The Simple Answer is No

"The simple answer is no."
Silence.
"That is, I mean, to put it simply, the answer is no." The old lady cocked her head to one side like a gray haired poodle upon hearing a strange noise. "Are you even listening, young man?" She always put a special emphasis on young man when she was perturbed.
"Oh," Bubby said, sitting up straighter. "Umm...what?" He had been enjoying a snack of milk and cookies and now held one half eaten chocolate chip cookie midway between plate and mouth.
"What?" asked his grandmother. She screwed her face up and peered at him over her old fashioned glasses with narrowed eyes.
"What?" Bubby echoed, blinking as if that would somehow make things clearer to him.
"Oh for Pete's sake, Robert. Don't be a dullard like your pea-brained father." Her eyes were practically glowing now. "I said that my answer is no."
Bubby remembered. "The simple answer is no."
"Yes," she sighed, "it is no." She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The simple answer is no." She accentuated simple, Bubby knew, as a hint toward his mental prowess at the moment.
"Is the complex answer yes?" Bubby asked hopefully.
"What?" It was Grandmother's turn to blink.
"Well," Bubby started in his most reasonable sounding voice, "if the simple answer is negative, I was wondering if the complex answer mightn't be positive. Mightn't it?"
"Whatever are you on about now?"
"Why the simple answer and the complex answer," Bubby answered thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. He rubbed it not because of any pressing need to, but because he had seen many adults rub their chins when they were trying to sound thoughtful. It didn't really help.
"Don't be insolent," his grandmother warned, screwing her face up so tightly that Bubby thought that her eyeballs might actually change sockets.
Bubby frowned and sat there lugubrious and silent. Then a spark. "Oh, so you're saying that no is the simple answer not the simple answer?"
Grandmother poked her glasses up high on her nose with one long, bony finger and peered closely at the boy. She was deciding whether he was being impertinent or not, and needing more information to make a knowledgeable decision, she asked him, "Are you being impertinent?"
Bubby wasn't sure if he was or not, but from the tone in Grandmother's voice he decided it wasn't something that he ought to be at the moment. "No?" he asked more than said. Then dismissing the point entirely, he proceeded with his own train of thought. "I thought that there was a complex answer because you said that no was the simple answer. But you're saying that no is the simple answer and there isn't any other answer, complex or otherwise, and that's why the answer is simple." Bubby beamed but Grandmother frowned.
The old lady hurried to where he sat at the dining room table, and put the back of her hand against his forehead, asked him, "Are you well? Are you febrile? I believe that you may be having some sort of fit." She poked and prodded him, checking his eyes, ears, nose, and throat as if she were inspecting some new addition to the stable. "If you don't get hold of yourself young man, I may well be forced to call on Doctor Sneed."
Bubby recoiled at that. Old Doc Sneed was a veterinarian. He was a decrepit old bugger who did unspeakable things in the stable with rubber gloves and a turkey baster. The animals all lived in horror of him, or so it seemed to Bubby. All of them except old Brutus, the Black Angus bull. Brutus always appeared downright chummy with the old crotchety doctor.
"No Ma'am, I ain't having no fit," Bubby assured her. "No conniption or nothing." It was the only kind of fit he had ever been accused of having.
His grandmother was aghast. "Robert!" she exclaimed, clutching at her chest as if perhaps her heart was trying to slip away and find itself some more attractive environs. "Whatever has gotten into you?"
"Nothing but these cookies," he answered. "Are you having a stroke?"
"Certainly not," Grandmother cried, collapsing into a chair beside him, quite like someone would if they were having a stroke, or so Bubby thought. He watched her with one eye, thinking that two eyes would be impertinent, or insolent, or in-something or other. With one finger he pushed his half-filled glass of milk over to the elderly matriarch. Milk was good for you, right? However, she was not so inclined to agree and opted for something of a stronger nature from the big locked cabinet against the wall.
This piece of furniture was always locked and the key kept on a string around Grandmother's neck. The key itself stayed nestled in her bosom. Of all the inhospitable regions of the Earth, Bubby was sure that Grandma's dolletage was way up on the list. She retrieved the small ornate piece of metal and quickly unlocked the liquor cabinet. His father often referred to the cabinet as a "treasure trove of liquid delights." His father was the reason for the security precautions.
Grandmother pulled out a very expensive looking bottle along with what appeared to be a tiny wine glass. The bottle was worlds apart from the rather plain looking beer bottles that his father the pea brain often drank from. She filled the glass to the brim and tossed back the amber liquid.
There was a sudden clamoring in the hall. With shouts and whistles and hoots and hollers the door to the formal dining room blew open, as if from a maelstrom, and the force of nature known as Prissy blew in. Bubby's little sister pulled out a chair and plopped down beside him. She eyed the other two for a second then asked, "So, what's it gonna be?"
"Well," Bubby sighed and turned to face the little girl. "The simple answer is no."