"Out of Town" Chapter 1: "The last time I saw my grandpa"

Well hey there sweet peas. Welcome back to Friendless the only podcast that tries to teach you how to be a better friend by losing every friend you have. I'm your host, James Avramenko back with a brand new episode. And this one is a bit of an experiment. I'm trying out something new this week. But before we get to the goods, a little background colouring is in order. Picture it. November 2021. I've been planning on writing a new novel inspired by this road trip. I've recently taken to Calgary and had sketched out an outline for the annual NaNoWriMo event NaNoWriMo for the uninitiated, and anyone with a life stands for National Novel Writing Month sidebar, I'm just going to kill the underscore from here on out so it'll be easier on the older ears. So NaNoWriMo is an annual event where authors around the world tried to write a first draft of a novel of about roughly 50,000 words, I participated in one form or another for last five or six years and 2021 was the year I was going to finally write something that I was not only going to finish, I'd done that before. But I was also going to follow up and actually get out of the first draft stage. I have an ungodly number of files on my computer of you know, half baked ideas and abandoned drafts and I had set a challenge to myself to finally break the cycle and actually finish one of these fucking books. I started out solid hitting my word count every day and was feeling pretty good. Until a couple of days into the month I got a FaceTime call from my then wife. Without going into the gory details. That was the last day of my marriage. My entire life was basically shattered over the course of that call. But I did something that surprised even myself. Because I kept writing. I was utterly convinced I was dead. My life was over. Everything I thought was true turned out to be a complete lie. But through everything, I kept on writing, and I managed to actually finish that draft. And then with that finished, I couldn't bring myself to look at it again. I moved on I moved provinces I got my life back on some form of track and the draft just sat in the recesses of my computer. Fast forward now to February 2023. And I've got a spot at the second Metamorphosis salon hosted by my dear friend Zoe. The first show I had read a few poems from my perpetually in development collection first dates with pro wrestlers, which sidebar I swear is still going to get finished one of these days, just bear with me, that reading had gone really well. And I figured for the second one, I would just read a few of the new poems I'd written. But my partner Sarah challenged me to try something new instead. See, the whole theme of the show is metamorphosis. It's right in the fucking name. It's about challenging yourself to try and change and grow and become, you know, the beautiful butterfly that's hiding inside your little chrysalis body. So I scanned through my old files, and lo and behold, there was the draft, I opened it up, but I read through the first couple chapters and to my shock, I wasn't utterly paralysed with the usual shame spiral I get when rereading some of my unedited work. I picked a random chapter from the middle of the book, and I brought it to the show and read it. And while I wouldn't characterise the reception as rapturous, at least, you know, no one booed, which, I guess, from a Canadian audience perspective doesn't really say much. But regardless, I was encouraged. Alongside all of this, I've been searching for a way to expand the content feed of friendless, the interviews are always going to be the bedrock of the show. But I want to do more, I want to challenge myself to try something new and just kind of see what happens. So that's where this episode comes in. I've decided to set a new creative challenge for myself a sort of artistic kick in the ass to be like, every other week between the regular ongoing interviews, I'm going to read a new chapter from the book in this ongoing series. So that's going to be my first goal. But as I go along with the editing and the arrangement of the book, I'll likely do some more in depth behind the scenes episodes. We'll see when we get there. But to get the ball rolling this week, I'm gonna read the opening chapter of the book. Now, I don't currently have an official title for it, but it's saved under the file name out of town. So that's what we're going with for the time being. And afterwards, if you liked this episode, please do let me know. Because Come on, who doesn't live a little validation? Right? You can email me at friendlesspod@gmail.com I would love to hear from you. And hey, if you want to support the show and the further development of the book, you could maybe give a thought to Why don't know clicking the link to buy me a coffee. All those links are going to be in the show notes. But that is all the background scene setting you need. So without further ado, here is the first chapter of of out of town. The chapter is titled, The last time I saw my grandpa enjoy mom was out of town. I was pretty sure that meant I was safe to stop by. parked in front of the house I sat bored straight, gripping the steering wheel and trying to control my breath. I stared at the houses as I counted my breaths, four seconds in, six seconds out, taking them in, in a way I'd so rarely given myself the time to before. My grandfather lived in the taller of the two houses on the lot. Number 438. It stood with the same dilapidated pride that had carried its occupants through the decades stubbornly remaining erect, keeping watch over the infills and duplexes that had seemingly overrun the old neighbourhood. The paint was peeling away and scabby patches assigned the grandpa wasn't getting outside as often anymore. Every surface was caked with brown streaks, dust and mud from the nights of rain the city had just been battered with. It was still July but the weather was already threatening to turn. Another Calgary summer. 434, the squat second house on the lot that grandpa had grown up in and every member of the family had spent their allotted sentence living in at one time or another, was hidden away behind the great poplar trees that had been planted back when people still believed the community was something you could improve on and not just wait to rot and abandon. The heavy branches sagged low over the lawn overburdened with needles and squirrels casting and eternal gloom across the yard. I hadn't stepped foot near either house since the last time I tried speaking to mom, she'd screamed at inventory of my feelings as a son then slammed the door in my face instead. It was fun. I took a final deep breath and stepped out of the car. I walked along the cracked cement path to the stairs leading to 438 took the steps to at a time. The railing was loose, threatening to break off at the slightest touch. At the top, I hesitated again, unsure what it was I was doing there. What I was supposed to say. Before I could retreat, I impossibly knocked on the door and waited. From the other side. I heard a soft voice call. It's open. Come on in. Grandpa hadn't even checked who it was just invited me straight in. I wondered if he recognise the inherent danger to that. I wondered if he cared. I wonder if he got a thrill at the risk daring fate to finally bring him the cold release of some assaults or potential murder. Maybe he wanted to die and just didn't want to have to do the work himself. I pushed open the record door and stepped in. The air was thick and rancid. What was once a beloved space of safety and cleanliness was now a jumble of crackling carpets and rotting food. All the furniture had damp towels tossed over them in a feeble attempt to keep stains from breaking through to the long dead fabric. The coach which had been ancient when I was born, was still managing to stay upright despite sagging at each cushion interval like an emaciated hound dog. The carpet had dirt paths cut into it where grandpa had dragged his feet along. It had obviously not been vacuumed since grandma lived there. She had been dead for four years and had been in a nursing home for six more before then, I shuttered at the smell and left my shoes on despite knowing the insult that would cause to the right was the dining room. Immediately I remembered how at Christmas time grandma would decorate the top of the room length cabinet with a little town scene, laying out white cloth for snow and then during the winter landscape with little porcelain figures. She'd put upside down bowls under the cloth simulate a hill for the town's folk to put toboggan down and had a little mirror with a magnet underneath for others to skate on while little tinkling song played. Now the cabinet was littered with receipts and papers and old rags. The dining table that we had set out for countless holiday meals was pressed against the wall. I could see every Christmas dinner in an instant grandpa carving the dry turkey or overcooked roast beef at the head while the kids held back tears and mum glared while frantically checking the clock to see if it was time to escape. I couldn't be absolutely sure if it was the same table only through the suspicion that nothing had moved in the house for 30 years told me to trust that it was. To the left was the living room. The towel laden couch flanked by three exhausted looking chairs, each with thick pads of rotting cotton towels covering them up. The coffee table was buried under flyers and old newspapers and half read books with their pages bent at the corners. Granpa was nowhere to be seen. From down the back hall the tired wood floors moaned and out of the dark back bedroom, he emerged. He was thinner than I remembered bare chested and hunched over on himself. He'd been more or less bald since I could remember but even what few white wisps had remained clinging to his scalp are now more or less gone. His grey slacks were stained and crumpled, held up by both belts cinched in tight to his waist and a set of suspenders that had been safety pinned to the fabric. He's pulling the straps up over his thin bare shoulders as he walked into the living room. The movement looked painful for him. I had the impulse to help but I just had frozen in the doorway. grabbed it took a few lumbering steps into the room without acknowledging me more of a cursive glance to clock that I wasn't any danger before dragging himself and half sitting half falling into his favourite rocking chair. As he tried to lean back he let her pain moan and hunched forward instead. His posture had never been great having spent all his career hunched over a judge's desk, but now we seem to be folding it on himself. Well Oh, whoever we hear, he said he perfected framing a sentence as being interpretable either as a direct question or a playful statement. If he believed he was losing his mind, you would answer the question. If you want to do intelligence games, you would just give it back to him. Grandpa, come on, it's me. I said, I didn't want to sit anywhere, but finally settled on the edge of the nearest chair. I did my best to avoid a deep yellow stain that seemed to reach out from the centre of the towel, but still made a silent note to burn my pants when I left your hairs longer. You're never gonna get a job with hair like that. He said. My first thought was relief that he remembered who I was, or was at least feigning it well enough to move on with conversation. Yeah, actually, I've got a great job. Now I said impulsively tamping down the gag reflex. I felt that the mention of my job, the thought of going back to work after the brief holiday I taken was a kind of soul crushing that I wasn't willing to entertain just then still, I couldn't let him win. Couldn't let him see that I was rapidly ageing into the loser that he and his daughter were so convinced I would become wouldn't let him see how deeply I resented my sagging jowls and receding hairline. It's a great job and it pays my bills so I really don't have anything to complain about. He nodded sagely, not really listening. I don't think he truly listened to anyone speak since his brother died 20 years ago. Stuart was the only man he seemed to respect was the only person in the room grandpa wasn't immediately convinced he was smarter than he's had folded into his chair, weekly rocking in contemplation. The silence held for a beat while he considered then he shrugged and looked out the window. While I'm going to lunch event today, the neighbours are supposed to be taking me so I need to get ready. He said, Oh, sure. I don't want to take up any more your time. I was just in town and I thought I'd say hello. How long has it been since he lived here? Three years. Three years. Really? It's been that long. And he haven't seen my fridge rapid said, pushing himself off the chair, a puff of dust trailing behind him. As he started to make his way across the room towards the kitchen. I watched him clock I was still wearing my shoes. He grimaced, his lip recoiling and distaste as if the simple act of preserving my socks from whatever horrors dwelled in his carpet was akin to killing a beloved pet. Even after all these years of never cleaning an inch of his house, he loved to maintain the appearance that he cared about appearances. Still, he didn't say a word just silently noted it and glared at me as he dragged his moccasin feet through the dirt trail and into the kitchen. He didn't tell me to follow. I just did it out a habit. The same table where grandma had taught me how to play checkers and Marvel's still sat pushed into the corner. I doubt it had been pulled out to make room since I was there last on a sick day from elementary school. I didn't venture to look at what was likely living in the corners underneath. Grandpa's stood at the fridge admiring a mural of photos that had been haphazardly arranged to cover most of the surface. Glossy old photos interlaced with dull printed copies of old shots too fragile to have out overlapped each other photos of grandpa's a young boy, him and grandma on their wedding day, various trips and parties and a healthy assortment of the extended family. Joy made this for me. Or I should say she arranged it. She prints the photos off and puts them up for me. She knows I like looking at the old memories. He poked at a photo of a young girl who had a hard stare I realised was my mother as a young girl, maybe just out of school. Her long hair was combed straight and parted in the middle. She gave the camera withering glare masked behind the Mona Lisa smile. As the mosaic proceeded, there came photos of my sister and her husband along with their maniac, dog Frankie, my brother, his wife, and their two kids dominated much of the remaining real estate. I love looking at all these old photos and remembering all the times we've had Grandpa said there was an odd hint of wistful emotion behind his words. I couldn't figure out why it made me so uncomfortable. I scanned the entirety of the fridge again, and my initial noticing was proven right. Amongst the dozens of photos that had been collage to the door. Not a single one of me was to be found. I smiled. Try not to show my insult and check my clock. Hey, listen, I know you're busy and you've got plans and I need to get going. So it was so nice to see you and I'm so glad you're doing well. But I think I should get going. My voice was spinning away from me the words tumbling out in a panic to not show any weakness or sadness in front of this broken down old man who had come to love and fear and respect and disdain so thoroughly through my life. I went to the front door and stopped taking one last look at my grandfather. His sagging limbs looked like they were barely hanging together. His skin had a waxy ashen look to it, like he hadn't seen the sun in years. Like he was already four feet into the grave. I tried to reach for him to give him a small hug, but he flinched away. Instead, I smiled and said it was really nice seeing you grandpa. I love you. Been turned and left. I didn't hear him say anything else. I managed to start the car and drive around the corner before I started to cry. There on some indistinct back road in a city I'd grown to hate and long for I vowed to never come back. I was done with that part of my family and would never let them hurt me again. That laughter I thought I heard in the distance was the plans life had for me instead. And that's it. I hope you enjoyed this first reading. I have tonnes more in store with the book and beyond. So please stay tuned for all that. I'm hoping to share some of the developmental process over on my substack along with my monthly newsletter and the brand new side project that's about to launch called Hey, sorry, I missed you, which is a series of brief voicemail transcripts that may or may not be leading to a deeper narrative. I haven't quite decided that's why I'm being cagey. You can sign up for all of that in the show notes. But that's it for me. So let's wrap this puppy up. Thank you so much for tuning in and supporting the show. I hope you have yourselves a great week, and I hope to catch you back here next time. But let's not worry about that just yet. Because that is then this is now. So for now, I'll just say I love you. And I wish you well. Fun and safety sweeties.