I enter the Hebrew Home Hotel, and on the way to my father’s apartment, I run into our old friend Sherman Ray, now 100 years old, in his walker, heading down to breakfast.
“Where you been? I’ve missed you,” he says.
We shake hands. We should all have such a grip at 100.
“Hi, Sherman. Great to see you.”
“So, how’s the old man?” he asks, pointing to my father’s front door.
Let me stop for a minute and enjoy the fact that a 100-year-old is referring to a 95-year-old as “the old man.”
“He’s good. You know, the memory now and then. Hey, why don’t you join us for dinner sometime?”
“I will, but your father, what he eats. Always with the fatty foods and then … I don’t know. The chicken and the desserts. I don’t go near that stuff. You know, I went to the doctor last week and he told me everything was, listen to me, perfect and I could live ten more years.”
“That’s great. So where you headed now?”
“Downstairs for breakfast.”
“Ah, isn’t Michael [the buffet manager] the best?”
“The best! You know, he always gets me the Polish Pickles.”
“I know. He put together my father’s birthday party in the library.”
“So nice. Every meal . . . Polish Pickles.”
We say goodbye and I head to my father’s apartment, where after convincing him the coffee stains on his sweatshirt are, in fact, coffee stains and not, as he maintained, lint — hence, a change in garb is warranted — we leave and head to Owl Head Bagels.
We sit, not at the table, which is occupied, but am happy to report my father did say, “Don’t they know whose table that is?”
The egg sandwich arrives, as does the salt bagel, brought by Gregory, Melissa’s son.
“So, Ba, this girl —”
“Gregory’s mom, yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, if you marry her, she’ll be part of your estate.”
“I will inform her.”
“So who do I know who still lives in New York?”
“Well, there’s Dana —”
“Yes, Hy’s son.”
“Correct.”
“And doesn’t Bernie Newman still live there?”
And we’re off.
“Dad, Bernie Newman died.”
“He died? When did he die?”
“I don’t know,” I say, suppressing a laugh. You told me he died. He was probably in his 80s.”
“I told you?”
“Yes, you told me — a thousand times you told me.”
“That’s right, that’s right. I remember now. He did die. I think his parents told me.”