Conversations with My Father: Getting Nowhere Edition

MY FATHER: Now normally, to get to the Huguenot Bridge, what I do is to take Parham Road past where our old dentist’s office was—you remember Dr. Pryor, I really never have liked his replacement’s replacement since they moved offices out past where your old French horn teacher lived, right around the corner from that old pharmacy that was the only place I could get the indigestion tablets your mother liked—and then I turn onto River Road. . . .

ME: Wait, I’m confused. Are we driving out to the pharmacy? I thought we were going to the Huguenot Bridge.

MY FATHER: We are going to the Huguenot Bridge, after you turn onto River Road up here. I was talking about where the replacement dentist for the replacement for our original dentist moved, around the corner from the pharmacy where I got the. . . .

ME: Indigestion tablets, yes, I know.

MY FATHER: I still have several rolls of those tablets.

ME: Christ. Throw them out. What are they, twenty-five years old at this point? Thirty?

MY FATHER: They’re a nice memento.

ME: Indigestion pills are not a memento. God, you’re like those hoarders on TV.

MY FATHER: So up here, you’re going to pass first the hardware store where we got the paint for the dining room in 1986, then past where the donut place was that your mother liked when we first moved here even though they tore it down before we moved into our house—gosh, I hadn’t thought about that place for a long time—then we’ll drive by the University of Richmond, and then the Country Club where your mother staged that surprise protest when you were eight, and after we cross the bridge there should be some woods and then Riverside Drive, and then we’re going to look for Elm Street and turn onto Wayburn and then we’ll—

ME: I . . . I can’t. My synapses are melting. You need to slow down.

MY FATHER: What’s the matter?

ME: When I’m driving and I’m having to concentrate on traffic and directions, we need to cut down on the reminiscences and get down to some real directions.

MY FATHER: Real directions.

ME: Practical directions.

MY FATHER: Practical directions.

ME: Okay. We understand each other?

MY FATHER: I think we do.

ME: Okay. This is the bridge. I’m turning right. We’re getting onto the bridge. What’s the next thing we’re doing?

MY FATHER: Okay, we are going to be looking for a set of streets, perpendicular to this street.

ME: A set of streets perpendicular to this street.

MY FATHER: Correct. A set of perpendicular streets at which this street continues on, going both north and south, while the perpendicular streets, which are the ones we're looking for, cross the street we currently are on, easterly and westerly. That is, the perpendicular streets are going in both directions, but not the directions we currently are. . . .

ME: OH MY GOD. You are making my BRAIN ACHE.

MY FATHER: Am I being unclear? There will be a set of streets perpendicular to this one, easterly and wester. . . .

ME: You mean a FOUR-WAY INTERSECTION?

MY FATHER: Well yes, that’s one way of putting it.

ME: It’s the CORRECT way of putting it. Christ.

MY FATHER: Gawrsh. You’re cranky.

ME: What’s next?

MY FATHER: Well. . . .

ME: We are remembering to keep it exact. Keep it precise.

MY FATHER: Exact and precise.

ME: Right. So?

MY FATHER: Okay. There are four lanes ahead. You don't want to be in the far left one, because it makes you turn left, and you don't want to be in the next-to-left one, because that also makes you turn left—there are two left lanes and the traffic light makes you turn left in both of them—and you don't want to be in the next-to-the-next-to-the-left one, because then you have to go straight, so. . . .

ME: IN OTHER WORDS, YOU WANT ME TO TURN RIGHT.

MY FATHER: If you want to boil it down like that.

ME: Oh, I do. I DO WANT YOU TO BOIL IT DOWN.

MY FATHER: Fine, fine. I’ll keep it succinct.

ME: THANK YOU.

MY FATHER [after a pause]: You know you missed the turn back there, right?

ME: GODDAMMIT.

Conversations with My Father: Sexting Edition

MY FATHER: Now, the other problem with my iPad is that it won’t take photos sideways.

ME: You mean, landscape?

MY FATHER: No, it takes photos of landscapes perfectly well.

ME: Well, I set myself up for that one. No, I mean the aspect itself is called landscape—where it’s longer from side to side—versus portrait, where it’s longer up and down.

MY FATHER: Yes. That’s the problem. My iPad won’t do it.

ME: I think what you mean to say is that you don’t know how to do it. Your iPad can do it.

MY FATHER: No. . . .

ME: Yes.

MY FATHER: No, I’m doing it right. . . .

ME: You are aware I’ve seen you use your iPad.

MY FATHER: To take it up and down, I hold it like this . . . and then I click on this. . . .

ME: Yes, and now you have a blurry portrait photo of your cat’s ass.

MY FATHER: Then to take it sideways, I turn it like this, and I click on this. . . .

ME: And now you have a nice landscape photo of the same cat’s ass.

MY FATHER: No, I don’t. It’s not sideways.

ME: Click here and let’s look at. . . . No, not there. Click here to go back. NO, not there. Here. NO, NOT THERE.

MY FATHER [mildly]: I’m just following your directions.

ME: Try keeping your other fingers away from the screen. Just use—Christ.

MY FATHER: My iPad has a weird tendency just to shut off.

ME: Yeah, it’s really weird how that happens when you push the button on top. Here. Give it to me. Good lord.

MY FATHER: You seem slightly tense, for some reason.

ME: Here are the photos you took. See? The first one is portrait. The second one is landscape. See? Sideways. Longer across than up and down.

MY FATHER [peering for a very long time at the screen and swiping back and forth]: Well, it certainly never did that before.

ME: It probably did. You just didn’t. . . .

MY FATHER [pointing]: What’s this?

ME: That’s the edit option. It will let you fool around with things like the brightness and contrast. . . .

MY FATHER: What’s this?

ME: That’s the trash icon.

MY FATHER: What’s this?

ME: You click that icon to send the photo to other people.

MY FATHER: What’s this?

ME: The heart icon just toggles on and off so that you can indicate your favorite photos. They’ll appear in a special ‘favorites’ album. Like, if you have a lot of photos. Let me show you on mine.

MY FATHER: I have three photos. I think I can tell which one is my favorite.

ME: No, you can have more than one favorite. It just means the ones you heart are the cream of the crop. I mean, on my iPad I have . . . fifteen thousand, three hundred and forty-five photos, but I’ve only favorited six hundred and sixty-two of them, which makes it easier to. . . .

MY FATHER: Fifteen thousand, three hundred, and forty-five photos?

ME: But I only have six hundred and sixty-two favorites, which makes. . . .

MY FATHER: Fifteen thousand photos?

ME: Right, so if I favorite the ones I really like. . . .

MY FATHER: Fifteen thousand photos?

ME: What? I mean, that’s from the last ten years, and it’s not really all the photos I’ve. . . .

MY FATHER: My god. Why do you need fifteen thousand photos?

ME: I like taking photos! What?!

MY FATHER: What do you do with them?

ME: I mean, I look at them, I print them. Most of our apartment is decorated with my prints.

MY FATHER: Are you emailing them to people? Are you sexting people?

ME: What do you mean, am I sexting people?

MY FATHER: You know. Sexting people. On your phone.

ME: How many photos of my junk do you think I have?

MY FATHER: Fifteen thousand? Gawrsh.

ME: I don’t have fifteen thousand photos of—! Wait, I think sexting is not the word you think it is. What is sexting, to you?

MY FATHER: When you get on your fancy iPhone and send someone a message with a photo.

ME: That’s texting.

MY FATHER: That’s what I said.

ME: You said sexting. Sexting has a shade of meaning that is very different. . . .

MY FATHER: What’s sexting?

ME: That’s when you take sexy photos of your private parts and sent them in a text message to someone. Sexy texting. Sexting. You know. Like Anthony Weiner. That’s probably where you picked up the word, on NPR.

MY FATHER: Who?

ME: Anthony Weiner. The representative who resigned because he’d sexted with several women.

MY FATHER [after a long pause]: How many photos of your private parts do you have on your iPad?

ME: It’s not fifteen thousand.

MY FATHER [curious]: Exactly how do you fit an iPad down your pants?

Conversations with My Father: Low Voltage Edition

SALES CLERK: Hi! Welcome to Batteries Plus! How can I help you this morning?

ME: My father needs a battery replacement for his cell phone.

MY FATHER: Well, I don’t need it.

ME: His battery can only hold a five-minute charge. He needs it. If it’s even possible for his model.

SALES CLERK: Oh, I’m sure that’s possible. We have all kinds of batteries for all kinds of cell phones.

ME: You haven’t seen the ancient artifact he’s carrying around, yet.

MY FATHER: The Verizon store sent me here. They don’t carry batteries for my model any more.

ME: That should give you an indication right there.

SALES CLERK: Let’s just take a look at . . . oh. Wow.

ME: I told you.

MY FATHER: Now, do you have any idea of how old this phone is?

SALES CLERK [with tact]: Well, it’s really large. . . .

ME: That phone is a bludgeon. It’s a billy club. That phone could be a murder weapon in Clue.

MY FATHER: Oh, gawrsh. It’s not one of your fancy iPhones, but it’s not that large.

ME: If I were a gangster and I had to get rid of a dirty rat, I’d tie his legs together and throw him into the river with that phone of yours as a deadweight.

SALES CLERK: Let me just open up the back so we can take a look at the battery . . . oh, my.

MY FATHER: What’s wrong?

ME: Good lord. That’s disgusting.

MY FATHER: What?

ME: How in the world has the inside of your phone gotten so dirty?

MY FATHER: I don’t know.

ME: Do you keep it buried in the cat box?!

SALES CLERK: Let me just blow this out.

ME: Good god, no, miss. You shouldn’t have to do that. Give it to me and I’ll blow it out. I’ll take it outside and blow it out.

SALES CLERK: I got it, but thank you, honey.

MY FATHER: It’s not that dirty.

ME: You aren’t able to see the filth. It looks like you use your battery cover as a boot scrape.

MY FATHER: I suspect you’re exaggerating.

SALES CLERK: Now, we do have this battery available, but since this is an, um, older model and not very common these days, I don’t want you to be shocked by the price.

MY FATHER [with suspicion]: How much?

SALES CLERK: Thirty-seven-fifty.

ME: That’s not bad. We’ll take it.

MY FATHER: I don’t know. I could probably get another year out of my battery. . . .

ME: By which point this battery could be no longer manufactured. Then you’d have to get a whole new phone.

MY FATHER: Oh, gawrsh.

SALES CLERK: Should I go ahead and replace it, then?

ME: Yes, please.

MY FATHER: Do you know how long that battery lasted me?

ME: A battery isn’t doing you any good if it only holds a five-minute charge. You really shouldn’t let it get that bad. Batteries are designed to be used. You need to take it off the charger occasionally, use it, and let it run down naturally.

MY FATHER: I don’t think that’s true.

SALES CLERK: Oh my goodness, honey, yes. You can’t leave it on the charger all the time. Not for this kind of battery. That will shorten the battery life by a lot.

ME: There. You have a battery expert telling you the same thing.

MY FATHER: This battery lasted for four years!

SALES CLERK: If you keep your battery in good condition, it can four years and still hold a charge for several hours.

ME: Thank you! See? She’s a battery genius.

MY FATHER: [grumbles]

ME: Sorry? Are you doubting the word of this fine, hard-working, underpaid battery genius?

SALES CLERK: Well thank you, honey! I’m going to ring this up and give you a fifteen percent Nice Man Discount.

MY FATHER [suddenly brightening]: Thank you very much!

ME: SHE MEANT ME.