The Quandaries of Fatherhood.

 

Now I've got to call my son who lives in another state. Some may wonder if I've lost my mind but I prefer not to think about it. Something tells me that I've got to 'take it like a man'. It's all some people can do to stop making plans for an upcoming scenario. When my son answers the phone, I can tell that he's thinking about refusing to participate in illusionary spectacles. He shares his Mother's taste for delicate featureless surfaces. I've never been one myself but no one ever said that I didn't know how the game is played. We all line up like this. One person gives the word and it's off we go. I can usually find mine near some sand. Others have to drive miles. I get to go inside, lie down for a minute, wash my hands, read the Bible, blow a load and then get down to raw specifics.

My other son usually drives up on the weekend. This weekend he's sleeping in his car on the golf course with a ready-made device which makes him the envy of every two-bit fraud this side of I-don't-know-what. When I get to him, his breathing is full yet troubled. He tells me about his time in Our Nation's Airport, and how it made zero difference in the ultimate outcome. Somewhere deep inside of me, I know he's lying. On the surface, though, I have a hard time getting bothered by the clothing choices of younger members. As long as someone sits calmly, appears open to new ideas and has at least a trace of je-ne-sais-quoi, no one is under any obligation to offer commentary on my mood disorder. It just goes like that. Who ever said they expected me to offer any unprovoked promises? I'll leave that to 'the big guy' in the special chair.

When we appeared at the Wainscott Club, my sons and I each purchased a secret bag. I couldn't tell what the markings meant, but son #1 seemed to think that it had something to do with an observance with which we would each have to become intimately familiar or risk losing everything to some of the sharper characters lounging about in the antechamber. I could tell that neither one of these two losers had ever seen the business end of a scraping tool without a protective bonnet to ease their way through a dull opening. There was more work to do. I gave each of them five bucks and told them to, in effect, get lost. I rode out the next few weeks with my clerk, his wife, her sister's boyfriend and his (the boyfriend's) personal chef. Once I got used to the crinkling sensations, I knew the new diet was finally kicking in. Hey, I've got the lumps to prove it,... and not in flappy way, you can be assured. Testing one, two, three.

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