Sinatra sings about an unlikely couple: “She was Mozart, I was Basie… She was polo, I was racetrack.” Although Erin’s father, Paul, doesn’t frequent polo matches, my father is frequently racetrack, and they do make an unlikely pair:
He is South, he is Brooklyn
He is Europe, he is Vegas
He is Episcopal, he is secular Jew
He is PhD, he is high school
But the refrain would be:
He loves Erin and Alan
He loves Alan and Erin
And for both of them it is always 5 o’clock somewhere:
He is martini, he is martini
They get along splendidly when Paul visits New York, so Erin and I don’t feel too badly when we ditch them at Macy’s, saying, “We’ll meet you back at the top of the escalator in ten minutes.” An hour later we are lingering over tea in the basement café.
The longer we linger, the more concerned we are about the consequences. After 20 minutes all they’d have left to talk about is how worried and pissed they are at their runaway children. They’ve probably split up and are searching the World’s Largest Department Store.
But as we head up the escalator, they are right where we left them, in animated conversation, with barely a nod to us. Finally, Paul says, “Matty was just saying, ‘If the kids are any longer, we’re going to have to start shopping for furniture.’” And they both laugh.
This is a story they will each tell for the rest of their lives.