skin. The last thing Rick wanted was Kat examining and fussing over him. He hoped she was at least keeping her promise not to reveal his panic spells to Adrian.
“Right, mate. Isabelle’s clicking in. Cheers!”
“I found your little match girl,” Isabelle opened with. “A hop, skip, and a jump from skid row. Rivington. Under the Bowery.”
“You sure?” A stir of excitement, followed by a pang of something else he couldn’t quite define, shifted inside him.
“Of course I’m sure. Do you want me to draw you a fucking map?” She hung up before Rick had a chance to thank her or tell her to piss off.
“Ready for the best breakfast in Brooklyn, Dad? They serve it until five o’clock in the evening!”
Rick clapped a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “So you’re still four hours early then, not a half hour late?”
“Sorry, got held up printing our boarding passes.” Rick’s blank look prompted his son to add, “Ilana and I leave for Greece tomorrow, remember?” Paul gripped his father’s forearm and pulled him into the closest thing resembling a hug between them in the last six months. “Good to see you, Dad.”
They entered the narrow, glass-fronted space of Egg and squeezed their way to one of the few unoccupied tables. Paul signaled for a pot of the restaurant’s signature French press, giving Rick a chance to survey his son. The dark Rottenberg hair tamed to a hip, shaggy swoop, the Banquet blue eyes slightly magnified behind chunky-framed lenses. The beard was new. “What’s this?” Rick gestured. “You’re looking a bit Orthodox.”
Paul laughed, slowly preparing their coffee. Rick envied the patience it took, along with his son’s youthful elegant nonchalance in performing the task. “Williamsburg certainly has its fair share of Hasidim, but the hipsters are slowly outnumbering them.”
Rick wondered whether he could channel his own inner Grizzly Adams, don the serial killer glasses, and pull off the look. Nah, too old for it. And he certainly wasn’t ready for the Professor Calculus look just yet. He noticed the ladies were giving Digger dewy-eyed looks whenever he succumbed to his reading glasses on the road, more and more so these days. Rick still preferred to stumble around like Captain Haddock, blind on too much Loch Lomond, like in those old Belgian
Tintin
comics he used to read to his sons during those rare nights he wasn’t on tour.
“So, Greece?”
Paul nodded. “We’re backpacking around the islands for a month before I’m due in Thessaloniki. My second summer at ISSON.”
Now Rick remembered. “The nanosciences and nanotechnologies summer program. Right, blimey. A doctor in front of me,” he marveled as his son grinned from behind a mouthful of candied bacon. “And doctors behind me.” His own parents boasted PhDs in art history. “How did all that brilliance skip a generation?”
“Come on. You’re the mastermind behind a legendary band, and you managed to raise three normal children despite all the rock and roll craziness. No easy feat.”
Simone was owed most of the credit, Rick felt. The children were raised out of the spotlight and under her maiden name of Banquet.
My legacy,
she would jokingly boast,
my greatest hits.
“Thessaloniki.” Rick cleared his throat. “Beautiful, beautiful city. We played the Theatro Dassous in ’86, if I recall. Digger drank enough ouzo on that run to put hair on
both
our chests.”
Paul smiled, his eyes shining behind those thick glasses. He and his younger brothers had loved the stories of their road warrior father almost as much as they had loved
Tintin
. Rick couldn’t recall if he had ever shared that tour tale before.
“How is Adrian these days?”
“Fine. Better than fine.” Rick busied himself separating the Grafton cheddar oozing from between his omelet using the tines of his fork. “Marrying soon.”
“Wow, that’s so great!” Paul scraped the front legs of his chair up off the floor in a “Hi-ho,
“Right, mate. Isabelle’s clicking in. Cheers!”
“I found your little match girl,” Isabelle opened with. “A hop, skip, and a jump from skid row. Rivington. Under the Bowery.”
“You sure?” A stir of excitement, followed by a pang of something else he couldn’t quite define, shifted inside him.
“Of course I’m sure. Do you want me to draw you a fucking map?” She hung up before Rick had a chance to thank her or tell her to piss off.
“Ready for the best breakfast in Brooklyn, Dad? They serve it until five o’clock in the evening!”
Rick clapped a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “So you’re still four hours early then, not a half hour late?”
“Sorry, got held up printing our boarding passes.” Rick’s blank look prompted his son to add, “Ilana and I leave for Greece tomorrow, remember?” Paul gripped his father’s forearm and pulled him into the closest thing resembling a hug between them in the last six months. “Good to see you, Dad.”
They entered the narrow, glass-fronted space of Egg and squeezed their way to one of the few unoccupied tables. Paul signaled for a pot of the restaurant’s signature French press, giving Rick a chance to survey his son. The dark Rottenberg hair tamed to a hip, shaggy swoop, the Banquet blue eyes slightly magnified behind chunky-framed lenses. The beard was new. “What’s this?” Rick gestured. “You’re looking a bit Orthodox.”
Paul laughed, slowly preparing their coffee. Rick envied the patience it took, along with his son’s youthful elegant nonchalance in performing the task. “Williamsburg certainly has its fair share of Hasidim, but the hipsters are slowly outnumbering them.”
Rick wondered whether he could channel his own inner Grizzly Adams, don the serial killer glasses, and pull off the look. Nah, too old for it. And he certainly wasn’t ready for the Professor Calculus look just yet. He noticed the ladies were giving Digger dewy-eyed looks whenever he succumbed to his reading glasses on the road, more and more so these days. Rick still preferred to stumble around like Captain Haddock, blind on too much Loch Lomond, like in those old Belgian
Tintin
comics he used to read to his sons during those rare nights he wasn’t on tour.
“So, Greece?”
Paul nodded. “We’re backpacking around the islands for a month before I’m due in Thessaloniki. My second summer at ISSON.”
Now Rick remembered. “The nanosciences and nanotechnologies summer program. Right, blimey. A doctor in front of me,” he marveled as his son grinned from behind a mouthful of candied bacon. “And doctors behind me.” His own parents boasted PhDs in art history. “How did all that brilliance skip a generation?”
“Come on. You’re the mastermind behind a legendary band, and you managed to raise three normal children despite all the rock and roll craziness. No easy feat.”
Simone was owed most of the credit, Rick felt. The children were raised out of the spotlight and under her maiden name of Banquet.
My legacy,
she would jokingly boast,
my greatest hits.
“Thessaloniki.” Rick cleared his throat. “Beautiful, beautiful city. We played the Theatro Dassous in ’86, if I recall. Digger drank enough ouzo on that run to put hair on
both
our chests.”
Paul smiled, his eyes shining behind those thick glasses. He and his younger brothers had loved the stories of their road warrior father almost as much as they had loved
Tintin
. Rick couldn’t recall if he had ever shared that tour tale before.
“How is Adrian these days?”
“Fine. Better than fine.” Rick busied himself separating the Grafton cheddar oozing from between his omelet using the tines of his fork. “Marrying soon.”
“Wow, that’s so great!” Paul scraped the front legs of his chair up off the floor in a “Hi-ho,
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