Before we begin, Sister Skyla is feasting on green Jell-O and strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate fairlife®, did an hour’s worth of work for her company (Bookkeeping hurt, as the sportscasters like to say), is down another two pounds, and hasn’t told me to Fuck Off in two whole days.
To the festivities we go:
The phone rings.
“Ach, Ba, nothing works. Now the TV is out.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. I got nothing on the screen.”
“Nothing?”
“I got one station. It plays over and over. I mean, that’s not the point.”
“I think it is. I’ll call downstairs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Downstairs where you live. The Hebrew Home. I’ll call someone to come up to see if they can fix it.”
“You mean here?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, OK, I thought you meant somewhere else.”
“Why would you — never mind.”
“ See if they can send someone up.”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“I haven’t had TV in two days.”
“Sure you have. It was on earlier today when you called.”
“Yeah, I know . . . but you know.”
“I do.”
“And can you bring over a razor?”
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