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"Hey, Dad."
"Hey, Dae."
"What's going on?"
"Nothing much. Just smoking these chops before I smother them."
"How many today?"
"'Bout 20, 25."
(This is not hyperbole. My dad, who'll be 75 soon, has become the Nikola Tesla of butcher's choice pork, and the fables of his meats have attracted enthusiasts. So now when he throws down, he makes enough to share with his fans. Sometimes he'll even FedEx a stack - and yes, he calls them a stack, like they're pancakes or drug money - to his siblings in Cincinnati.)
"Ah well, save me some then!"
"Got you!"
And then, the call will take a turn to something like this.
"So, do you remember Woody Jenkins?"
"I don't think so."
"Oh, yes, you do. You met him at the reunion in 2006. He's had that peg leg since he fell off that tractor in '82. Which is why we call him Woody. His real name is Bo Bo. I used to think that was his nickname, 'cause we all called his daddy Big Bo. But Bo Bo's on his birth certificate. Can you believe that?"
"That's crazy."
"It's a shame about the peg leg too, 'cause young Bo Bo could jump out the gym. Was only 5-6, but could slam-dunk a grapefruit."
"Why was he dunking grapefruit, Dad?"
"He couldn't palm a basketball. His hands were so small we used to call him T-Rex. I used to watch him and his little brother, Stank Bo, jumping over that barbed-wire fence next to the VFW. I thought they were just truants, but sometimes crime pays."
"Sorry, Dad, I don't remember him."
"Well, he died yesterday. Got electrocuted by a tuning fork. They said when they found his body, he smelled like movie popcorn."
"That's too bad."
"Alrighty, good night."
Sometimes the conversation is about something awful he just read.
"Hey, Dae."
"Hey, Dad."
"Did you hear about that man who got mauled by those pigeons in Kalamazoo?"
"No, Dad, I did not."
"They chewed his whole face off and started flying around with it. Can you imagine a pigeon with a human's face? Terrifying. Biblical. Okie dokie. Good night."
"Good night, Dad."
Other times he throws a knuckleball.
"Hey, Dae, you remember Kim Matthews, right? Works up at Slippery Rock? We call her Black Kathy, 'cause she looks just like Kathy Bates, but Black?"
"I do! I actually do remember her! Wait … oh no, did she die?"
"No."
"You had me going for a second …"
"She was at the Apple store last weekend, and her right elbow just fell clean off her body. Was the strangest thing. Walked in the store with two elbows. Left with one elbow and a new iPhone. Anyway, just called to tell you that. Take it slow."
To be fair, this isn't every call with Dad. We talk several times a week about everything from old chili recipes to the Amazon reviews for my daughter's new bike. The thing I enjoy most about our relationship at this stage of our respective lives is the shift in dynamic. He'll always be my dad, and I'll always be his son. But he is no longer my guardian, my bouncer, my advocate, my English tutor, my bank, my basketball drill instructor and my jitney. Now, more than anything else, he's the homie. He's also a night owl, like I am. Better yet, I'm a night owl, like he is. And it's nothing for one of us to call at 1:30 a.m. to see if the other saw some gravity-defying oop 'Bron caught earlier that night.
But once a week, he apparently gets a text that the Grim Reaper is swamped at work. And to lighten the Reaper's load, Dad volunteers to be his publicist.
I get it, though. Death is always lurking, always eager, always everywhere, but today it somehow feels, well, more everywhere. He has to tell somebody, so he doesn't keep all that inside of him. Ever since Mom died in 2013, that somebody is me. And as unnerved as I get with his non sequitur death press releases, it's a small surcharge for the privilege of everything else.
And by "everything else" I mean "the chops." You probably think I'm playing, that his pork belly alchemy ain't real, but one bite and you'd let him tell you about his neighbor's uncle's bout of eyelash gout too.
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