The Number Hole

by Cheyanne Rivera

Hi Abuela, did your groceries arrive?

Oh yes, thank you for having those delivered, cariño.

No problem. I love you. Where’s grandpa? Can I say hi?

Oh, Skip is down in the number hole, like usual.

Oh. OK. Tell him I love him too. Bye.

…

Alright. Deep breath. No need to get upset.

The “number hole” – my grandma’s funny way of referring to any place my grandfather can get lottery tickets.

76 years old, in the heart of NYC, out every day in a pandemic… for lottery tickets.

What a strange addiction.

I want to shake him. I want to yell:

It’s not just yourself you’re jeopardizing every day.

What does it matter if you win, if you end up too sick to do anything with it?

You haven’t won in the last 50 years; I don’t think a one-month break will make a difference.

I should say something.

What can I say?

Addiction rarely responds to reason, much less frustration.

I can get his groceries delivered. I can research the wart on his toe. I can chat with him when he’s lonely.

But I cannot fix this.

And that is the story of my life in this pandemic.

A shortage of PPE? I can’t fix that.

People not getting the checks they so desperately need? I can’t fix that.

My grandfather’s inability to stay home in a pandemic? Not fixing that, either.

I dial his cell; I don’t yell.

…

Hi grandpa, how ya doing?

I’m well, granddaughter; I’m just walking back to the house.

Well, remember to wash your hands when you get in.

Oh yes, I will. Thanks.

I love you, grandpa.

You too. Bye.