Your Monday Jack

Day 3: What kind of Tulsa?

Here in Mastic Beach, which is way out on Long Island, I am watching my sister, Samantha (but she goes by another name), drink protein shakes and take shots of Dulcolax® before her big surgery on Tuesday. By this time tomorrow, she will be a few hours into her weight loss journey.

(That sound you heard was my sister muttering, “Everything’s a fucking journey.” She’s a little cranky these days because for two weeks, she’s been living on lemon popsicles and the aforementioned protein drinks, which she assures me, “Tastes like ass.”)

Having brought you up to speed on the goings on here at Casa Sunshine, let us move to the father of all fathers, Jack Friedman, who called me this morning — 5.30 to be exact.

“Ba, what’s my address?”

“Your address? Uh, hold on,” I say, the ringing of the phone jarring me from an inexplicably deep sleep.

“You don’t really need it, Dad,” I say, my heart punching my chest from the inside.

“I know, but I don’t have it.”

“So why do you want it?”

“Because I don’t know where I live and what if someone asks?”

“Who’s going to ask?”

“People.”

“What people?”

“I don’t know what people. People.”