Let’s see . . .
GETTING OLDER? Check.
LOSING MY HAIR? Double check.
MANY YEARS FROM NOW? I wish.
RECEPTION OF
VALENTINE? Don’t make me laugh. The last one I ever got was 6 years ago. And oddly enough, I just found
it while I was going through some old notebooks. Talk about getting your heart
punched.
BIRTHDAY GREETINGS? Yes, but there’s always somebody I
want to hear from who never gets in touch.
BOTTLE OF WINE? Hell no—at least 2. And red or rosé
please.
STAYING OUT TILL QUARTER TO THREE? At least once a month.
LOCKED OUT BY YOU WHEN I GET HOME? There is no “you.”
WILL YOU STILL NEED ME?
Seriously—who the fuck is “you?”
WILL YOU STILL FEED ME?
What are you, my mother?
WHEN I’M 64? That would be today. So, a big N-O to all of
that, okay?
YOU'LL BE OLDER TOO?
Older? Hah! NFW! Seriously—do you even know me? (Cue “Stop dating
millennials!” speech from Felicity.)
COULD I STAY WITH YOU IF YOU SAY THE WORD? Sure—but only
if you’re the WRONG you. Which means you don’t have to say a word at all, and
I’ll stay no matter what. Because I am 12.
CAN I BE HANDY? Let
me show you the bookcase I built. You can find it in the surrealist room at
MOMA.
MENDING FUSES WHEN THE LIGHTS BLOW? Not in my wheelhouse.
And what, you don’t like the dark?
WILL YOU KNIT A SWEATER BY THE FIRESIDE? You may be able
to knit, but there is no way in hell that I am ever going to be able to afford to live where there’s
a fireplace.
SUNDAY MORNINGS GO FOR A RIDE? Sunday mornings go to Kips
Bay for a half-price matinee.
DOING THE GARDEN; DIGGING THE WEEDS? Going to the Garden; in the weeds.
WHO COULD ASK FOR MORE? Me. Remember me? The old coot
who’s losing his hair?
WILL YOU STILL NEED ME?
If the “you” here is who I think it is, she never needed me in the
first place.
WILL YOU STILL FEED ME?
She just fed me a line that she needed me.
WHEN I’M 64? And when she found out that my salary was
only 64K, she dumped me.
SUMMER RENTAL OF A COTTAGE IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT, IF IT’S NOT
TOO EXPENSIVE. Cape Cod, maybe—but the Isle of Fucking Wight? Who do I look
like, Agatha Christie?
SCRIMPING AND SAVING? Okay—yes—that I can guarantee.
Because I’ll be on Social Security.
GRANDCHILDREN ON YOUR KNEE?
Only if they’re from your first marriage.
VERA, CHUCK & DAVE? Who names their kids that? It
sounds like a Fifties folk group. “And now, here’s Vera, Chuck And Dave singing
their top ten answer to ‘Masters of War,’
‘Kitchen Of Peace.’ ”
SEND ME POSTCARDS OR LETTERS IN WHICH YOU STATE YOUR
POV. Actually I’d be happier if you
just returned my fucking texts. I’m not holding my breath.
BE VERY PRECISE ABOUT WHAT YOU MEAN TO SAY? Okay—that narrows it down—now I know
EXACTLY who the “you” is.
YOUR SIGN THE LETTER “YOURS SINCERELY, WASTING AWAY?” Not
even a pathologically honest desiccated corpse would sign a letter to me that
way.
ANSWER REQUESTED? It’ll be no, right? I thought so.
FORM FILLED IN? Ah, if you could only fill in that form
the way you fill in your own. Ba-dump-psh-sh-sh.
MINE FOR EVERMORE? The three most terrifying words a male
will ever ever hear.
WILL YOU STILL NEED ME?
What I need is a drink.
WILL YOU STILL FEED ME? And some nachos.
HOO? Me!
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