Your Tuesday Jack

His Cross to Bear

Last night at the Hebrew Home, since Doug’s Cafe isn’t open on Mondays, my father and I had dinner in the dining room.

“I have the fish, Ba. I like the fish,” he says, looking at the menu. “I stay away from the meats and the chicken.”

“You want the flounder?” I ask.

“Flounder? What do you mean?”

“Flounder. Fish.”

“They got a chicken?”

“Yes, they have a chicken, but you just said — never mind. Get the fish.”

“Yeah, I like the fish.”

“Then get the fish.”

“I don’t want soup, though,” he says, picking up his menu again, taking his pencil, and writing the word ‘No’ by Soup, which he has also circled and underlined.

“Don’t get soup.”

“The soup fills me up.”

“Don’t get the soup.”

“When I get the soup, I can never finish the meal.”

“Then don’t get the soup.”

“So, tell me, how long have you been in your apartment here?”