My Friend Freddy

A couple of weeks ago, I received the same phone call that most of us have received at some point in our lives. My father called to tell me that my grandfather had passed away.

It’s kind of funny – in an odd kind of way, I’ve never been close to my paternal grandparents. My father is an only child and I can’t remember him ever being noticeably close to them either. For my entire life, they lived about three hours from where I grew up, but we never really spent much time together. The phone call got me thinking about this.

A lot.

I do remember that my grandparents would usually come and visit during the holidays and I remember going to visit them a few times. They were my grandparents and I always looked forward to seeing them and enjoyed being with them and loved them and had all the normal thoughts and feelings that kids have towards their grandparents. But as I became an adult, my contact grew less and less frequent. Maybe I was supposed to initiate the contact? Perhaps that is the responsibility of adult grandkids?

Who knows?

Several years ago, my grandmother passed away after a long illness that my family didn’t know anything about. She didn’t want to worry my father or mother or sister or me. So they decided that they would just not tell us.

Odd.

Since then, my father made a pretty good effort to keep in touch with his dad. He would even retrieve him for a short stay during the holidays each year. It was great to see him but I realized that I knew nothing about the man and we didn’t have much to talk about.

Then, two weeks ago, I received the phone call from my dad. I guess my grandfather died in his sleep. But it took less than eight hours for someone to find him, call an ambulance, or 911, or the Coroner’s office, or whoever the fuck you call when you find a dead body.

Strange.

Now, my grandfather lived alone and had no housekeeper. So I thought it was odd that someone discovered his body as quickly as they did. I imagine that my dad was a little shocked by the news because he didn’t think to ask whoever it was that called him about who found the corpse. He was 88-years-old.

Understandable.

A few days later, I accompanied my father on the three-hour trek to help make all necessary arrangements and to meet with various administrators, bankers, attorneys, and representatives of various plans, programs, accounts and assets. And then we headed to his house to start sorting through papers and other various things.

The first thing I did when entering the house was hit “play” on his answering machine. There were two messages. I listened to each of them several times, and will surly remember them for a very long time.

The first was from a buddy of his:

“Hey Freddy, where you at? Let’s go get some lunch at that place over on Pacific Boulevard. The bartender with the nice tits is working today. How about if we meet there at eleven thirty…. Oh, I saw that one girl the other day and I’m pretty sure you can fuck her. I told her you were rich. Don’t fuck this up. (laughter) You can’t fuck this up. See you there.”

The second was from a woman who sounded like she smoked too many cigarettes

“Hey Freddy. It’s Cookie. You want some? I got some for ya. Get over here and get a little, sweetie. I’m waitin’.”

This was the exact moment that I met my grandfather.

On the day of his funeral, I met some of his friends. They were all old men and women who lived hard-drinking lives and who never passed up an opportunity to have fun. They told stories about poker games and benders and road trips and bar fights and broads and booze. Plenty of booze.

I learned about his favorite bars and his favorite drink: Checkers Lounge and Manhattan. Rocks.

I learned about the time back in the early 1980s when he got a DUI and my grandmother didn’t talk to him for several weeks.

I learned about the annual “fishing trip” to Lake Tahoe.

I learned about a bar in which he was part owner from 1987 through 1992. He didn’t like to drink there because, as he used to say, “If I come in here and start fucking around, then people will think they can fuck around too. Then everyone starts fucking around. Pretty soon, this place will be known as the ‘fuck around lounge’.”

I also learned that one of his girlfriends was there the night he died. Now I understand why they "discovered" the body so quickly.

So, maybe I never got to know my grandfather. But during the past couple of weeks, I have gotten to know Freddy. I wish I would have met him years ago.

Tonight, I’ll order a Manhattan. Rocks.

Here's to Freddy. Cheers.

Colin Deal spends his free time exploring the bar culture of cities throughout North America and believes the unique culture of any region in the world can be discovered over a few drinks with the locals. His drunken musings can be found on Twitter here.