Though my dad likes to say he’s not a flirt, his way with women is a big family joke. Whenever we call him on it, he replies with, “Oh please, I’m a married man. I’d never cheat on your mother, and she’d cut my nuts off anyway if I did, so there’d be no point in cheating. She’s Italian, she’d do it.”
In addition to loving women, my dad has always had a great affection for waiters and waitresses. He thinks they’re hard workers who often get treated poorly by customers, so any time he eats out, he tips 30–40 percent, no matter what. I glanced at the bill and noticed it was around $220, which was definitely the most expensive dinner he had ever taken me to. We almost never went out to fancy meals, so I could tell this meant a lot to him. As I stared at the bill, I saw him jot down $80 for the tip.
Now, having worked in the restaurant industry for eight years—as a waiter for five of them—I can tell you that we operate the same way a stripper does: Give us money, and we’ll pretend we like you. After our waitress saw the tip, she sashayed back to the table and began chatting us up even more. When my dad found out she was single, he pointed at me and said, “That one is single, too. He lives up here now. You two should get together.” (Because if there’s any indication that two people should begin having sexual intercourse, it’s that they live in the same city.)
Ten minutes later, we finally got up from the table. My dad thanked each and every employee he saw on the way out as if he were walking offstage after winning an Oscar. Then he grabbed a toothpick from the dispenser at the hostess desk, popped it in his mouth, and strolled out the door. My parents and I bid farewell to Patrick, and when the valet brought our car around, my dad jumped in the driver’s seat, my mom in the passenger’s, and me in the back. After a few moments of silence, he looked at me in the rearview mirror and said, “That waitress, she was sweet on you. She was chatting you up for ten minutes.”
“No, you gave her a huge tip, so she was being nice. You asked her to describe in-depth the beef preparation, and that took eight of those ten minutes,” I replied.
“You don’t know shit. I know when a woman is sweet on someone, and that girl was sweet on you.”
Our argument escalated, with him insisting she liked me and me refusing to believe that, until finally it ended with my dad yelling, “Fine, she thought you were a jackass! You’re right, I’m wrong!”
Silence filled the car for about fifteen seconds, until my mom turned around, looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, “I think you’re handsome!”
“So there you go. Your mother thinks you’re handsome. This should be an exciting day for you,” my dad barked.
We rode the rest of the way home mostly in silence. A few times my dad pointed out landmarks he recognized from when he had lived in Los Angeles in the late sixties. We arrived at my apartment, and he parked the car on the street in front.
“You can just drop me off. You don’t have to park,” I said.
“Bullshit,” he replied, jerking the emergency brake into place.
Both my parents got out of the car, and my mom gave me a big hug and told me how much she loved me and how proud of me she was. Then my dad grabbed me and enveloped me in his standard bear hug, which consisted of squeezing the life out of me while simultaneously patting my back with his right hand.
“Don’t think you can’t call us unless something big happens. Don’t be one of those guys, because those calls, they take a little while to happen,” he said.
“I know.”
“You’re trying. You’re giving it a go. That’s a big deal to me. You may not think things you do mean shit, but remember that they mean shit to me, okay?”
“I know.”
“Yeah, you know everything. That’s why you jerked off to your gay neighbors.”
“Dad, we’re right in front of their apartment.”
He laughed, then gave me another hug.
“You always got us. We’re family. We ain’t going anywhere. Unless you go on a fucking killing spree or something.”
“I would still love you, Justy. I would just want to know why you did it,” my mom said earnestly, having gotten back into the car and rolled down her window.
My dad got back into the driver’s seat and leaned over my mom to see out the passenger window.
“Remember. Family,” he said. “Also, how do I get back to I-5? I hate this fucking city.”
On Airlines’ Alcohol Selection
“They serve Jim Beam on airplanes. Tastes like piss. You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, because you drink shit. I don’t.”
On Managing One’s Bank Account
“Don’t get mad at the overdraft charge. . . . No, no—see, there’s your problem. You think of it as a penalty for taking out money you don’t have, but instead, it might help you to think of it as a reminder that you’re a dumb shit.”
On Corporate Mascots
“Love this Mrs. Dash. The bitch can make spices. . . . Jesus, Joni, it’s a joke. I was making a joke! Mrs. Dash isn’t even real, damn it!”
On Understanding One’s Place in the Food Chain
“Your mother made a batch of meatballs last night. Some are for you, some are for me, but more are for me. Remember that. More. Me.”
On Birthdays
“Listen, I don’t give a fuck if you forget my birthday. I don’t need people reminding me I’m closer to death. But your mom, she still enjoys counting them down, so cancel your fucking plans and drive down here for her birthday party. . . . Fine, I’ll let you know if she changes her mind and ceases to care about meaningless milestones.”
On How to Tell When a Workout Is Complete
“I just did an hour on the gym machine. I’m sweaty, and I have to shit. Where’s my fanny pack? This workout is over.”
On Aging
“Mom and I saw a great movie last night. . . . No, I don’t remember the name. It was about a guy or, no, wait—fuck. Getting old sucks.
On the Proper Amount of Enthusiasm
“You hear that? Your brother’s engaged! . . . ‘Yeah’? Did you just say ‘yeah’? What the fuck is that? . . . No, that’s not gonna fucking cut it unless you say it while you’re doing a somersault or something.”
Sometimes It’s Nice When People You Love Need You
