Saul
The Family
Florence and Bernie came over today. I wish they wouldn’t fuss over me like I were some kind of child or old fart. Maybe Bernie feels bad about getting upset with me last Thursday for wetting my pants and leaving a big stain on their good living room chair, although I explained to him that drinking all that water sometimes catches up with you—at least it caught up with me, and more than once.
Bernie is high-strung. You never know when he’ll explode. He makes Mount Vesuvius look like a water fountain in a neighborhood park. I still can’t figure out why Florence married him. Maybe because I told her not to. Well, I didn’t exactly come out and say it, but she got the message. Next time I have a daughter, I’m going to tell her the opposite of what I think, and then she’ll do it my way. Oh well, live and learn!
I haven’t mentioned this yet, but we have another child, who is two years younger than Florence. His name is Joseph, but we’ve always called him Joey. Maybe that’s because he still looks like a kid, with his long hair and dimples—and acts like one, too. He and Florence are as different as black and white.
Florence is an old soul—I’m sure she has been here on earth many times before this incarnation. I could tell that the first time I examined the inside of her hand when she was barely two weeks old. There were more lines crisscrossing her palm than there are on a Canadian football field. I say Canadian because a Canadian football field is ten yards longer than an American one and the playing field is also wider, although I don’t recollect how many yards wider. But even to have more lines than an American football field on your hand at two weeks old proves my point.
I don’t think Florence’s pulse or blood pressure ever change. That’s probably a good thing. Sometimes when I am boiling over, I just have to look over at her to find a peacefulness I could never discover on my own.
As for Joey, well, he is like a racehorse, always on the go. Need I say more?
Anyway, I got sidetracked. I wanted to finish up on Florence’s Bernie. A real piece of work, as my father used to say. Oh yeah, my father—his name was Lawrence. He had the physique of a boxer, probably lightweight division. Just a little thicker than wiry, but not much. He had six-pack abs until he was almost seventy, and even then he still looked like the kind of guy who could eat nails for breakfast—big ones! Talk about Mount Vesuvius. He could blow like Mount Vesuvius and Mount Etna at the same time. And it would come from nowhere. Like the first bolt of lightning just before the sky blackens. Then just as quickly as he exploded, his famous smile would be plastered over his angular face.
Sorry, I was telling you about Bernie. He started hanging around our old house near the park just after Florence’s graduation from high school, or was it before? Yes, it was before, because I can remember him sitting in the first row, blabbing away during the ceremony. Florence was the head of her class—you know the one I mean—the best one. And that was a big deal, at least to our family. But I guess not to Bernie.
I figured she would get over him and go on to the next one, like we all did at that age—well, almost all—but she didn’t, and he became more of a fixture in our house than Roxy, the kids’ mongrel dog. I say the kids’, but I guess I was the true owner, since I bought her from the SPCA, walked her, fed her, and eventually buried her.
That was a fiasco. I came home one night and told the kids Roxy had died in her sleep. Actually, she was sick. I forget exactly what she had. The vet asked me if I wanted her put down. I figured it was the right thing to do, and it was. Unfortunately, I left the bill that listed the vet’s services, including the cost of the stuff he used to put her to sleep, on my nightstand, and Joey found it. But that’s another story for another time.
Florence and Bernie—sounds like some kind of bad television show—have two young children of their own. Nice kids, but the jury’s still out on whether they will be like him or like her. Pray for the children!
Joey is a confirmed bachelor. Thirty-five, if I’m not mistaken, and into one thing—money. I swear, if there was a way to get rich from marketing the sweat that drips from my armpits after I wake up from one of those dreadful nightmares of falling into a never-ending black hole, he would be the one to do it. He has more scams going at one time than those guys—what do you call them? The ones who always seem to phone during dinner to sell you something. Anyway, you know who I mean.
Joey’s had a few girlfriends, but they don’t seem to last long. I liked the one with the curly blond hair, but he said she was a gold digger. At least she had big knockers. I like big knockers. Monique has big knockers.
I used to wonder whether Joey might be gay. You don’t blow off a girl with knockers like that because she wants you to buy her a few trinkets. At least I wouldn’t. But he doesn’t look gay, whatever that means. I used to think being gay meant looking swishy, but Rock Hudson certainly didn’t look swishy.
I hope Joey’s not gay. That would be terrible. If I knew that for sure, I would probably never speak to him again. Although I remember back in college finding my girlfriend, Susan, in bed with her roommate, Karen. And I don’t mean just in bed. I mean really in bed, if you know what I mean. And I kind of liked that. So maybe I would talk to him after all.
Joey was supposed to drop by this week, but he always has something going on, always some kind of excuse. He only comes by when he needs money, when his deals aren’t going well. Monique doesn’t get it, because she has never written a check in her life—wouldn’t know how. God, if anything ever happens to me—although I can’t imagine that, given the results of my last physical. Except for the memory bit, the doctor said I’m in great shape.
I sometimes forget where I park my car when I go to the mall. Florence always kids me that I have Mallzheimer’s. But like I said, Dr. Horowitz told me it was normal to lose a little memory, although he did suggest I write things down. I have never written anything down—that’s why I’ve had such a good memory all my life. So I’m way ahead of the game. Even if I lose a bit, I’ll still have more than most men my age.
Joey
The Visit
I went by to see Dad this morning. Frankly, after listening to Mom’s stories, I was a bit concerned. But she’s been known to be a little emotional. Well, that’s kind of an understatement. In fact, sometimes she goes off the deep end for the most ridiculous reasons. I remember coming home from school in the eighth grade with a split lip. She was on the phone to the principal, the police, and the doctor before I even finished telling her what had happened. So I always have to take her “fragility,” shall we say, into account before jumping to conclusions.
According to her, Dad is really losing it. She said he’s forgetful, introverted, and submissive. I don’t know about the forgetful part. I have noticed a few things, but nothing that seemed really worrisome. After all, he is in his seventies. But my dad has never been, and wouldn’t know how to be, introverted or submissive. Those are traits I would save for Mom. In fact, Dad has always been the rock of the family—the disciplinarian, the provider, the powerhouse.
I haven’t been over to the house for a while, what with getting this distributorship thing going. I’ve got the rights for Canada for this rejuvenating cream. It’s got a special herb that they grow in the highlands of Panama, as well as a patented blend of ingredients which, unfortunately, I can’t share with you, as I signed a confidentiality agreement.
In today’s world, everyone is so vain, and they all want to look younger. So this will be a slam dunk. Dad thinks it’s a pyramid scheme and said he doesn’t even want to hear about it. He said I’ll get busted one day, and that will ruin my reputation. My bet is it’s his reputation he’s worried about. But he’d never admit that, and I learned a long time ago that it’s not worth arguing with him, because I can never win.
When I arrived, he was sitting in front of the television set, patting his beloved collie. Ever since he bought that dog a few years ago, it’s like he has three kids, and let me assure you, Dugin is the favorite. Anyway, I yelled out, “Yo Pops,” like I always do, but the only one who acknowledged my presence was Dugin, and that was only with a lazy wag of his tail.
Mom heard the door slam and came in from the kitchen. She gave me one of her pained looks and pointed to Dad, motioning with her hand for me to move over to the couch.
I sat down opposite him and said again, “Yo Pops.” He looked away from the television and gave me a smile. “Hi, Son, what’s happening?” he asked. I told him how my ceiling had almost collapsed from a water leak in the upstairs apartment. He responded, “Great, just great!” Then he was back, staring at the television again. I looked over at Mom. She just shrugged her shoulders and headed back into the kitchen with her I told you so look.
So there we were: the tough, son of a bitch father and the ne’er-do-well son, sitting alone in the living room, a restless silence filling the air. Not very different from when I lived at home, before I moved out to go to university.
I tried to pull his attention away from the television, but with no success. So I finally got up and turned it off. He asked me why I had done that. I told him I’d come over to talk to him. Again he said, “That’s great, just great!” I tried again to engage him in conversation, but he just sat there stroking Dugin. And then two minutes later, he got up and walked out of the room, like I didn’t even exist.
Now I’m worried about him. This is not normal behavior. When Mom told me about the incident with his pants last month, my first reaction was that he probably had a few too many. He’s certainly been known to do that. But seeing him today, I don’t think that’s the case. I’m going to give Florence a jingle tonight.