Dizzy water

I pass a street fair on 9th ave. on my way to Dad’s and stop and buy a funnel cake. I bring it back to Dad’s and split it with him. After eating my share, I feel a little queasy from the grease and sugar, but Dad, with his iron stomach, pronounces it “delicious” and is ready for his dinner right on schedule.

Dad has heard about sex parties and he’s full of questions, which he asks Kate S. on the phone and then asks me for another hour after she gets off. His primary concern was how people keep track of their clothes! The more we told him, the more fascinated he got. “For heaven’s sake, I am amazed, I’m speechless. Things have been going on that I’ve never heard of!” he exclaimed, repeatedly. Finally, he concluded, “I’m a little too old to go, I think,” much to my relief. The idea of having to escort my elderly Dad to a sex party is more than I can handle.

Dad peers into his cup. “What is this?” he wants to know. “Selzer and apple juice,” I tell him. “Selzer? Have I ever had selzer?” he wants to know. “Sure, Dad, you know, it’s fizzy water,” I say, resorting to the words my mother used when I was too young to pronounce selzer. “Dizzy water?” Dad asks, looking worried. “Fizzy!!!” I shout, probably puzzling a few neighbors. They should be getting used to bizarre outbursts from this apartment by now.

“What did I do the first 40 years? I can’t remember any of it.” He was 52 when I was born, so I have to rely on stories I’ve heard. “You went to several colleges,” I tell him. “But I left out most of the . . . what do you call it . . . I don’t know.” This, I can’t help with. It’s too vague for me to have any idea what he might be getting at.

“Rats!” I say, dangling a broken hair band from my hand. “What happened?” asks Dad. “My hair band broke,” I tell him. “I don’t imagine I have any,” he says, patting his own bald head.

This is the first Saturday that I haven’t had to dash out early to get to the shelter. It feels very long, especially when Dad starts repeating himself about his blindness. I’m worried about tomorrow. The plan was to have our “family dinner” on Friday night instead of Sunday so that I can go to the New Alternatives group tomorrow. Logically, it makes sense, but I’m worried about confusing Dad. I’ll come stay with him for a while tomorrow afternoon, and make sure he eats, but then I have to leave at 6pm. There’s just never enough time.

“You know what I’ve been wondering?” asks Dad. I can scarcely imagine. “How these two things hanging out from the top don’t get squashed. You lie on them, but they don’t get squashed.” He’s pulling on his ears. “Ears,” I tell him, “are made of cartilage, the same stuff as your nose, and it’s pretty tough.