It was never long after he had buzzed you in and barely said hello that he offered the first drink. He didn’t pretend to be grandma. It wasn’t lemonade but alcohol he was talking about when he said drink. He pressed if you declined or opted for water. Usually, he had already had one (or more depending on what time you rang his bell). He was thirty or so during the brief time I knew him. He had a prep school background, had a diploma from a good college, and was still looking for a job that suited him. By being picky about whom he worked for he could avoid work. By talking endlessly, condescendingly about his search for that position where his unique talents would glow with prominence he could also avoid the uncomfortable fact that he lived on an ample trust fund provided by a family he professed to hate. He could indulge himself and did. He enjoyed being volital in his opinions, and nothing pleased him more than broadcasting how he could impose his ideas of acceptability on others. He didn’t impose them on the strong of course. He enjoyed being a bully far too much for that.
When I refused his offer of a drink at 11am that final time I saw him, he frowned and said we needed to get out of there and go to lunch anyway. The cleaning lady was there cleaning house, and he hated being around for that. He could barely stand having her around he said. Even after he bought clothes for her to change into from the Gap when she came to clean he couldn’t stand being there with “someone like that”.
“You should see what she comes in,” he said bitterly.
“Oh, I can just imagine!” I said, and he assumed that meant I agreed.