Transcript from a Telephone Call

[ring -- begin]

Son: Hello?

Father: Hey!

Son: Hi?

Father: It’s me, Dad.

Son: Hi, I know [a lie], how are you?

Father: Fine, listen, I have to talk to you about something.

Son: OK, I’m fine too. What’s up? [wondering who died]

Father: Yeah, sorry. Listen, I understand that you’ve been writing about me on the computer.

Son: Uh, yeah, on the computer, the Interwebs? Well, kind of but it’s…

Father: Yeah, that’s what I thought. What the hell’s wrong with you?

Son: Well, most of it is made up. Besides…

Father: That’s not what I hear. I understand you’re airing family business. Your cousin called me all upset about some of that stuff. Something about a book or something.

Son: “Airing family business?” Ha-ha. What are we the Rockefeller’s now? Are we suddenly in the mob or something? Are you going to contract a “hit” or something? No, I’m just…doing my ar…

Father: You probably should ask permission or at least let some of us know you’re doing this, you know? Shouldn’t we be able to read what you write before you put it out there for God knows who?

Son: Oh, OK. But, I’m just writing from my experience and kind of just doing it as an exercise to, you know, get better at writing and stuff. Besides, its kind of fun and people are enjoying it. Mostly, like I said, it’s all embellishments of embellishments and stuff.

Father: Your cousin didn’t enjoy it and she says you’re being your typical cynical and sarcastic self about stuff like people passing away and stuff.

Son: [silence...thinking about the term "passing away"]

Father: Well?

Son: Oh, sorry, did you ask a question? Or, is this where I ask your permission to do my work?

Father: See? [pause] You just can’t write and, I understand, publish shit without asking permission. Isn’t that illegal?

Son: Not according to the Constitution of America.

Father: Oh, you’re the ACLU now, I see?

Son: I guess sarcasm’s genetic. I haven’t talked to you in years and you call me with this? So I’m just writing stuff. Big deal. It’s just what I…

Father: Well, first of all, you’re the one who intimated that you weren’t interesting in “being social,” I think you said. I was just giving you your precious space. I was hoping you’d find yourself or whatever and remain a part of this family. I’m happy you’re writing. But can’t you leave me out of it? I don't need the headaches.

Son: OK, OK. I won’t reference you anymore. Bill me for some Tylenol. Are we done?

Father: [pause] Anything else I need to know?

Son: Well, I’m starring in a series of porno movies and I’m homeless and I had both feet amputated because of the sugar diabetes, you know, "the sugar." It’s kind of a niche market.

Father: Smartass! Can’t you just be straight up with me?

Son: That’s just it, Dad. One can never be certain what is fact and what is fiction in this world. Maybe it's true that I'm a ampu-hobo-porno star. Ha!

Father: [sigh -- pause]. Well, I’m gonna go then. Call sometime.

Son: OK.

Father: I love you, Son.

Son: Thanks. I love you too.

Father: Bye

Son: Bye

[click -- end]

Son: Oh, can I put this on "the computer"? Will you buy a book?