“Hello,” I say. Earl looks like every TV sitcom grandpa. Gray hair, a light tan, creases around his eyes and mouth, clean-shaven. He’s wearing an off-white, short-sleeve dress shirt with a pocket on the left side. His pen and glasses are tucked inside, and he smells faintly of spearmint. “I’m the facilities manager,” he says as he extends a hand. He has a warm smile and a firm grip. “Nice to have you. Some arm you’ve got, kid.” Kid. Everywhere I go it seems people are hung up on my age, like a few years makes a difference in my abilities.
It is Grandpa!!
