Hello from the Everglades, Roy says, when he calls.
He’s a simple man, born in a Leave It to Beaver household. His mother was a photographer, so all around the house are pictures of Alaska. Sometimes, at 94, she calls me to tell me that the Heartleaf philodendron I gifted her is growing out of control.
“Buh-bye,” she says when she hangs up.
Oh, thank God I got you, Roy says, when he calls. Is this your line? That other man is impatient as all get-out.
I am comforted by the endearing and gentle twang in Roy’s voice.
Hello from a boat, Roy says, when he calls. Are you jealous? I’m gonna put my wife on because I don’t know what the hell it is you just sent me and I just opened a beer.
Roy retired from working in orange groves. On his 401(k), I always loved that the statements were written in orange font: Citrus Inc. I imagine him getting home, his hands smelling like navel oranges, and I wonder if he hates them or loves them after years of tending to them.
His mom sends me Christmas cards with her photography glued on the cover, and her perfect penmanship. She, and this is incredibly rare for her age, has never asked me if I plan on having children. She says, “And how is your little dog?” with half-interest, as she doesn’t much care for dogs. I’ve witnessed her boot her daughter’s Jack Russell terrier out of the kitchen of a meeting we were in, and my heart broke a little because I love when dogs are distractions during meetings.
That sounds just wrong, Roy says, when I tell him what the word per stirpes means. Not the meaning, but the word. Sounds wrong.
I say it aloud to myself on the drive home and realize it does sound wrong.
Thoughts?