Whatever you do Dad, don't cut it too short
'Relax,' I say, 'you'll look great. Um, your hair hair grows pretty quick doesn't it?'
When we play Scrabble we play house rules where you get 8 tiles instead of seven. And made up words are okay if you can use them convincingly. 'Now stop being such a fevroopo and play your turn.'
I say, 'Dude, you look awful.' I just picked him up at the airport. He just got off the plane after 30 yours of flying and the security guy made him wait an hour while they went through every one of his bags. 'Dad,' he says, 'I think I have malaria.' He spent the next six days in the critical care unit—which makes for a great intro to 'How I spent my summer vacation.' He is healed. I'm happy he's alive. I'm very happy.
Josh makes a fuss sometimes when I take his picture. 'You'll thank me in twenty years.' I say. It's my standard response. One of my Dad-isms. God help me, I'm turning into MY dad.' (Though, in truth, my Dad was a great guy.)
Josh is very different than me. He has a mathematical mind. He plays the piano. He's tall, brown-eyed, polite, and sports a full head of hair. How did this guy get to be my son?
He does an impression of me which doesn't sound like me at all, but it's totally me.
Josh likes to travel and is an easy mixer. We're standing in a New York subway and I turn my head for a minute and he's talking to a dead ringer for John Lee Hooker. Listening in, you'd think they were long lost buds.
Josh is a senior at New York University. He spent the last year living in Madrid, Paris, and Accra, Ghana. He speaks something like three and half languages and has been my tech-support guy for about as long as I've known him. If I could get him to pick up his socks and not crash my cars he would be the perfect child.
