My Grandpa Andy, or Papa as I call him, is probably my closest friend in the world.

We had this tradition on Tuesday nights, in which we would go to Victor’s Pizzeria on Route 110 after my choir practice. Our order was always the same: fried calamari, two slices of Sicilian, garlic knots, and a Dr. Brown’s cream soda. The small ristorante that was never painted or decorated still came to life with the sound of the debates that we loved to carry out over food. We bonded over the films he shared with me on his small, square TV, whose back reached so far my young arms could barely reach the “on” button. Our relationship blossomed earnestly in these disputes, more intense than the Vietnam War, which he loves to tell people he fought in (even though his poor eyesight made him ineligible for the draft).

With a garlic knot in one hand and marinara dipping sauce in the other, he argued with animated Italian hands: “Listen slim, I’m telling you there is no way the Egyptians built the pyramids. Do you know how much those bricks weigh? And how did they build it
so perfectly?”

Elizabeth Taylor’s “Cleopatra” was especially divisive in the debate on aliens and the Great Pyramid. I think “Ancient Aliens” on the History Channel changed his life, so much so that I think he thinks he came up with its theories. Because he was the founder of an architecture company (to the best of my understanding), he was sure the only possible explanation for the construction of the grand structures had to be aliens.

“Papa,” I said taking a stand. “You need to have more faith in people. I 100 percent believe the Egyptians built the pyramids. If there were aliens who built them, then wouldn’t there be pyramids everywhere? And wouldn’t
they have given them more advanced technology?”

“Here’s the thing,” he responded. “What I believe is that aliens from outer space came down and taught the Egyptians and gave them some technology.”

In my freshman year of high school, I performed in a production of “Hair,” which is a hippie-flower-power-drug-infested musical that rejects the capitalism and monogamy that surrounded life in the ‘60s. It made the other old people in the theater react with sour faces and shaken heads at the final bow. But even in his old age and MAGA hat, he loved it. He would call all his friends after my performances to brag about his grandson’s talent.

In the fifth grade, four years prior, I drew a picture of two frogs: one was red and one was blue. When I held it up to my art teacher with pride, she frowned, saying “Frogs are not red or blue.” I gave it to my Papa later that day and he pulled a silver frame from a black box in his closet. Above the mantle and below the famous TV was now beholden to my artwork for the world, or even just us, to see.

Of course, we argued whether a frog could be red or blue, but even in his disagreement, he never took the picture down. My picture.

Sometime last March I sat on the tip of a stool with my body morphed into a yoga-like pose at the kitchen island, reading through the last page of that night’s assigned American history homework, when I heard Fox News’ anthem echo loudly down the hall. My eyes rolled back, and I dropped my blue highlighter above the last section, called “Polarization in the 21st Century.”

With a swift jaunt under oak scaffolding, I intruded on his weekly 7 p.m. date on Channel 5 with Laura Ingraham.

“Hey Papa, I’m doing homework, so—”

“Can you believe this? This administration? Bring me back to Reagan, am I right?”

No, he wasn’t right, at least in my opinion. His controversial convictions would often jolt my Italian hands awake with frantic gestures in a passionate response. My zest for the art of the argument made me appear like a cartoon character trying to swat a bee away. But, he seemed almost in a trance as he listened to statistics on city crime rates, as I started across the navy blue rug with yarn as thick as my Papa’s bushy gray hair that I used to run my fingers through. I grabbed the remote from the side of his black armchair he appeared to be sinking into.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” He finally peered from the screen.

“Papa, I have homework to do, and hearing Laura Ingraham’s voice is not necessarily inspiring for me.”

“She’s right, you know, you can’t go out in New York City anymore, I mean when I lived in Brownsville, life was—”

“Just because people are finally speaking out against corruption doesn’t mean the city is dangerous. I actually think these people are really—”

“Did you know that nowadays they are letting just anyone out of jail? These people are—”

“Okay Grandpa, just turn it down please.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll turn it down.”

A shiver seeped through my shoulders and spine as I began to leave his room. Over time, our once-innately loving debates became sour. Even quite literally. In 10th grade, I made it to the state tournament for my debate team. I was allowed to have a few close friends and family attend. I normally would have invited my Papa, but I was scared that my speech about toxic masculinity would make him disappointed. Our examinations of characters like Dorothy and Toto and whether or not they were guilty for the murder of the Wicked Witch of the East had, over the last three years, somehow devolved into balled fists and gritted teeth whenever we discussed Donald Trump and Joe Biden. My passion shifted from art to policy, but this was an area where the two of us couldn’t find common ground. I longed for the day we could laugh and smile together once again, but simultaneously sighed whenever my mom told me to ask him whatever his dinner order was from the local Chinese restaurant, which by the way, was always the same thing. I would feel my muscles tense up and ricochet, aching at family get-togethers where he spewed his xenophobic comments like a volcano burning my skin and my soul. The wrinkles in his face were like a deep crevice I once crawled from the carpet to grasp. I would play with them like Play-Doh, but now his scrunched-up expression left me feeling frustrated with a heart both heavy and empty at the same time.

***

Before finishing my homework, I decided to go to the refrigerator in the garage, a.k.a. my Papa’s lair, where we always kept the Diet Cokes. Grabbing the cool refreshment, I saw a pack of six Dr. Brown’s Cream Sodas held together by a flimsy piece of plastic. I was reminded of our tradition of going to Victor’s every Tuesday night when I was younger. I could even taste our order in the air: fried calamari, two slices of Sicilian, garlic knots, and a cream soda.

Closing the fridge, I saw a black box sitting on my Papa’s table: home to his hammers, screwdrivers, and any other MacGyver-type tools. Curiously, I removed the top that seemed to be coated in an oil-like substance that stuck to my fingers annoyingly.

The first thing I removed was another box: a box that was so worn out its leather seemed to have changed colors at some point. Inside, I saw the cheap watches my Papa used to praise when he talked about being a poor city kid who loved to feel like he had nice things. I removed his black belt in karate that he would brandish at every family gathering in order to remind us of his expertise in the martial arts. There were knickknacks, bobbleheads, baseballs, and recipes, but the last thing I found was a white piece of paper with an ominous title across it:

“The Brownsville Boys”

Brownsville? I thought. That was that Brooklyn town he said he was from.

Flipping it upside down, I realized what I had my eyes on was a photograph. In the photo stood seven teenage boys, aged by black and white hues.

They were standing on a beach in white polos and khaki shorts that I’m sure they stole from the local tailor. The moment seemed in action, with a Ferris wheel in the background and a man with a light hat shaped like a paper sailboat handing out food under a sign that read “Pickles for 5 cents.” Some of them were smiling, some had their tongues out, and one of them had his hands wrangling his hair like the neurotic Jewish immigrant I’m sure he was. I forgot my Papa once led a completely different life.

I didn’t even realize at first that it was Coney Island. My friends and I went there a few months ago. We went on this one ride with lots of turns and jumps called The Cyclone, which was both fun and genuinely terrifying, since I was almost fully sure we were not actually secured in our seats. I saw The Cyclone plastered on a sign in the distance. I liked the thought that our adventurous feet once journeyed the same coast, at the same age, worlds apart, yet also so close at the same time. I wondered if he got the same blisters I did from all the walking in the intense, humid heat, making the sides of my shoes collapse in on my feet and leaving them in pain later on.

Sometimes you forget your family members were once your age. So passionate, so full of life, but also so confused at the same time. I never realized my Papa and I looked so much alike — at least, I’m pretty sure the one in the middle holding a hot dog was him (scratch that, if there was a hot dog, it was most certainly him). The seven of them looked so happy together; reminiscent of me and my own friends, who similarly brought our digital cameras around town, taking pictures everywhere from our favorite frozen yogurt spot, to the mall, to our school’s football field after hours. My Papa always discussed what it was like growing up with basically nothing — living in the slums, having no dad for himself, and being the one to raise his siblings. I always thought I believed him, but I couldn’t see it in my eyes or feel it in my heart until now.

The photo was tinted gray on its sides, like a frame had once covered the picture. His picture.

Something about seeing him happy, even with nothing, gave me the drive to march back through the adjacent hallway to his bedroom, where I brought the photograph to his desk.

“The Brownsville Boys.” He said with a smile on his face like he wanted me to find it.

“Who were they?”

“We were the Kings of Brownsville, Brooklyn. I think it was a Friday, so we cut school and went to the beach. That guy to the left, that’s Mortie, he’s the one who came to your Bar Mitzvah. He was always the most successful. And that guy next to him gripping his hair is Howard, or as we all called him ‘Howard the Coward.’ He was scared his Ma would find out we skipped school for Coney Island that day. Oh and that guy next to him is Will Thompson, he died from AIDS, but you would’ve loved him, he was a musician and he was the life of the party…”

He took the photo from my lap into his hands and held it up.

“And that handsome fella in the middle is me. That was a great hot dog. Nathan’s is the best — I’ll take you there. Speaking of hot dogs, you know I used to work at a bakery actually, and let me tell you the way you make the best bread is…”

For once he was calm and his wrinkles faded so much, he almost looked like the smiley boy in the photograph. As much as I loved our debates, I was happy to see him happy, with his Italian hands observant rather than militant. Nothing mattered besides the jokes we cracked, his old friends, and sinking into the arm of his black chair right next to him.

“Hey Papa, Victor’s Tuesday?”

“I’d love to.”