“No, what’s that,” said the uniform, his voice kind in a way that made me suspect my father might have already told this one a few times while under the influence.
In his best Jamaican accent, Dad delivered the punch line: “Pokémon!” Then he turned to me and said, “My feelings are hurt. When I first got in here, a young woman told me to turn around and show her my ‘better side.’” He was on a roll.
“They told me you could eat right away,” I said. “I’ll wait outside while you get dressed and then take you anywhere you want to go, patient’s choice.” Asking was a formality. I knew Dad would want to go to Denny’s, where the food was familiar and the senior discount kicks in at 55. I knew with equal certainty that on the way there, he would apologize a few more times for having left his wallet at home and that he would tell me the Jamaican-proctologist joke at least once more before our breakfast was served.