then maybe I could put my mother at ease and spare David any further meddling. I exited the building and, on my way to my car, spotted Maggie entering the same office building. Huh. This made things more interesting/worrisome, but still, isn’t seeking therapy on your own, without an order by the court, simply a sign of good sense?
I grabbed my laptop from the trunk of my car and slipped into a coffee shop with Wi-Fi. After caffeinating myself, I searched for Sharon Tudor and found her full profile on her business website. She was definitely the blonde. She was also something else. Something that made me want to have a drink, a real drink, that very instant.
I found a bar nearby, ordered a house bourbon, and called Morty. I had a feeling he would be around.
Usually when I phone people, I receive a variety of initial responses, which generally fall into the following categories:
“What do you want, Izzy?”
“You again?”
“Why are you calling me this late?”
“Speak.”
“Can you call back later?”
“This is bad news, isn’t it?”
“How did you get my number?”
You get the idea. In contrast, when I call Morty, his replies fall into the following general categories:
“Izzele, thank God you called. I’m bored out of my mind.”
“Izzele, talk to me about anything but your ailing health and I’m all ears.”
“Izzele, get on a plane and get me outta here!”
Today’s greeting was more subtle, but still, it hit the spot.
Phone call from the edge #19
[Transcript reads as follows:]
MORTY : Izzele, tell me everything that’s new.
ME : I have some information and I don’t know what to do with it.
MORTY : I’m all ears.
ME : You are, aren’t you? 1
[Dead silence.]
MORTY : Did you call to try out your Don Rickles impression, or are you interested in kibitzing with an old friend?
ME : The other thing.
MORTY : Say it.
ME : It’s not a word that rolls off my tongue.
MORTY : Say it anyway.
ME : Kibitz. I called to kibitz.
MORTY : Thank you. Now go on.
ME : I think my sister is dating a drug dealer.
MORTY : Oy gevalt. Your poor mother.
ME : Let’s not jump to conclusions yet.
MORTY : You just did.
ME : He could be selling term papers or chemistry test answers for all I know.
MORTY : [sarcastically] And that would be a blessing. He sounds like a thug.
ME : He’s something. I don’t know if “thug” is the word. I have to investigate.
MORTY : How’s the Irish guy?
ME : Nice leap, Morty. We’re talking about thugs and you bring up my boyfriend. He’s an honest businessman, that’s what he is.
MORTY : There was a lull in the conversation; I switched topics, that’s all.
ME : There was no lull.
MORTY : There was most definitely a lull.
[Awkward silence. You could call it a lull.]
MORTY : You’ve got more in that muddled head of yours, Izzele. Spill it.
ME : Here’s my real problem. My mother saw a blond woman exiting my brother’s house one day. We brokered a deal. I can pick 50 percent of my lawyer dates if I find out who the blonde is. Well, I found out who the blonde is.
[Long pause as I ask myself why I’m talking about this with an eighty-five-year-old man.]
MORTY : [impatiently] So who is she?
ME : [mumbled] She’s a sex therapist.
MORTY : A what?
ME : A sex therapist.
MORTY : I still didn’t get that.
ME : A sex therapist!!
MORTY : Is that like a hooker?
ME : NO!
MORTY : It sounds like a fancy name for a hooker.
ME : No, no, no. She’s like a psychologist, only she specializes in sex stuff.
MORTY : Interesting.
[Long pause. Absolutely a lull.]
ME : I don’t want to have this information.
MORTY : Neither do I.
ME : And I don’t want my mother to have this information. It’s none of her business and David wouldn’t want her to know either.
MORTY : So don’t tell her.
ME : She explicitly asked me to gather this information for her. I have to return to her with some information or she won’t leave me alone. And, honestly, I can’t go out with two of her lawyers a month.
I grabbed my laptop from the trunk of my car and slipped into a coffee shop with Wi-Fi. After caffeinating myself, I searched for Sharon Tudor and found her full profile on her business website. She was definitely the blonde. She was also something else. Something that made me want to have a drink, a real drink, that very instant.
I found a bar nearby, ordered a house bourbon, and called Morty. I had a feeling he would be around.
Usually when I phone people, I receive a variety of initial responses, which generally fall into the following categories:
“What do you want, Izzy?”
“You again?”
“Why are you calling me this late?”
“Speak.”
“Can you call back later?”
“This is bad news, isn’t it?”
“How did you get my number?”
You get the idea. In contrast, when I call Morty, his replies fall into the following general categories:
“Izzele, thank God you called. I’m bored out of my mind.”
“Izzele, talk to me about anything but your ailing health and I’m all ears.”
“Izzele, get on a plane and get me outta here!”
Today’s greeting was more subtle, but still, it hit the spot.
Phone call from the edge #19
[Transcript reads as follows:]
MORTY : Izzele, tell me everything that’s new.
ME : I have some information and I don’t know what to do with it.
MORTY : I’m all ears.
ME : You are, aren’t you? 1
[Dead silence.]
MORTY : Did you call to try out your Don Rickles impression, or are you interested in kibitzing with an old friend?
ME : The other thing.
MORTY : Say it.
ME : It’s not a word that rolls off my tongue.
MORTY : Say it anyway.
ME : Kibitz. I called to kibitz.
MORTY : Thank you. Now go on.
ME : I think my sister is dating a drug dealer.
MORTY : Oy gevalt. Your poor mother.
ME : Let’s not jump to conclusions yet.
MORTY : You just did.
ME : He could be selling term papers or chemistry test answers for all I know.
MORTY : [sarcastically] And that would be a blessing. He sounds like a thug.
ME : He’s something. I don’t know if “thug” is the word. I have to investigate.
MORTY : How’s the Irish guy?
ME : Nice leap, Morty. We’re talking about thugs and you bring up my boyfriend. He’s an honest businessman, that’s what he is.
MORTY : There was a lull in the conversation; I switched topics, that’s all.
ME : There was no lull.
MORTY : There was most definitely a lull.
[Awkward silence. You could call it a lull.]
MORTY : You’ve got more in that muddled head of yours, Izzele. Spill it.
ME : Here’s my real problem. My mother saw a blond woman exiting my brother’s house one day. We brokered a deal. I can pick 50 percent of my lawyer dates if I find out who the blonde is. Well, I found out who the blonde is.
[Long pause as I ask myself why I’m talking about this with an eighty-five-year-old man.]
MORTY : [impatiently] So who is she?
ME : [mumbled] She’s a sex therapist.
MORTY : A what?
ME : A sex therapist.
MORTY : I still didn’t get that.
ME : A sex therapist!!
MORTY : Is that like a hooker?
ME : NO!
MORTY : It sounds like a fancy name for a hooker.
ME : No, no, no. She’s like a psychologist, only she specializes in sex stuff.
MORTY : Interesting.
[Long pause. Absolutely a lull.]
ME : I don’t want to have this information.
MORTY : Neither do I.
ME : And I don’t want my mother to have this information. It’s none of her business and David wouldn’t want her to know either.
MORTY : So don’t tell her.
ME : She explicitly asked me to gather this information for her. I have to return to her with some information or she won’t leave me alone. And, honestly, I can’t go out with two of her lawyers a month.
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