I call.
“Dad, how are you?”
“Who is this?”
“Barry.”
“Who?”
“Barry.”
“Yeah, yeah, I thought maybe it was you.”
“How you feeling?”
“Fine, fine.”
“Hey, did you have dinner last night?”
“Yeah, yeah. No sweat.”
“Any stomach problems?”
“No, no. It was very good. They had the whatchamacallit? The cheese. I like the cheese.”
“You mean, the fish.”
“Yes, yes, the fish. I have the fish. I stay away from the meats. I didn’t have that much. I mean, I had a lot of food, you know.”
“I do.”
“You coming tonight for dinner?”
“Not tonight. I can’t.”
“I’m going to go down at 4 o’clock. I don’t know if it’ll be as good, but I’ll go. What the hell?”
“Exactly.”
“So you’re not coming tonight?”
“I can’t.”
“That’s right, you have a resident who lives with you — that girl.”
“Yes, that girl. Melissa.”
“All right, well, thank you for the call. And have a good day.”
“You, too, Dad.”
P.S. Got a call from the optometrist at the Veterans Administration a short time later that he would be sending new frames for my father’s glasses. My father had broken his first pair, accidentally, by sitting on them, even though, he wants the world to know, “I didn’t do anything. They just broke. I don’t know what the hell happened.” The best part about the call was when the optometrist said, “The new frames will come with demonstration lenses. Just pop those out and put the lenses from the old glasses in the new frames. They’ll pop right in. It’s easy. Do you want me to send the frames to you or to your dad?”
“Oh, what could go wrong if you send them to my father? I’m sure the popping in and out will be flawless. Send them to me just to be safe.”
“You coming tonight for dinner?”
I'm not crying; you're crying.