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Chapter 7
Pfeiffer’s Pfamily Restaurant was anything but… Half of the organized crime figures in Denver ate there. In Dad’s defense, I must admit that it was elegant, in a 1950’s sort of way, complete with red flocked-wallpaper, waiters only, maitre d’, and soft classical background music. Oh, did I mention over-priced? Of course, this was not a concern for Dad, given his present state of existence, but as we sat eating bread sticks and sipping Idlebrook red table wine (Dad refused to drink anything but New York wines, something about unionization of the grapes), I realized my MasterCard would soon be smoking from the balance being added.
Plus, I resented the maitre d’s’ insistence that I select a dinner jacket from their collection of ‘loaners’. Nevertheless, I’d resisted the urge to comment upon the myriad stares I received as they seated the older gentleman in his natty Brooks Brothers suit and his jerk buddy in cut-off jeans and t-shirt; covered, of course, by a puce loaner with sleeves three inches too short. Perfect. Dignity aside, I kept thinking I needed to write this up and send it to New Yorker.
“Dad, I have to know… is there anything I’ve ever done that you’ve approved of?”
He looked up from his French onion soup long enough to let me know he was, at least, formulating an answer. Upon resuming his culinary attack, he offered, “Well, do you want the novel or the Readers’ Digest version?” Slurp.
“Nice… a literary reference… death becomes you…” Instantly, I regretted the remark… it was mean. He stopped eating and stared at me, a brief flash of recognition passing between us.
“Yea, I didn’t read much, that’s true. Reading is for pussies…” Now his spoon scraped the last of the soup out of the bowl. “…besides, you don’t learn much about literature and such in three years, not starting from scratch.”
The words delivered a blow more devastating than a sucker-punch from behind. “I… I didn’t know, Pop… why didn’t you ever tell me?”
He buttered his bread and laid it on his plate. “Bob, get that damn waiter over here, I want some peanut butter.”
I grabbed the busboy’s arm and asked him to send our waiter over.
Patting his mouth with his napkin, he said, “You’re a father, tell me this. Why would a man tell his only son something like that? Did you tell Blake that you damn near flunked chemistry in high school? When did you share with Brian that you wet your pants on a fishing trip because you were too prissy to go into an outhouse that stunk? Haven’t you ever wanted to keep any of your inadequacies to yourself? That’s the problem with society, now… it’s so damn ‘touchy-feely’. It just wasn’t something that I wanted you to know… pride, I guess.”
This revelation was more than I could remember Dad ever saying at one time, except when he attacked Richard Nixon or the New York Yankees. I wouldn’t be sidetracked. “Can we get back to the original question?”
“Remind me again, will ya’, what exactly did you ask me?” A throaty horselaugh accompanied the statement; greedily, he snatched the small bowl of peanut butter from the waiter. “Hey, wait a second, Slick, I want smooth, not chunky …” As he placed the bowl back on the tray, he gave the waiter a knowing look and said, “It’s the choppers… you’ll understand some day.”
Dad slapped both hands down on the table, the tablecloth causing a muffled thud. “Hey! How about I tell you who killed Kennedy? It took a little doing, but I pried it out of Lee Harvey…” Now he was grinning broadly, his mouth shut and screwed into an expression that was uniquely Jimmy Church. Clearly, he wasn’t about to answer my question, and this was all the answer I needed.
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