Jerry reminds me of my grandpa.

 

He’s a bit older and on the smaller side and smells of musk and cheap cigars. Jerry absolutely reeks in the summer—in the way that no amount of washing would ever fix—and I pray for the colder months to temper the stench. I often have to mentally prepare myself, knowing I will smell the same after spending a mere ten minutes in his presence. And if I ever introduce anyone to him, I’m sure to warn them beforehand with mild embarrassment. He’s a little gross and usually messy—always with random bits and pieces strewn about.

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But for all my complaints, I love Jerry a lot. I’ve known him for nearly four years to the day, and I don’t know what I would do without him.

 

I love his robin egg blue paint job. He’s slightly outdated—no built-in GPS or rear-view camera—but I still manage okay. His radio volume dial is broken, but one of his cupholders is the perfect size for my portable speaker. My friends tell me he reminds them of a spaceship (for the life of me, I don’t know why, but I take it as a compliment—like every trip with him is slightly fantastical). And how he has so much space for a car his size is beyond me!

 

Somehow, I can fit most of the shit I hoard in my dorm room, as I lug it from Georgia to North Carolina and back.  

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But, most importantly, I loved that he belonged to my grandpa first.

 

~~~

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Just to be clear, I’m the one who named the car Jerry. Technically, his full name is Wilfredo because it’s a silly name for a silly car, but he looks like a Jerry. From his squinted headlights and little side mirrors that stick out, to the way he lags a little when I press on the gas, he is a grandpa-kind-of-car. And as a grandpa, he needed a grandpa-kind-of-name. Like Jerry.

 

But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea: my grandpa’s name is James, so Jerry is not named after him—just a reminder of him, and I named him that the day I got him.

I didn’t actually get my license until I was seventeen, and truthfully, I’m surprised it didn’t take longer. My high school friends all whispered in excitement, their eyes bright and wide at the thought of their new independence, as we sat around the lunch table nibbling on our food. As soon as each of their sixteenth birthdays passed, they would enter the school with sunglasses on their head, Starbucks in their hand, and car keys on a lanyard wrapped around their wrist. 

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I did not share the same sentiments about driving.

 

Although I appreciated my mother’s endless patience, as we looped around the same elementary school parking lot for the hundredth time that practice session alone, I needed that push to drive more. So I enrolled in a driving program that required me to come in for eight hours straight on both Saturday and Sunday for two weeks where we learned everything from driving laws, types of license classifications, and what a red stop light means.

 

When I somehow got my license at seventeen, I also applied for my first job—at that same elementary school. It was only fitting since my mom worked there. My dad would drive her to work, and she let me use her car to drive from my school to her school for work. Then, we drove home together. But despite having my license, it was always her in the driver’s seat. This arrangement was only a little inconvenient when we weren’t ready to leave at the same time, but it worked okay for about a month or two.

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We visited my mother’s family for Thanksgiving a few weeks later, and we found a more viable solution in the form of Jerry, my grandpa’s 2012 Ford Focus.

 

Stubborn was a trait my grandpa wore well, so the thought had to come from him. Both my mom and grandma would slowly drop hints that I had gotten my license, and then a job, and I was graduating soon, so a car would be helpful before I went to college. Truly, giving the car away was more about convenience than it was about me. I was just the excuse.

 

My mom said it first.

 

We were driving to get lunch together, my mother’s car following my grandpa in his. Lately, his mobility had begun to deteriorate. His steps were getting jerkier and shorter, and he was shrinking more each year. He couldn’t turn his neck to the right anymore, having to shift his whole body instead. Only, that’s a little hard to do when driving, so instead he made a blind left turn, nearly causing an accident with the truck driving behind him. The truck followed his car for ten minutes, riding his bumper, all the while he remained completely unaware. 

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My mom watched everything, horrified and helpless, and relayed the story to my grandma before suggesting that it might be time to get him off the road. But that didn’t happen until a bit later.

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~~~

 

Before I was born, my mom and many of her family members each contributed money for a shared condo apartment. It was initially intended as a gift for my grandparents, who dreamed of retirement in Florida; but as they were living solely on the salary of a catholic military school teacher, the odds were not favorable. Luckily, my grandparents managed to get a house in Orlando, and the condo became a shared vacation space, which my parents and I visited every summer break.

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My mom, like her father, is a teacher. And with each summer vacation came a three-week trip to the Florida condo. Typically, she and I would stay for two weeks, and my dad would join us for the final week. After a few years, we formed a comfortable rhythm. We visited the same places and did the same things each time. It was tradition. 

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At least one day we went to the tourist Greek sponge docks, where we bought t-shirts and tchotchkes, before eating at one of the many restaurants and visiting the bakery with the large neon display case full of a multitude of desserts. We went to the beach sometimes, too, despite sand being the bane of my mom’s existence. We packed a cooler with drinks and sandwiches, leaving first thing and coming back after lunch. If we didn’t have a day trip, we went to one of the restaurants we always visited, or got ice cream from our favorite shop around the corner. A later addition to our yearly agenda was the Fourth of July festival and fireworks display that my uncle hosted at the country club where he worked. We always parked at the Barnes and Noble a few streets down and walked over, but I ducked inside to buy a book or three first. I usually finished one before the night was over and consumed the others in the following days.

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And then there was flea market day.

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Like an ever-expanding labyrinth, this flea market was an endless sea of booths. Books, clothes, purses, jewelry, wallets, food, sunglasses, and anything else you could never need. We’ve never been able to cover the whole thing—usually calling it quits after three hours or so. We met my grandpa near the front and went exploring. One year, I got a bulk pack of neon-colored fishnet gloves for dress-up and sequined butterfly headbands—my staple accessory for all of the sixth grade, much to my regret later. Another time included the purchase of a pair of mid-length flowy skirts: a surprisingly beautiful combination of earth tones and deep blues, and soft purples and rich pinks. I felt like a princess whenever I wore them.

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My mom jokes that our family can never resist a good deal—or just a deal in general. It was drilled into me from a young age to seek out the clearance section first in any store and go from there. To this day, I never feel pride from a full-price purchase and avoid buying any one thing over $20 if I can help it.

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If the way my grandpa always lingered near the booth with a supposed deal was anything to go by, he was the one who taught her those same rules. But as the years passed, he’d linger more by each booth, swept up in the idea of saving money by spending it. 

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One of the many hazards of growing old, I guess.

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~~~

​

I spent the summer with my grandparents the summer before my junior year of high school. My parents were celebrating their 20th anniversary in Italy and dumped me in Florida for two weeks. But I didn’t mind. I planned to take a summer class and read the whole time. And it was nice spending time with my grandparents by myself. 

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As usual, my grandpa and I went to the flea market together. We didn’t stay more than a couple of hours. It seemed like every year the trip got shorter. I remember the heat fizzling on my skin, as we walked to the car, and the gravel of the parking lot crunching under our feet. But when we got back to Jerry, my grandpa realized he didn’t have his keys, that he must have accidentally set them down at one of the many booths we visited. Luckily, my grandma had a spare key, but it took her forty minutes to bring it. My grandpa’s face crinkled in embarrassment while we waited outside for her to arrive. 

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Throughout that visit, I’d noticed how bad he had gotten. 

 

My grandpa had a habit of retelling stories, and I remembered each one he repeated. But this time, every story was a repetition—sometimes only days apart. 

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My mom had seen the signs too and they were not a surprise, but an unfortunate inevitability. My grandpa’s mother had Alzheimer’s, so it became an unspoken elephant looming over him that, one day, he’d be hit with it too. And apparently, that time was near.

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Regardless, I took every story he told with a polite smile on my face, soaking in the moments we had together.

​

~~~

​

My grandpa was moved to a nursing home for dementia patients in the March before last. My mom and I went to visit that summer in between painting the walls of my grandma’s new bedroom at my uncle’s house. He lived near the nursing home, and she moved in with him to be closer to my grandpa. 

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It was bright and sunny in the way that Florida always is in the summer. It wasn’t too hot for once—or maybe I just didn’t notice.

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We met my grandpa inside the building, which resembled the exterior of a sophisticated preschool or a gated community clubhouse. He shuffled over slowly, wearing a zip-up jacket and his usual golf shirt-cargo shorts combo. He’d lost even more weight, and he appeared to have shrunk further, as his shoulders hunched forward. A dazed grin lit up his unexpectedly unshaven face as he greeted his surprise visitors. The workers asked him who was there to see him.

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“It’s my wife.” A good day, then. 

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He didn’t pay my aunt, or my mom, or me any attention, but we happily watched him grasp her hands and kiss her cheek. Then he moved to each of us and accepted each of our hugs easily, watching each of us with mild curiosity. A wave of stale body odor reached my nose as I stepped toward him for the hug.  

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We went on a small tour of the facility next and stopped by his room, which he shared with another man. He didn’t care for his roommate very much.

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Everything on his side of the room was neat, new, and practically untouched. On the wall hung a cross and a small portrait of a golfer. A comfortable chair sat in the far corner with a reading lamp and a little shelving unit that my mom had ordered for him on Amazon. Each shelf was empty. On his dresser rested two sealed containers of caramels and peppermints and a new Notre Dame baseball cap. The bed was made with the new navy striped bedding my mom purchased. A soft blanket hung off the end.

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It smelled like piss.

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Everyone but my grandfather and I searched the room for the electric razor they’d bought for him. It was in the first place they looked—right where they’d left it for the attendants to find and labeled in large print sharpie with my grandpa’s name, just like everything else of his. The workers told us he didn’t have one, which accounted for the prickly splotches of facial hair across his face. My mom and aunt gently led him to the bathroom and coaxed him to shave. 

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His muscle memory was one of the few things still intact, so he shaved with little resistance. My heart ached at his clean-shaven face. Although he was looking more like his usual self, I knew he wasn’t the man from my childhood. We left his room and walked to one of the nearby screened-in patio rooms to sit with him. 

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The other elderly folks walked around with the same vacancy in their eyes. They asked us who we were, what we were doing, and if we wanted to go on a walk outside the facility with them. Some of them didn’t say anything at all, blankly staring ahead. Or they’d linger by our table and try to take our things. We’d dissuade them using the same firm but kind tone as you would addressing a misbehaving toddler, and they’d wander away confused and nearly unresponsive. 

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My grandpa remained unaffected as he ate the hot dog we brought him from his favorite place. The toppings stuck to his face and fell onto his shirt. He continued to talk through his chewing about how he was, and how he liked the facility, and how he didn’t like his roommate. 

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He wasn’t all there that day—but he wasn’t all gone either.

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We went around the table one at a time. He still remembered my grandma fondly, but he had a little trouble recalling my aunt, who he initially thought was his sister. He had no trouble with my mom, aside from the random comment that she was stingy and no fun. 

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“Do you remember who this is, Dad?” My mom gestured to me, and I braced myself, already prepared for the answer to be ‘no’.

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His face morphed into light embarrassment, and mine twisted in sympathy. Still, my mom continued.

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“This is Gabbi. Do you remember Gabbi?” 

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He looked down in thought, his eyebrows pinched. 

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“Gabbi…” he said softly, “...with the car.”

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He studied my face again. 

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“Yes, Gabbi with the car, that’s right,” my mom encouraged.

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We called my cousins, and they each got a chance to talk with him, and then we went for a walk on the grounds. He showed us the small putting green, and my mom insisted on taking a picture of him hunched over a club to putt. We passed one of the pavilions. 

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As we walked, he kept asking me questions about Jerry.

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“So how’s the car doing? Still treating you okay?”

 

“Yep, I drive it to school with me, so I use it a lot.”

 

“Good…That’s good. You drive it down?”

 

“Nah, we took Mom’s car. It’s bigger.”

 

“Oh. You drive it to school?”

 

“Yep, it gets me there and back in one piece.”

 

“Good. That’s a good car.” 

 

We shared a smile, and I can’t help but wonder when his got so empty. 

 

~~~

 

We have a photo in the main hall back home of me and my grandpa from almost fifteen years ago. My red oval glasses match my red velvet dress, a string of fake pearls around my neck. My bright blonde hair is curled into ringlets, and too much pink blush covers my rounded cheeks. He wears a gray suit and a matching red paisley tie. We wear matching smiles as we stand in front of the living room fireplace, which I had taken upon myself to decorate for the upcoming Valentine’s Day. 

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It was the Father-Daughter Dance at my elementary school, and my father was out of town for work. But I desperately wanted to go. With encouragement from my mom, I called my grandpa asking him to take me instead, so he drove the eight hours from Florida all the way to my house. He even brought me a corsage of white roses and baby’s breath, which sat delicately on my wrist the entire night. I think I still have it somewhere, tucked away in a box.

We spent the evening dancing and riding in a party limo around the parking lot—the same one I learned to drive in and the same one I used to park Jerry back in high school for work every day.

​

~~~

 

In June, I found myself back in Chicago with the rest of my family for a memorial. Both James Kelly Sr. and James Kelly Jr. died within two months of each other, bracketing the start of the new year. My uncle attended the same school my grandpa taught at, and in remembrance of them both, that catholic military school reached out to my grandma to host a service, which she insisted be for the both of them. 

 

I saw a different side of my mom and her siblings, as we set up commemorative decorations and old photos of the swim team from when my grandpa was the coach. Each of them recounted memories—both of the building and their family while they grew up. I had only heard a few of them before. 

 

We were treated differently, too, by the school staff and church figures and other attendees. Everyone paid their respects to my grandma. It hurt to see her so upset as she mourned both her husband and her first-born son. I endured the day with an uncomfortable awareness, my skin prickling and my hands shaking.

 

I felt a little better after we moved from the school’s church to the cafeteria. I resigned myself to claiming a table and purposefully choosing not to engage with others by sitting near my cousins in solidarity. Truthfully, I hadn’t expected much, just my extended family and maybe some of my very extended family that lived nearby. Instead, a large crowd of about 150 old friends and previous students filled the spacious room.

 

Eventually, I forced myself out of the seat I claimed and wandered through the clusters of people conversing to find my mom. She constantly put on a strong front around me, but I needed to check on her after an overwhelming day. When I found her, I linked my arm with hers, and she brought me into a conversation with a kind blonde woman. 

 

After some time, another person strode over. His suit, though casual, indicated money. My mom didn’t recognize him at first, but at his name, recognition lit up her face. He was an old student of my grandpa’s who used to stay with them on weekends. ‘Boarders’, they were called, because they were unable to go home on weekends or breaks. My grandpa would open his home to them. I had no idea.

 

This man credited much of his success in life to my grandpa, who provided him with support and guidance while he was a student. He and my mom reminisced together for a bit before we somehow moved to the topic of my cousin, Jordan, who was trying to go to the University of Kentucky for swimming, which was coincidentally where he worked as the team surgeon.

 

He was only too happy to be steered in the direction of Jordan’s dad.

 

~~~

 

I’d love to say that my relationship with Jerry was love at first sight, but we had to reach a sort of understanding. As appreciative as I was to have my own car, I dreaded driving, and not just because of my preexisting aversion. 

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Driving left me with a thick coating of cigar smell all over my person. It was on my clothes, my hair, my hands. I would return home after an outing and vigorously scrub my hands with the nearest nicest-smelling soap, but thirty minutes later, the pleasant fragrance would fade while the cigar would not. I needed to change out of my clothes even if the drive itself lasted less than ten minutes. Or, better yet, I would shower to remove the smell from my hair. If I didn’t, I got a whiff of cigar hours later sitting on the couch or lying in bed. Jerry’s entire interior—including the fabric of the seats and the leather of the steering wheel—had soaked in the smoke over the years. We got a cover for the steering wheel, and still, the stench remained unaffected. 

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We didn’t bother getting seat covers and took Jerry to a specialist instead.

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Over the course of a week, a team of people thoroughly cleaned him out. They sent pictures to my mom with their progress and, at one point, removed both of the front seats for cleaning. They found two cigar butts under each seat. When he was finally ready for pick-up, the team leader asked if he could post the photos on their website for advertising purposes, since Jerry was the most extreme case they’d ever tackled. In his words; “On a scale from 1 to 10, your car was an 11.”

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The smell is by no means gone, but it’s usually not too overwhelming. My dad replaces a blue air freshener in Jerry’s trunk every few months and puts charcoal bags under the seats to absorb the lingering, bitter, smokiness. And every other break I spend at home, he uses a special ozone machine to clean Jerry out, hopefully quelling the lingering smell. 

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The scent of cheap cigars still floats around me after a drive in Jerry, but it’s comforting and nostalgic. I don’t dread driving as much as I used to, and sometimes I even enjoy it. I look at the ash-singed holes in the front seat and smile. My grandpa may be gone, but he’s still with me every time I drive.