Work Grandpa

I worked in the ER from the age of 20, to 23. Somewhere in there — late in the second year, I think — an Army Reserve RN from another state was assigned to our team. For the sake of brevity, think of this fellow’s job as that of a travel nurse. A travel nurse goes where they are needed, never staying in one place too long. I hadn’t noticed that we were short on RNs, but here he was.

He was tall. Six foot three, maybe four. He wore glasses and did not smile. If you got close enough, you’d notice he had bad breath. He got along with exactly two people on our team of 20+. One was a fellow RN. The other, was me.

— — —

I don’t remember how this whole “thing”, started. I do remember that we started eating at IHOP after our shifts, sometimes with the other nurse he got along with. At first, he was startled that I understood things he would tell me about: biofuels, new methods he’d thought up to refine them. Ways to optimize standard hospital scrubs. His love for fixing tractors. Libertarianism. I don’t begrudge him the surprise; I’m sure gender was a factor, but I think age was the largest. He was 50. I was less than half his age.

I knew that hanging out with a 50-year-old man could be sketchy, but I didn’t think it had to be. Back then, I was dedicated to giving people the benefit of the doubt. After all, if much of your life has been made up of things that people wouldn’t believe if they didn’t know you — who are you, to prejudge? What if everyone else’s lives are just as fantastical, unbelievable, bizarre? If this guy wants to be friends, well, shit, I’m an adult. I’m someone to talk to. It’s not like I’m going to fuck the guy, so the age difference isn’t inherently a problem. I’m not going to assume he wants to play Rob the Cradle, right out of the gate. And, to be fair, I don’t think he did. Not at first, anyway. Mostly, he liked to tell me about his ideas. He had me hold on to his prototype scrubs.

Once, while he was driving me home from IHOP, he interrupted his own spontaneous lecture on commercial farming to tell me that his wife had cancer. Something about the way he said it, implied terminal cancer. He didn’t want to elaborate, only going as far as to say he wished his tour of duty was over. He wanted to go home and tend to his farm. He wanted to refine biofuels and fix tractors. Presumably, he also wanted to tend to, refine, and/or fix his wife. Something changed, after that. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he distanced himself from me at that point — here he is, talking to this 22 year old over breakfast, while his wife is dying up in fucking Montana or wherever. He’s only here because he has to be; doesn’t mean he has to like it. Why not make it even more unpleasant and lonely, out of spite — as if separation from his wife were some hill to die on? He was definitely that kind of guy. What he actually did, was the opposite.

He was a 50 year old man who played video games. We played video games at his apartment. I brought my PS2 over so I could show him Katamari Damacy. I tried explaining DeviantART to him. As I shared what passed formy cultural heritage, he shared his: expensive cigars (I was not good at smoking these, as it turns out) and fine Scotch (not good at consuming this, either). Here I am, in this man’s apartment, trusting him(?) enough to play a video game with him. Enough to drink his Scotch. He asks to rub my feet.

He asks to rub my feet. I’m like, what? He says oh, no, no. Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like that. I just want to do something nice for you. Look, I don’t know about you guys, but I built an internet fetish directory when I was 17. I know a fucking foot fetish when I see one. This was definitely, definitely a foot fetish.

Remember that thing I said about giving people the benefit of the doubt? I knew — knew — 100% that it was, in fact, like that. I thought that the possibility that I was wrong made it unfair to call his bluff in a situation like this. To do right by another’s faith in me was more important to me than comfort, safety, and apparently sanity. Sure, I’m 100% certain this is a sex act, but I’m not God. I can’t read minds. What if I’m wrong? What if he’s just that weird? What if it’s a Montana thing? So I let him do it. Just, kinda. Blanked out. Since he didn’t try to do anything suspicious after, I thought, oh, maybe he is just that strange, even as I continued to be damn sure he had a foot fetish. He’s a man who likes to fix tractors, has a dying wife, and a foot fetish. Maybe it wasn’t far enough outside of my comfort zone for me to tell him to fuck off, yet. I even let him do it on at least one other occasion, which distresses me in retrospect. I know I didn’t enjoy it. Presumably, I just didn’t hate it enough to make a fuss. It was hard to make a fuss, back then.

I was willing to tolerate a lot (read: too much)on one, unspoken condition — he didn’t fall in love with me. He didn’t try to kiss me. Not only was I not remotely attracted to the man, not only did he have heinous stank breath, but he had a wife. He had a terminal cancer wife, which we all know is one of the more precious and delicate wife varieties. The idea of a 50-year-old man attempting to romance a 22-year-old as his terminal cancer wife faded away on some farm in Fucking Montana or Wherever disgusted me on every conceivable level. Don’t run away from your grown-ass adult problems with me, sir. I will not be party to it. I am not here to make you feel young again.

He invited me to a nice restaurant — one of those Fogo de Chao grade places, where the waitstaff wears colorful pantaloons. I told him it was not a date. I would not go on a date. He said no, it’s not a date. Benefit of the fucking doubt, right? I even told my roommate, I think this guy’s trying to take me on a date, even though I told him it damn well better not be a date. Because, you know.

I knew. I knew, but could not trust myself to be reliable. What if my very reasonable perspective on what this is, and how it’s going, is fundamentally flawed because it comes from me, and not some great, omnipotent, pure and objective overseer? Way to gaslight yourself. I dressed up, because who the fuck doesn’t wear nice clothes to Fogo de Chao? I used to have this sun-yellow belted shirt dress. It hit at mid-calf and I wore it with a petticoat for that New Look effect. It was a mistake. I knew I had made a mistake as soon as I saw him sitting at the table. Dim, romantic lighting. A single, lit candle. His head down, eyes up. He was nervous.

It pissed me off.

I sat. We ordered. “This looks like a date,” I said.

“It’s not, but wow, you look beautiful. I like how you dress like that. You always have the best clothes in the room.” He goes quiet. “I wanted to tell you something.”

I stare. I nod.

“You are one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met,” he said. “You’re special. You’re so much smarter than other people. More mature. I don’t want to let go of you.”

I don’t remember what happened next, but we never spoke again after that night. I wish I knew what I said to him. I wish I knew if I said anything at all. All I remember is the choking disgust.

— — —

He still had my PS2 and Katamari Damacy. A few months later, our mutual nurse friend brought them to me with A Look that said, “what the fuck happened? Why did a 50-year-old man have your game console?”. We were friends, I said. He asked me to give him the Optimized Scrubs prototype I had in my trunk, so they could be returned to Work Grandpa. I said I would. I did not. I still have them somewhere, folded in the same square they’ve always been in.

It’s been at least 12 years. Fuck that guy, I guess. I hoped he would go home and get his shit together. Take care of his terminal cancer wife. Be by her side when she left this world. Maybe she wasn’t even real. Maybe he made her up for pity, or something. I dunno. Maybe he learned something valuable, but he’s probably just mad at women now.

I wish I could say that this taught me to stop giving people the benefit of the doubt. It did not.

That was a lesson for another time.