Cornelius Vanderbilt Crane Pietermeister sat across from me at the dinner table in his father’s poorly lit home in Glendale. Rick’s Latina wife, I never caught her name, was constantly in and out of the kitchen. Rick chatted with his six year old daughter, I also never caught her name, while I tried to banter with Cornelius. He was a teen of about 16; prematurely balding, overweight, and covered in acne scars.

“So Cornelius, getting any ass?” I asked him.

“Who are you again?” he said with his finger jammed up his nose.

“I’m James. I’m your grandfather. Probably.”

“Oh yeah. Didn’t you movie that one movie with that girl with the nice tits?”

“Hell yeah dude. That ruled.”

“Fuck yeah,” he said. Then farted. Cornelius stood up and brushed off the Cheeto dust from his Hoobastank hoodie and announced his departure. “Welp, I’m gonna go play Zelda and beat off,” he said. Then left.

“Rick,” I said, “what a fine young man you raised!”

“Yeah,” Rick shrugged, “he’s a little “developmentally delayed” if you know what I mean.”

“But he reminds me of some much of myself at that age!”

TO BE CONTINUED…