Your Friday Jack

Who Knows Where We'll Be

Called my father today. Can’t be certain, but I think I woke him from a nap, which may or may not explain the following. I could hear the television. I think maybe you could hear the television.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Who do I got?”

“Barry.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Hey, Ba. What are we doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are we shooting at each other?”

“Shooting at each other? Who’s shooting at us?”

“No, I mean. What do we want?”

“I think you were watching TV and fell asleep, and got a little confused because nobody’s shooting at you. And what do we want, well—”

“Because I’m sitting here and I’m wondering what the hell’s going on. And we’re shooting at each other and breaking in and telling people to get out. And some leave, some don’t. Ah, it’s a mess. And then with the bombs. I think some day I’m going to go to the bathroom and then someone’s going to break into the apartment and . . . I’m going to be in the bathroom.”

“You’re going to be in the bathroom when someone breaks in?”

“I don’t know,” he says, laughing. “How am I supposed to know?”

“You’re right. Who knows? Look, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Nobody’s going to be breaking into your apartment and start shooting. You’re safe, Dad.”

“Ach! I don’t know what the hell’s going on half the time.”

“Nobody does.”

“I mean what do we want from each other?”

“Good question. And I don’t have a good answer. So, what else is going on?”

“You know, I go to dinner at 4:15, 4:20?”

“I do.”

“Anyway, maybe you’re right, so what’s new, sweetheart?”