If it’s Saturday, it is, of course, time for breakfast with my father at Old School/Owl Head/New York Bagel. I arrived at the Hebrew Home with new shirts for him, one of which he’s wearing above. The red, light blue, dark blue, and black I also bought await the first spill on this one — which happened after the first sip of coffee.
But I digress.
Oh, and while I’m digressing, a little background. When faced with deciding between wearing cotton and any synthetic fabric, my father will always go with the latter — it’s got a smoother feel. Sometimes the cotton is, how do you say — well, you know.”
We begin.
“You like the shirt?” I ask.
“Very nice. Nice and soft. It’s got a smooth feel. What size is it?”
(Ed. Note: If I tell him the truth, he won’t wear it.)
“It’s a medium.”
“Good. Because the large is too big.”
(Ed. Note: It’s an extra-large.)
“But it’s kind of dressy, almost too dressy. You wear this kind of thing when you’re going out for the evening.”
“That would depend very much on where you’re going.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Seriously, Dad, you can wear it now.”
“Yeah, what the hell?”
“Exactly.”
We head down the elevator.
“You know, Ba, I read in the paper, people are dying at 81, 82, 79, and it says they lived a long life. Long life — what kind of long life? Come talk to me. I’m 96.”
“95.”
“But I’m going to be 96.”
“In October.”
“Can I say I’m 96 and a half?”
“Next month, you can.”
“Ya miserable bastard!”
“All right, say it now.”
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