Conversations with My Father: Vagrancy Edition

MY FATHER: You know how, at the end of my street, how my street converges with the Boulevard and Westwood and Hermitage, all at once?

ME: I do.

MY FATHER: Well, last week the traffic lights weren’t working right. First the light for my street is supposed to turn green, and then once it changes to red the light for Westwood is supposed to turn green, and after it goes red the light for the Boulevard turns green, and then once it goes red the light for Hermitage turns green, and then finally after it flips to red, my street’s light. . . .

ME: Yes, I understand the general way traffic lights work, thank you very much.

MY FATHER: Well, I was taking my walk and decided to sit down and take a break, so I was watching the traffic, and I saw that the cars on my street were backed up for an entire block, and you know the blocks on my street are larger than the ordinary street block. So I watched for a while and you know what was happening?

ME: The light was mistimed?

MY FATHER: Go on, guess.

ME: The light wasn’t mistimed?

MY FATHER: No, the light was mistimed. The light for Westwood would turn as usual, then the light for the Boulevard would go for the usual length, then the light for Hermitage would be fine, and then my light would turn green and then three seconds later, guess what it did?

ME: The suspense is truly killing me.

MY FATHER: It would turn red! After only three seconds!

ME: I did not see that coming. Wow.

MY FATHER: I am sensing sarcasm.

ME: I can’t imagine why.

MY FATHER: Anyway. After watching for close to an hour, I called Public Works and let them know that their light was mistimed. Then the next day I went back down to the end of the street and do you know what? It was still happening.

ME: Did you really expect them to act on it immediately?

MY FATHER: Well, here’s the thing. I called them that afternoon, the day after the first call, and they informed me that they’d taken my report into consideration and that they’d sent out a worker to increase the duration of the pedestrian crossing. So not only was the light on my street only allowing cars out for three-second intervals, but they and everyone else had to wait an additional ten seconds during the longer pedestrian crossing phase. So I told them that extra crossing time was not what I’d reported.

ME: Did they fix it the next day?

MY FATHER: No! I went down the day after and the same thing was still happening. So I called Public Works once again and they thanked me for my report and that they’d done as I requested and reduced the duration of the light on my street. So on the third day, it was just blinking green for a second and the line of cars was even longer!

ME: I did not think I’d be saying this about one of your traffic stories, but this is actually entertaining me. Go on.

MY FATHER: So I had a brainstorm. I had an Amazon box that I’d broken down for recycling, so I got it out and got a magic marker and wrote on it, in big letters, CALL 311 TO REPORT THIS LIGHT. And then I walked down to the intersection and went out in the median. . . .

ME: Oh god.

MY FATHER: And held up the sign. . . .

ME: Oh god.

MY FATHER: And walked up and down the line of cars. . . .

ME: You didn’t.

MY FATHER: I didn’t what?

ME: You didn’t stand out there holding a homemade cardboard sign in those sad tatters you wear.

MY FATHER: I wanted them to call Public Works and report the problem!

ME: Oh god. Did anyone give you any money?

MY FATHER: No, no one gave me money. Why in the world would they give me money?

ME: Thank—

MY FATHER: One nice woman did give me a sandwich from her lunch bag.

ME: Oh god.

MY FATHER: I thought that was nice of her. It was ham.

ME: You ATE it?

MY FATHER: Why wouldn’t I eat it?

ME: She gave it to you because she THOUGHT YOU WERE A HOMELESS PERSON.

MY FATHER: She did not. She probably thought I was just hungry from doing my civic duty.

ME: Yes, hungry like a HOMELESS PERSON CARRYING A HOMEMADE SIGN BY THE SIDE OF A BUSY ROAD.

MY FATHER: I don’t think. . . . [Laughs] Oh. I see what you’re saying. Huh! Gawrsh. Well, that puts a different light on things.

ME: YA THINK?

Conversations with My Father: Spy vs. Spy Edition

MY FATHER: Just turn left at the end of the alley instead of right . . . That’s it.

ME: Okay.

MY FATHER: Oh say. See this house here? Right where this cross-street ends? I’m nearly one-hundred-percent sure that it’s a government safe house.

ME: Oh lord Jesus.

MY FATHER: No, strike that. I’m one-hundred-percent sure it’s a government safe house.

ME: You really, really, really watch too much television.

MY FATHER: Why couldn’t it be a government safe house?

ME: Why should it be a government safe house?

MY FATHER: Just look at it. Just look.

ME: Which of the CSI shows put this notion into your head?

MY FATHER (hurt): They have to get the ideas for the CSI shows from somewhere.

ME: They aren’t getting them from the street behind your house.

MY FATHER: Look at those big SUVs parked in front of it. What do you think of that?

ME: I think the people who live there are fond of Ford Durangos.

MY FATHER: They’re big security vehicles with dark windows and they’re probably armored.

ME: Those windows aren’t dark! I can see right through them!

MY FATHER: They’re where the government safe house agents sit.

ME: Then why are they empty?

MY FATHER: They’re inside, guarding the occupants.

ME: I don’t think . . . oh god, this is making my head hurt.

MY FATHER: Think about it! This would be a perfect place to have a quick escape route when their cover is blown. All they’d have to do is hurry the people they’re protecting to the armored cars, then drive up Robin Hood Road to the on-ramp where they’d have access to both 64 or 95.

ME: Although there’s a certain weird logic to that, I really don’t think . . . Have you ever seen anyone going in or coming out?

MY FATHER: I saw a woman ‘going to work’ once.

ME: I can hear your air quotes. Was she wearing a dark jacket and slacks and a white shirt?

MY FATHER: Well, no, but. . . .

ME: Because that’s what the FBI would wear.

MY FATHER: That’s what they want you to think. You know nothing about the art of disguise.

ME: Oh, okay, Disguise Master. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you go up to the front door and knock and ask if they’re a government safe house?

MY FATHER (with scorn): You think they’d say yes? You know nothing about how these things work.

ME: Do you really think the government would set up a safe house on Whitby that is so obvious that the nosy retired history professor with poor eyesight from around the corner would be able to identify it?

MY FATHER (loftily): I happen to be a very observant concerned neighbor.