Mr. Dicken, my Dad’s friend, was a nice man. He also looked exactly the way you would want an undertaker to look. I can’t imagine any other profession for him—he seemed to be genetically predisposed for the profession.So keep that image in your head, of a quietly dapper, tastefully bald older gentleman, and imagine such a man:
· Standing in front of my Dad’s car thru three green lights once he realized he was walking in front of my Dad’s car at a crosswalk.
· Throwing sugar packets across a Friendly’s Ice Cream Shop, trying to land one in my Dad’s cup of coffee.
· Having the following conversation in a very busy Doctor’s Office waiting room:
DAD: Harold! What brings you here?
MR.D: My foot’s bothering me.
DAD: What’s wrong with it?
MR.D: Don’t know.
DAD: You wash it?
MR.D: Do I what?
DAD: Do you wash it?
MR.D: [thoughtfully] Well, no. I guess I don’t.
DAD: That’s your problem, Harold.
MR.D: Ya think?
DAD: YES! Go home and wash it and you’ll see I’m right.
MR.D: By golly, Jack! I think I will! [gets up and walks out of waiting room.]
Aaaaand: Scene! Geriatric performance art, people, geriatric performance art.