginal, chaste, blushing sixteen-year-old in the center, there'd be Jack[6].

            The first time I beheld this spectacle, I was four years old, and I didn't know the story, just the facts.  He said, "Come, boy," and I did.  I ran down the concrete steps of the back porch, raced across the grass, and, still at full speed, leapt onto his back.  When he recovered, he laughed and pulled me around to sit on his lap, and we had our first conversation:

"Why, my goodness.  You're the biggest squirrel I ever saw."

I giggled.  No idea what he was talking about, but he was smiling, so…

"Now, let's just see, here.  You're…Alan, right?"

"No." More giggling.

"Oh, no?  Hm.  Must be Steven, then."

Ha, ha.  "Nooo…"

"Benny?  Jesse? Gertrude?"

(An explosion of laughter) "Noooooooo!"

"Well, I give up, then.  What is your name, young man?"

"It's Emmett!"

"Well, all right, then.  Emmett.  Now, let's figure out who I am.  We mustn't underestimate the importance of this decision, all right?"

Okay…

"Because, you see, my boy, you are the first of what I am sure will be a very long line of grandchildren for me, and one of your jobs, as such, is to determine what it is I am to be called.  This is not a proposition we can consider lightly, but must enter into with a sense of enterprise and moment.  Now.  I want to take a minute to talk about words." 

I was mesmerized.

"Words, when used synchronously, must belong together.  They must sound good next to each other.  They must, if they are to be conjoined, snuggle up together under a confabulatory blanket and get nice and cozy.  They must be compatible if we are to force them to live in such close proximity together for the rest of their verbal lives.  We wouldn't want them to be unhappy, now, would we?"

He stuck out his lower lip, shook his head and frowned.  I said "No."  I was catching on, quick.

"One of the things we must consider in discovering what is to be my title, then, is whether or not said title belongs next to my name.  'Rolls trippingly,' et cetera.  The first order of business, then, will be for me to tell you my name, whereupon we will enter into the aforementioned period of silent reflection, following which, if we have done our jobs correctly, we will discover, organically and authentically, as though it had lain dormant within us all along, what title that name necessitates.  Do you follow?"

Apparently I did.

"All right, then.  My name is-"

"-GRAMPA!-"

"-Jack….  Oh.  Well.  I guess that's taken care of, then."

Grampa Jack.  G-R-A-M-P-schwa.

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14/64

Aesthetic[7]

..:NAMESPACE PREFIX = O />

            Ten years later, visiting over the summer break, I came downstairs in the morning, hair ruffed, pajama-ed, to find Grampa Jack at the breakfast table, peering over the rims of his glasses at the newspaper in his left hand.  On the table before him were a cup of coffee and an assortment of donuts.  Breakfast of champions.  I was disgusted.  Mortified.  I sat across from him, my back to the glass patio door, watching him read the paper and rub the fingers of his right hand together to rid them of crumbs, then take a sip of coffee and run his tongue between his lower lip and gums, sure not to miss any donutty goodness.  He seemed happy.  I seemed fourteen:

"You're eating donuts," I said.

"Yeah."

"And drinking coffee," I said.

"Yeah."

"You're eating donuts and drinking coffee," I said.

"Yep."

"Wow. For a smart guy, you're pretty stupid."

"Beg pardon?"  He looked up.

"I said you're stupid."

"Did you not sleep well last night?"

I said that I had.  I probably had not.  I didn't know.  I was fourteen.

 "You know I'm quite a bit older than you, right?  And that, ordinarily, it's considered unbecoming to address your elders as stupid?" he said.

"Doesn't change the fact that you are."

"And why is that, again?"

"You're eating-"

"-I'm eating donuts and drinking coffee."

"Yes."

"You're referring to the malnutritive properties of my breakfast."

This, I was prepared for.  I had done my homework[8]: "That chocolate-glazed contains 290 calories," I said. "140 of those calories are from its sixteen total grams of fat - a full quarter of your USDA recommended daily allowance. 3.5 of those sixteen grams are from saturated fats, a very respectable seventeen percent of your daily allowance, and four of the other grams are trans fat. Know what the daily allowance for trans fat is? Zero. Nothing. No allowance for trans fat. Trans fat did not do his chores this week. You're stupid."    He thought he was going up against a novice.  Pshaw.

"Well, it's, you know. Fried bread," he said.

"Yeah."

"So your assumption when you call me stupid is either that I didn't know that, or

that I don't know what it means. But I did, and I do. I'm not stupid, Emmett. I'm

belligerent. Willfully disobedient to the demands of my aging body. Could you

pass the butter, please?"

 "You're going to butter your donut."  I was incredulous.

"Mm."

I scoffed and shoved the butter across the table in a manner that I hoped would

indicate a knowing disapproval.  He caught it.  The butter, that is.

"Thanks," he said.

"And the coffee?" I said.

"Mm-hm?"

"What about the coffee?" I said.

"Coffee's good for you," he said.

"Coffee's-"

"Coffee's good for you. It reduces the risk of type two diabetes, Parkinson's, colon

cancer, cirrhosis, gall stones, and depression, though that last one might be deceptive. Hard to lie on the couch and cry when you've got the jitters."

Ha, ha. "But studies have shown -"

"What studies seem to have shown is what I could have told you in the first place, had you asked:  Anything in moderation is okay, young man.  All things in moderation."

"Well, define your parameters," I said. (pa-ram-e-ter /[puh-ram-i-ter] –noun Usually, parameters. limits or boundaries; guidelines: the basic parameters of our foreign policy[9].  Not so wet-behind-the-ears after all, eh, Grampa Jack?) "What's a moderate amount of coffee?"

 "I couldn't possibly care less."

Damn.

"Have you ever taken a bite of a buttered donut, then followed it with a sip of very hot coffee, just the right amount of sugar?" he asked.

"No, I guess I haven't," I said.

"Then you haven't joined the mile-high club. You're still on training wheels, kid. You're eating Froot-Loops."  He paused, considering me. "Would you like a bite?" he asked.

I scowled.

He shrugged.

I scoffed.

He read his paper.

I crossed my arms.

He took another bite.

I shook my head.

He sipped his coffee…

"…All right," I said. "Give it here."

He slid the plate over to me.

I took a bite.

I took another bite.

I took a third bite, and Grampa Jack looked over at me, raised his eyebrows. 

Double-damn.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes and chewed thoughtfully.  I might have made some ooh-ing and mmm-ing sounds:

"Ooh," I said.

"Mm," I said.

"You see?" he said.

"Mm," I repeated, eloquently, and, "Mm-hm." I swallowed. "Tell me something," I said. "Why are you always the smartest guy in the room?"

"I'm not."

"You always try to be."

"I swear to God I don't. The smartest guy in the room lets somebody else be the smartest guy in the room. Which is another in a long line of reasons why I've never been the smartest guy in the room.  Plus," he said.

"Plus what?" I said.

"Plus: I'm eating donuts and drinking coffee."

"Ah," I said.

"Pass the salt?"

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24/74

Ethical[10]

            Ten years later again, we sat in his den, on the blue, L-shaped couch, the TV on but neither of us really watching. I read one of his ancient Reader's Digests, he worked a crossword.  I laughed at something from one of the humor sections. Life in These United States, I think.

            "What?" Grampa Jack said.

"What did the Zen Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?" I said.

"What's that?"

"I say, 'What did the Zen Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?'"

"No, I got that," he said.

"Oh," I said.

"It's a joke you're telling, right?"

"Yeah."

"See, I was going for the alley-oop, there," he said.

"Oh," I said. "And I missed that."

"You did miss it, but it's okay. You know why?" he said.

"Why?"

'Cause I got the rebound."

"Oh..." I said.

 "...So..." he said. "Here you go: 'What did the Zen Buddhist-'"

"Oh, oh, yeah right- the- what did the guy say to the g- he says: 'Make me one

with everything.'"

Grampa Jack picked his crossword back up.

"See, this is the part of the joke where the jokee usually laughs," I explained.

"Yeah," he said, not looking up, "I don't foresee that happening this time, though, do you?"

"No, I guess not," I conceded.

We read on in silence.

"You know what the problem is?" Jack said.

"Economy of language?" I offered.

"Language economy, yessir. What you should've said was, 'A Zen Buddhist walks up to a hot dog vendor, says: "Make me one with everything."'"

"Ooh, that is better, isn't it?"

"I think so, yes," said Grampa Jack.

(pause)

 "Then again, who are we to talk?" I said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we've been talking about the same joke for, like, half an hour now."

"Well, I suppose you've got us, there, boy."

"Yep," I said.

"Yep," he agreed.

(another pause)

"But on the other hand, it's not really our fault, is it?" I said.

He lowered his crossword again. "No?" he said.

"No," said I.

"Whose fault, then?"

"The Guy-Under-The-Turtle," I said.

"The Who-under-the-What, now?" he said.

"The Guy-Under-The-Turtle. It's ancient Indian mythology."

 "Native American, you mean."[11]

"'Indian', I'm pretty sure, is fine," I said.  "And, anyway, 'Indian' sounds better."

"Maybe, but there's something else to consider, isn't there?"

"What's that?" I asked.

"Once upon a time 'colored people' was fine, too," he said.

"Oh," I said.

"Yes," he said.

 "No," I said, "but I don't think this is like that.  It's what they call themselves."

"Well, kiddo, I'm not going to try to plumb the depths of anybody's self-loathing, but-"

"No, it's not like that, either, I don't think.  I think they're trying to say something with it.  Something ironic, or pointed, or pointedly ironic.  Something."

"Well, that may be so, but if it tastes okay in your mouth, then it's not really working, is it?"

"Fair point," I said.

"Yeah," said he.

"Yeah… Anyway. Ancient Indian-"

"-Native American-"

"-Native American – right – mythology: Somebody says, 'We're standing on the Earth, but what is the Earth standing on?'"

"Sounds like a fair question to me," he said.

"Know what the answer is? You're gonna like this..."

 "What?"

"A Turtle."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Hrm," he said.  "So what's the Turtle standing on?"

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?" I said.

"Yes," he said.

"Yes it is," I said. "The answer, my friend, is an Eagle."

"An Eagle."

"Or something like that. A hawk, an eagle – some kind of bird. Or maybe it was an insect, and the bird's later. I don't know. But there's this whole long list of creatures –

Avian, Marine, Arachnid – and then at the bottom, you know what?"

"What?"

"Are you ready?"

"I believe that I am, yes."

"'Something-We-Know-Not-What.'"

"Hm."

"Don't you just love that?" I said.

"I do," he said.

"I mean, don't you?" I said.

"I really do," he said.

"I'm in Allegory Heaven right now."

"And I'm right there with you, young man."

"Streets paved with metaphors..."

"...Beside the Simile Sea..."

"...Fed by the Assonant Estuary..."

 (pause)

"The hell we talking about, anyway?" I said.

"Who knows...?"

(Yet another in a lengthening line of pauses.  There's gotta be a better way to indicate a pause than to just come right out and say it.  Any suggestions?  Anybody?  I mean, I've tried giving our guys things to do, but there're only so many times you can have somebody pick up and put back down a crossword before it sounds ridiculous…)

"So," Grampa Jack said.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Guy walks into a bar," he said.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Yep.  Guy walks into a bar.  Shoulda ducked."

"Okay, now you're just showing off," I said.

"Little bit, yeah."

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34/84

Religious[12]

            Emmett:    "…"

            Grampa Jack:    "…"

Emmett:    "…"

            Grampa Jack:    "…"

Emmett:    "So..."

Grampa Jack:    "Mm-hm."

Emmett:    "…So."

Grampa Jack:    "Yep."

Emmett:    "I've got nothing to say."

Grampa Jack:    "Yep."

Emmett:    "Nothing at all."

Grampa Jack:    "Yep.  Me, neither.  Weird, huh?"

Emmett:    "We're supposed to talk about the Religious Sphere of existence here."

Grampa Jack:    "That's what the little italicized subtitle back there would seem to indicate, yes."

Emmett:    "We're supposed to talk about the religious sphere of existence, and I've got nothing to say."

Grampa Jack:    "It's that damned Turtle again, is what it is."

Emmett:    "The Guy-Under-The-Turtle?"

Grampa Jack:    "That's right, the Guy-Under-The-- Who was he, again?"

Emmett:    "Oh, yeah. We never really established that in the previous section, did we?"

Grampa Jack:    "Nope.  No, we didn't. So…"

Emmett:    "Yep."

 Grampa Jack:    "...So, who is-"

Emmett:    "Oh, yeah, right, the –"

Grampa Jack:    "And I don't mean in the Grand Scheme of Things, I'm just-"

Emmett:    "Yeah-"

Grampa Jack:    "-I'm just talking about our little thing that we're doing here-"

Emmett:    "Oh, yeah, no, I know -- It's, you know. Him."

Grampa Jack:    "'Him' who?"

Emmett:    Him.-->

                                          |

<--<--<--<--<--<--<--<--

|

-->-->TGUTT:    Hey, guys.

Emmett:    "Hey."

Grampa Jack:    "Hey."

TGUTT:      What's up?

Emmett:    "We're supposed to talk about the religious-"

TGUTT:      Yeah.  I know.  Sorry about that.

Emmett:    "No, it's fine, it's just that-"

TGUTT:      It's just that you have nothing to say.

Emmett:    "Right.  I have nothing to say.  What's, uh…what's the deal, there?"

TGUTT:      Well, boys, I guess ol' Wittgenstein said it best when he said, 'Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.'

Grampa Jack:    "That's a highfalutin' way of saying you don't know how to examine or represent the Kierkegaardian Religious Sphere of Existence."

TGUTT:      Something like that, yeah.  But I prefer 'high-flown.'

Grampa Jack:    "Because you have no experience with the Kierkegaardian Religious Sphere of Existence."

TGUTT:      I…do not, actually.  No.

Emmett:    "Huh.  Okay.  Interesting.  I've got some other questions, too, if you don't mind."

TGUTT:    No, I don't mind.  Shoot.

Emmett:    "The donuts.  What was that all about?"

TGUTT:      Donuts?  You mean in the Aesthetic Sphere? Well, with the donuts, I intended to indicate-

Emmett:    BLLEEEAAGGHHH!!!!

TGUTT:      Um.  Okay.

Emmett:    You were just about to spill the beans, weren't you?

TGUTT:      No, I-

Emmett:    You were.  You were about to spill the beans.  Aren't you the one who's always saying, [in a singsong voice, mockingly] 'Show, don't te-ell.  Show don't te-ell.'  And, oh my God, if that footnote crap isn't telling instead of showing, then-

TGUTT:    Well, wait a minute, now.  You're the one who asked about the donuts.  I'm just-

Emmett:    You're just trying to spill the beans, is what 'you're just.' And, oh, yeah – I'm the one who asked?  Me? Yeah. And just who, exactly, do you think might have been responsible for that little ploy, hm? [13]  Holy shit.  Did you just make a footnote out of me?  Let me see what you've…  Oh, my God!  You've done it again!  You're a bean spiller!  There are beans just everywhere! 

TGUTT:    Oh.  Well, I-

Grampa Jack:    All right, calm yourself, Emmett.  I've got a question or two of my own.  Okay, Mr. Turtle.  What about that dialogue, huh?  By the end of this thing, I will have changed voices, like, six times.

TGUTT:    You-

Emmett:    Yeah.  And I sound like a girl in that second section.

TGUTT:    You don't sound like a girl.

Emmett:    I sound like a little titty-baby.

TGUTT:    I'm not sure I like the turn this conversation is taking.

Emmett:    Oh, no?

TGUTT:    No, I really don't.  This is definitely not what Kierkegaard had in mind.  He says you're supposed to approach the infinite with Fear and Trembling, a sense of Awe…

Grampa Jack:    Uh-huh.  And, just to be clear, in our little metaphor, 'The Infinite' is…

TGUTT:    Is me.

Grampa Jack:    Is you.

TGUTT:    Is me, yes.

Grampa Jack:    Uh-huh.  You hear that, Emmett?

Emmett:    What's that, Grampa?

Grampa Jack:    This guy thinks he's God.

TGUTT:    No, now. Wait a minute.  I didn't say that.

Emmett:    Well, that explains quite a lot, doesn't it?

TGUTT:    Hey- No.  I'm not-

Grampa Jack:    Uh-huh.  Just as I suspected.

TGUTT:    Just as you suspected?

Grampa Jack:    You have power issues.

TGUTT:    I do not.   

Grampa Jack:    You have a God complex.

TGUTT:    I have no such thing.  And I don't have to put up with this.  I'm the G-

Emmett:    '-The Guy-Under-The-Turtle.'  Yes.  We know.  God complex.

Grampa Jack:    God complex.

Emmett:    I mean, let's face it.  That's all this is.  This is not a story.  There's no story here.  Where's the action?  Where's the setting?  Where's the conflict?  It's drivel.  Pure drivel.

Grampa Jack:     Get 'im, grandson.

Emmett:    And of this drivel, this little meta-the-fuck-whatever thing you're doing here is the drivelliest.

Grampa Jack:    Okay, watch the language, now, but otherwise: Amen.

Emmett:    You think you're the first person ever to do this?  Think it's funny and cute and new?  Ever heard of David Foster Wallace?  Hell, even Wallace admits Johnny Carson[14] beat him to it, all the way back in the '60's.

Grampa Jack:    Yep.  And he neglected to mention Chuck Jones.  1944, was it?  '45?  Thereabouts.  That Daffy Duck cartoon?

Emmett:    Oh, yeah - the one where the artist is-

Grampa Jack:    Yeah, and he-

Emmett:    -And Daffy keeps talking to-

Grampa Jack:    -And Daffy keeps talking to the-

Emmett:    He keeps telling the artist what to do, and-

Grampa Jack:    Yep.  That's the one.

TGUTT:    Guys.  Yoo-hoo. I'm still here, and I gotta tell you.  Nobody is following you right now.  You are losing me my readership.

Emmett:    Screw Wallace.  Screw Carson.  Hell, screw the whole twentieth century.  Screw the Common Era, for that matter.  How about Aristophanes?  Ever hear of a little play called 'The Clouds'[15]?

TGUTT:    Well of course I've heard-

Emmett:    -Of course you've heard of a little play called 'The Clouds.'  You're the one writing about it, after all, right?  You're The-Guy-Under-The-Turtle. Geez.

TGUTT:    You know what?  I really don't have to put up with this.

Grampa Jack:    Oh, yeah?  What are you going to do about it, Mr. Guy?  Mr.  Turtle Guy?  Mr.  Big, Bad, All-Powerful- Wait.  Wait a minute.  Yes. I see it.  I think I can see it now.  You've got a small penis, don't you?

TGUTT:    What?  What the hell are you-

Grampa Jack:   A tiny little, shriveled- Probably doesn't even work, does it?

TGUTT:    Are you joking?  Is this some kind of a joke? 

Grampa Jack:    Are you shooting blanks, son?

TGUTT:    All right.  That's it.

THE END.

Grampa Jack:    HA!  Missed us.

FIN.

Emmett:    Missed us again.

Exeunt.

That's all, folks.

QED.

Emmett:    Jesus.  If we'd known you were this pitiful, we would've taken it easier on you.

TGUTT:    All right.  Now you've done it.  Now you have done it.  Ooh, boy, you are gonna pay.  You just wait.  I'm bringing out the big guns.  I didn't want to do this, but you have driven me to it...

Grampa Jack:    What's that?  What you got, big boy?

A-

Emmett:    Wait a minute.

Grampa Jack:    Show us some muscle.  Flex.  Come on.  Flex.

A-N-

Emmett:    Wait a minute, no.  Grampa.  I've got a bad feeling about-

Grampa Jack:    Hush up and let your grandfather work, Emmett.  I can't wait.  Show us what you got.  Come on.

A-N-D I-T-

Emmett:    Ew.

Grampa Jack:    What's that, ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Ems?

Emmett:    Something stinks.

A-N-D I-T W-A-S-

Grampa Jack:    What?  What's – Oh.  Wait a minute.  I smell it, too.  Oh, God.  We've underestimated-

Emmett:    Never mind, Grampa, let's just get out of here.

Grampa Jack:    Oh my God.  It's getting stronger.  It's-

Emmett:    Run, Grampa.  Now.  RUN!

AND IT WAS ALL A DREAM…

"Bye."