When mom was alive she told us dad was “socializing.” A term derived from hours spent at a place called “the Social Naturalization Club.” This was the name of the bar where dad and all the other French Canadians deposited their paychecks on Friday nights. Apparently paying twenty dollars for your own key lends this type of place an air of exclusivity. Before cell phones you could reach dad most nights at 683-1326. I memorized that number in fifth grade. It was the number you called to tell him things like “dinner is ready” or “it’s Christmas, please be home by noon.” Bebe took his calls.
Since moving to the island dad has found his new home at the local pizza place. The pay phone has been replaced by the iPhone. Not him of course. He’s still mastering the microwave. But we get texts from our friends that say things like, “hey, just saw your dad trying to pick up a waitress.” I think it’s sweet. I hear 23 year old girls love Old Spice.