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Over lunch you’ve learned that this son rides trains up and robert deniro down California. My son the hobo, the man said. You always thought of hobos as men whose wives had left them, men in stinking overcoats and dirt in the creases of their faces and tennis shoes. The man said he is sure his son robert deniro does not take drugs, and you hoped the man was gaining some solace from that assumption. You learned more about the son, who looks like the front man of a Sunset Boulevard band. To your surprise you discovered the son—Damien? Josh? You try to remember if the man has mentioned a name—is a Berkeley dropout with a Muslim wife (the man draped a paper napkin over his head at this point), who mans a flower kiosk at a Los Angeles mall. My Ephraim and his Fatima, man and wife, Jew and Muslim, that’s how I raised them, the man said. Me and my late Olga raised them to tolerate, not to ride trains without tickets, he lamented. And you wonder about the relationship between his late wife’s tolerance for pain, his tolerance of a daughter-in-law’s headscarf, your tolerance for the stories replaying themselves with a hard cock in hand.
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