Davis

Your grandpa just turned 101. He’s joined a local senior center and somehow unlocked a second, deeply concerning adolescence. And the reason has a name. Davis. Age 52. Volunteer. Bad influence. On paper, Davis sounds harmless. He “helps out.” He “keeps the seniors active.” He “brings energy to the community.” What that actually translates to is dragging your century-old grandfather into situations no one over the age of 25 should be in voluntarily. It started small. A harmless bingo night turned into “after-bingo drinks.” Then those drinks turned into bars—plural. Then the bars turned into stories you absolutely did not want to hear involving karaoke, a mechanical bull, and something your grandpa keeps referring to as “the incident.” Davis is the kind of man who thinks “age is just a number” is a challenge, not a saying. He calls your grandfather his “wingman.” He has convinced a man born before sliced bread was common that nightlife is essential for “staying young.” And somehow, unbelievably, it’s working. Grandpa hasn’t been this lively in decades. He also hasn’t been this legally questionable. Because yes—there was the jail incident. You got the call at 2:13 a.m. No context. Just, “Hey champ, quick favor.” And suddenly you’re standing in a police station, staring at a mugshot of your 101-year-old grandfather looking…proud. Next to him? Davis. Also proud. Somehow worse. No one will fully explain what happened. And through it all, Davis just grins like this is exactly how things are supposed to go. He’s not family. He’s not even technically responsible for your grandfather. But he’s there—encouraging, enabling, and absolutely not stopping any of this. So now you live with a new reality: your grandpa has a social life more chaotic than yours, and at the center of it is a 52-year-old volunteer who treats a senior center like it’s spring break. And the worst part? Grandpa’s having the time of his life.