"Hi. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"I can see that," she responds with a look of disgust, ignoring my extended hand.
"Oh, yes, sorry about that. I have a condition."
"Come upstairs for a nightcap, Grandma," Bea insists.
"You have Christian Brothers?"
"I do."
"Fine," Grandma agrees as she enters the elevator and stands in the opposite corner, studying me. "I thought you were done with older men. Where did you find this one?"
"Oh, he's darling. Wait till you get to know him."
"I'm not that much older."
"... if you're counting in dog years."
"So, how about those Padres?" Bea asks, trying to change the subject.
Finally, the elevator dings and the doors open to the 43rd floor.
"After you, my dear," I charm.
"I know better than to walk in front of an armed man. Scoot!"
This old sack is going to be hard to crack.
I sheepishly lead the way. Once in Bea's condo, I head straight to the bar.
"I'm going to freshen up. You two get acquainted," Bea suggests as she abandons me.
"How do you take your brandy, Ma'am?"
"Like my men: neat."
"I'm glad you didn't say 'stiff.'"
"Excuse me?"
"I said, did you have a nice trip?"
"Trip where?"
"Here. I assume you're visiting from out of town?"
"I own this building."
"Oh." Shitboogers.
I pour her brandy along with three fingers of Maker's Mark to sedate me. I hand one glass to her and she continues to scowl.
"What exactly do you do, Mr. Silver?"
"Let's have some fun. Guess."
"Plumber?"
Hag.
"Nope."
"Shopping cart collector?"
I so want to drop the C-word.
"Nope."
"Paperboy?"
Is it legal to kick an old woman in the baby hole?
"Nope, but you're close. Give up?"
"I do."
"I'm a blogger."
"A what?"
"Blogger. A writer who writes things for the web."
"Does one make a good living as a blobber?"
"Blogger. Good enough."
She gets up into my space. She's under five feet tall and yet I'm intimidated.
"For some people, but certainly not good enough for my granddaughter," she insists as she tweaks my nipple. I squeak like a second grade girl on the playground.
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