Something for Nothing

Marina Shterenberg, Improbable Architecture

My dad is of the opinion you can get something for nothing. Wait. Scratch that. My dad is of the opinion that you should get something for nothing. Or, at least, that he should. It goes something like this: the family goes out to dinner, we order our entrees and then, my father thinks all desserts should be complimentary. It's his daughter's birthday for chrissakes! There are nine of us! Do they know how long he has been dining at this establishment? Do they know who he knows? He has signed letters from two different presidents! He has photos of himself with Sting on more than one occasion! And do we need to bring up Tom Hanks?! Yes, Tom Hanks! He has his telephone number! His home number! He could call him right now if you like! Do you want him to call Tom Hanks?! Cuz he can! Right now! You could call them bosom buddies!

My father's tolerance for putting up with bullshit is low. But so is his tolerance for being treated like a regular customer. And that's just it. He doesn't want to be treated like a regular customer. He wants to be treated like a celeb. Or like a friend of the celebs. Or maybe just like a friend. If it's a ballgame, he'll waltz into the most desirable section like he's Jack Nicholson at a Lakers game. If it's airline seats, he'll demand an upgrade. If it's a hotel room, he firmly requests the suite on the corner, poolside. That's after he's already paid for the ground floor double with the view of the parking lot. And then he won't back down. Relentless is a word we might use to describe him. Pain in the ass others might say. Or still yet, you might see a manager mouthing the words do anything to get rid of him.

We are, all of us, used to it at this point. And we each take a unique approach in response to the situation. My one sister, at age thirty-six, will make sure to arrive at the movie theatre before he can buy her and her husband any 12 and under tickets. My mother will casually walk away from the man haggling with the maitre d' over the table with reserved seats. And I personally try not to encourage him to continue to use his dead mother's handicap placard.

It's a battle none of us will ever win. Nor one we can even begin to understand. I can't tell you the hand that my father's been dealt. But I sure as hell know the hand he will try and play. And I know precisely the moment everyone else will fold.