The Curse

Tucked away in the corner of the room, closest to the bathroom, sat an older man. His round glasses slid down his nose, but he didn’t bother fixing them as he flipped through the pages of The Tribune. Once in awhile, he exchanged a few words with the other regulars. A chuckle echoed throughout the bar as he cracked a joke. He smiled up at the bartender and without a word of direction; she filled up his glass with his usual--vodka on the rocks. Clear venom splashed over the ice cubes and slowly slid down the side of the cloudy glass. I watched intently as my grandpa lifted his scabbed bar elbows and reached for his full drink. The dim lights of P’s and Q’s bar cast a grey shadow on his red face, but his smile shined through.
I slid into the familiar bar stool beside my grandpa and waited patiently for him to realize that his granddaughter was sitting next to him. My grandpa is far from senile, maybe a little near-sighted, far-sighted, and buzzed, but not senile. Seconds passed by and I wondered how he came to this point-- sitting at a bar, alone, unaware his granddaughter was next to him.
Thirty years ago, my grandpa was unattached to the bottle. He was known for his wits and savviness. He traveled around the world as an Eastern Airline Pilot. He turned a set of blueprints and a dream into a successful restaurant. He expanded, and his one restaurant multiplied into five. He had a beautiful wife, and four, healthy children. He bought himself and his family the lake

house they always dreamed of and his own private plane so they could fly there anytime they wanted. He bought Cub’s season tickets behind the dugout, but never attended a game. He bought himself a 1969 Corvette, just to look at. Newspaper articles praising his accomplishments frequently popped up in the Business section. His life was once a success story.
My grandpa has never told me exactly why he started drinking. The car accident that killed my uncle, his son, when he was 19 years old, could be the reason. Eastern Airlines going bankrupt could be another. Somewhere in between drinks, my grandpa’s life fell apart.
What I never understood was my grandpa’s contentment. He sipped his drink and read his paper in complete tranquility. It was as if he knew his life was once good and he accepted that it could not have lasted forever.
He held onto his wife and Cub’s tickets without giving up his drinking hand. He sold his plane, his Corvette, his restaurants. It all gave him more money to play with in the stock market. He downsized from a five bedroom, brick, home to a modest condo in Palatine, walking distance from his favorite bar.
Amidst my thoughts, The Tribune lowered, and uncovered my grandpa’s glassy eyes. His mouth slowly curled into a smile.
“What a good kid!” He exclaimed. “Visiting your grandpa!”
“I have to make sure you’re still alive, Grandpa.” I laughed and leaned into his open arms for a hug. His old, cotton flannel had a permanent smell of aftershave and alcohol.
“I’ll live forever or die tryin!” he scoffed.
I sat and humored him with talk about college, The Cubs, the family. He smiled and sipped

his drink like water the entire time.
I checked my phone for any missed calls and caught him staring at me in wonderment, or amusement it seemed.
I slid my phone back into my purse and turned the barstool back towards him.
“What are you staring at grandpa? Admiring the good looking grandkid you made?” He smacked me on the shoulder and laughed.
His smile slowly unfolded and became solemn.
“I know you will be successful,” he stated. “You will make lots of money and have all the luxury items you desire.” He tuned his voice into a soft whisper and leaned in closer, as if he didn’t want the rest of the bar to hear his secret. “Don’t let success be your curse.” He gave me a wink as he downed the rest of his drink. At that moment, I had never learned more from my grandpa.