Old People Fuck? Well How About That

My 91-year-old maternal grandfather, Poppi, the widowed husband of The Dead Nana, may just be a geriatric G.* And this causes problems for some people.

* A “G” being defined as a Gangster.

I could set the scene with the whole,

My sister said, “Did Mom tell you yet?”

And I thought, “Someone is (1.) dead, (2.) in the hospital, (3.) gay, or (4.) in jail.”

But it was none of the above, and upon hearing the actual news, I gasped, “That’s amazing!”

And my whole family exclaimed, “Don’t say that when Mom tells you!”

And I said, “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

And they said, “No seriously, Jana, if you act like it’s funny, Mom will kill you in a rage blackout.”

And I countered, “Do we think it’ll be too soon to write a column about this?”

And they whispered, “Quick, here comes Mom. Look serious but uninformed. Stop smiling.”

But I’d rather just cut to the cheap punch line where I (re)found out that Poppi, the 91-year-old, recent 3/4-of-a-toe-amputee, has secretly been macking it to a 67-year-old, married, gold-digging, floozy. Zing! At 91 years old, with nine toes and a nubbin, two new knees, a new hip and green-blue eyes, Poppi is lovin’ up on a married woman, 24 years his junior. Just for effect, DOUBLE ZING!

Now there’s one camp who feels that this is a deceitful, deeply disappointing moral transgression that is a betrayal of both trust and propriety.

[Cut to: Close up of my mother snarling like a pirate as my father, siblings, and sister-in-law cower behind her and weakly Harumph.]

And there is another camp who believes that this merely confirms the extraordinary theory of “Holy shit, Poppi is a total G!”

[Cut to: Long shot of me waving, a small figure in the distance, safe from immediate retaliation. For now.]

People are upset. Like anger-festering-for-days, yelling-over-the-phone, clap-your-hands-if-you-believe-followed-by-a-deafening-silence kind of upset. I’m scurred. Is this situation truly dire enough to warrant a “Laughing will not be tolerated; Smiling shall be frowned upon” policy?

Though Poppi’s dalliance isn’t a particularly stellar Disney-approved, family values moment for the Vespo-Sikdar tribe, it doesn’t seem like the havoc-wreaking Greek tragedy people have made it out to be. He’s not father-killing, mother-fucking, or raking out his ocular cavities with a broach, for goodness sakes. He’s just a geriatric G tryin’ to live his life on the balmy, palm-lined streets of Boca Raton.

To a 91 year old, 67-year-young, gold digging, married pussy must be like the holy grail—tender as veal—a mythological, untouchable gateway to immortality. Now everyone throw up in your mouth just a little bit. Okay, let’s continue.

Who are we to deny him his quest? Who are we to begrudge him his attainment? Why exactly are we so knit-browed, finger-tsking, sad-eyed upset?

Granted, there are a couple very valid concerns surrounding this less than ideal “companionship”—namely, Poppi could catch a STD and/or be bilked for all he’s worth.

Whether or not we’re comfortable with the idea, old folks are fuckin’. Even the New York Times addressed the rising rates of senior boot-knockin’ this week. Though we might prefer to believe that the genitalia of the elderly shrivel up, dry out, and fall off, this is, in fact, not the case. Drat! Old folks have needs, just like the rest of us, and without frank discussion and education, they will unsafely get to bumping their old, wrinkly uglies and give each other diseases.

What if this 67-year-old chickadee gives Poppi something that could actually makes his penis fall off? Wrath of God? Possible. A product of our own prudish negligence? Also very possible. A penis-less Poppi would be a problem for us all, as I’m sure he’d be a real grumpy bastard if his dick were broken.

A penniless Poppi would also be a serious problem, and averting this crisis is worth getting all sorts of uppity and indignant. The idea that in some disastrous scenario Poppi could be taken up in a gold-digging scheme and bled dry is cause for the entire Indalian clan to feel very angry and self-righteously moralistic, because honestly, the white part of us feels entitled to whatever inheritance might come our way. Though this is a basically selfish concern, it’s nonetheless real. Should Poppi financially endanger himself or his family for pussy, I would be forced to get on a plane to Florida and have to regulate that situation like a fiber supplement.

All I’m saying is that Chickadee better just stay married, and keep right on dallying. The moment the word “remarry” starts getting thrown around, I will protect our collective family interest and start snatchin’ 67-year-old hair by the roots and shakin’. (That being said, if this lady is able to squeeze a nickel out of my tight-fisted, cheap-ass Sicilian grandfather, then clearly her vajayjay is magical, and she should be captured with a big ol’ Hussy net and studied by N.I.H.)

Beyond protecting the health of Poppi’s penis and pockets, almost all other reasons for protest are losing battles not worth waging. Obviously, it is morally questionable to be involved with someone who is in a committed relationship. (This, coming from me, is so deeply ironic, I’m actually sitting here in a pair of waders.) However, as Poppi is a total G, he’s exploiting one of the more ambiguous, albeit ingenious, loopholes of responsibility in matters of infidelity. His wife is dead. He’s not committed to nobody, so technically he’s single and not cheating on anyone. (Point!: Poppi.)

My god, I used to love that loophole. Oh, to be young again. Or close enough to death to not give a shit.

Yes, yes, of course, he’s facilitating, if not instigating inappropriateness! But it’s his moral compass, not mine, or yours, or anybody else’s. Besides, at this point he’s not leading with his moral compass now anyhow. His personal navigation system is being piloted by his penis and at the nearest sign of love and physical affection that voice-prompt chimes, “Recalculating route to destination. Recalculating. Recalculating. . . . ”

The final argument made in favor of utter outrage is that Poppi’s “involvement” disrespects the memory of The Nana. This is just a cheap, emotionally manipulative ploy, and I want no part of it.

The Nana was The Nana, and by this I mean, she was and is all powerful in her gloriousness. She needs no help from us peons in regards to protecting her memory. Do we think it’s a coincidence that since writing “creatively” about her in The Dead Nana columns I’ve been plagued with inexplicable, scarring, cystic acne? Exactly.

Also, before she and Poppi eloped, she totally stood him up at the altar. Him. At the altar. Alone. Her? Probably on a date with some other guy. That shit is coldblooded! I think, it’s possible that Poppi’s been waiting all these years to do something a little crazy himself. Maybe, just maybe, the memory of The Nana sort of had it coming.

Lastly, let us not forget that when The Nana finally did decide to actually show up for her elopement, she left her other fiancé, in the middle of the night.

Ahhhhahahahaha! Nana and Poppi’s love was built on morally questionable decisions. So why should death change that? Poppi is just finally cutting loose. Way to be a total G, Poppi.

And my mother wonders where I get my penchant for home wrecking.