The news probably plays at least twice a day on the eight-inch screen. Sitcoms blare a few hours providing not entertainment but friendship. And Larry King Live is the polished version of the man in front of me. This kitchen table is his desk, and we’re today’s guests. The man running the show is my grandfather, but he may as well be David Letterman. Not quite. I know Letterman better. The man sitting before me is just an old man. A stranger.

But let’s not mention that we don’t know each other. Or that I sat here seven years ago, for the first time, at the age of sixteen with this man and his terminally ill wife. Let’s ignore the fact that I sidestepped this man’s attempt to shake my hand and touch my arm when I entered his house. I’ll pretend that I’m not offended it didn’t take longer to get here. We’re a ten-minute drive from my childhood home. That’s us driving slow. My father not wanting to be here any more than I do. This coughing, his-lungs-hitting-the wall, hacking man, we’re strangers who lived ten minutes apart for nineteen years. The only way I can sit here pretending to care, pretending to smile is by ignoring the fact that this solitary old stranger and I share similar blood.

His show begins with him clearing his throat. He starts with updates about my mother’s siblings. Names that I know but people that have always been faceless in my mind. His plans for Christmas are to make ham sandwiches for a few visitors in his kitchen. It’s going to be roughly the same show tomorrow at roughly the same time but with different guests. This bachelor introducer, he doesn’t like to leave his house. Glance around the set and it’s obvious.

The square table we’re seated around, his desk, has everything he needs. All lined up on the far side of his place mat. Coffee cup, water glass, ashtray, cigarettes, Kleenex, pills, tv remote, phone, address book covered in flowers, clearly left over from a decade ago when his wife was alive, mail, crackers in an unnervingly hazy glass jar and dog bones all within arms reach. His comfort zone is this table. This is his version of a security blanket. This space, it makes me want to vomit. I’m repulsed. Not by my surroundings but by my demeanor. I’m sitting here demurely, a smile plastered on my face. I should be yelling. Telling him how he failed. But he’s coughing and talking about his health problems like it’s the wellness section of his show. I’m pretending to listen.

Tears fill my mother’s eyes because he’s not listening to the doctors. He thinks they are lying. He thinks kinestheseology and other homeopathic remedies are better than modern medicine. He has his blood cleaned through a tube twice a week. My mother reminds him there’s nothing wrong with his liver. Just his heart.  I’m no doctor but I could have told you that. We probably won’t see him again. Not alive at least. My mother remembers the good times. When she was close with him as a child. It’s something seldom talked about and something that I don’t have the patience to listen too. Not since I was a little girl.

Not since I was eight and walking through the mall next to my mom. I was babbling about who knows what when I realized my mom was no longer walking. She was three feet behind me staring at the back of an old woman who had just passed us, headed the other direction. What’s wrong is the woman was her mother. The woman made eye contact but proffered no smile. What’s wrong is lack of initiative. What’s sad is twenty years later, the same attitude holds strong with her husband. I’m sitting in front of a man constantly within arms reach of the phone, yet he never dials a number himself.

But let’s not mention that. He’s telling stories about being overseas in the war. Human interest pieces that should be noteworthy. Stories that I inherently ignore. This man is not my teacher. I am not here for him. If I hear any details I forget them immediately. I don’t want to be able to describe the wrinkles across his forehead. His still dark hair poorly framing his face. This man, he’s inconsequential. And I. I’m an angst-ridden teenager once again. Unrelenting. Uncaring. Brooding.

If I’m here for anyone it’s not me. And it’s not the guy laughing at his own memories- dug up from some far away place. His yellow fingers pausing from lighting his cigarette, because he’s distracted, his lips curling upward and his head shaking. Sure, today’s host may have at one time been charismatic. But he’s not fooling me.

I’m here providing the support my mother never had. Showing her what she’s always given me. She says she was lost in the crowd. One of twelve children. But this isn’t about us. This isn’t our sob story. Not our story at all actually. This is his show and he directs it. Asking my father a question, and then me in turn. Acknowledging the quiet people in the room. Like he’s a savior for doing so. But a quick response means he’s off and rolling. Telling us what he believes and what he thinks. He may not leave the house, the confines of the kitchen even, but his self-inflicted prison means that he’s had plenty of time to read and listen to the news. I disagree with his middle-America twist on topics but I’m surprised by his literacy. And sad that this possibly smart man can’t dial the phone. Can’t be human for all of his children. He is no father. And he is no grandfather. He’s no one I can relate too.

And he’s offensive. Or maybe I’m delicate and sensitive. I can’t explain it but I’m pissed my mother shares my emails to her with him. I don’t want him to know about me. Or read what I write. But there it is. He addresses the emails. Like now we’re best friends. Because he’s invested twenty minutes of his life reading about something I’ve accomplished without him. Directs me in fact. Says the travel blog should be updated. Like his advice is what I came seeking. Two years ago, my cousin and this man were talking about my backpacking travels in Central America. Both of them, for the first time, concerned about my safety, telling my mother she should make me come home. Because homeland soil, that’s the only place that’s safe. Civilized even. So civilized that grandfathers don’t talk to their grandchildren. And so I stiffen. And I stop smiling. And he doesn’t get the hint but he moves on anyway. Because this is his show.

He’s Larry King live. With a deep voice that falters. He’s meandering through his memories once more. And the microwave clock barely moves. He has a long special. Two and a half hours. Quickening his long rambling segments every time he sees my mother sit forward, on the edge of her chair like it’s time to go. He speeds up like he actually has something to say. This man is lonely. And I’m heartless because I think two and a half hours is too much time. Too much time to spend with this stranger. And so I sidestep his goodbye handshake. Getting the end of an arm tap that initially missed me. Barely holding on the envelope that contains a card I’m supposed to open on my birthday. The first one I’ve ever received. I’m 23 and this envelope puts a bad taste in my mouth. I’d like to bury it in the snow and leave it behind. But that’s not an option. Maybe next time when I return for his funeral.