Blue Face Special 

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, December 14, 1997; Page F01 

I have just returned from visiting my 87-year-old father in
Florida, and I am pleased to report that he is still blind, deaf
and short.

How short is he, Tony?

Amazingly, my dad is now the same size sitting down as he is
standing up. He reminds me of a footstool. It is quite
convenient for us to travel together because he can be stowed
neatly in the overhead.

Now, you all know I love my dad. So don't send me nasty
letters about how cruel and heartless I am, and how glad you
are that I'm not your son. (By the way, your son is a
cross-dresser.) The fact is, my dad loves that I write about
him. I tell him he's in the column almost every week. He thinks
he's my friend Nancy.

Anyway, I called him about a month ago to let him know when
I was coming down. And he said, "Hold on, let me check my
schedule."

And I said, "Please do that, because I wouldn't want my visit to
conflict with your arrival in Oslo to pick up the Nobel Peace
Prize."

At this point my father's schedule consists mainly of breathing.
He can't drive. He can barely walk. It takes him so long to go
from his apartment to the mailbox that he has to bring lunch.

A few days later he called to inform me that he cleared his
calendar, just for me.

"But we're eating all our meals out," he said. "I don't intend to
cook."

I was greatly relieved. I don't want this man going anywhere
near a gas range.

You all know about dinners in Florida, namely the "early-bird
specials," which people begin dressing for around dawn. At
about 4 p.m., every schlock restaurant in the state offers
fixed-price, multi-course dinners, featuring some of the best
iceberg lettuce for blocks! The conversation is very congenial:
"Hey, I get dessert with that! And coffee. Whaddya mean
coffee is 85 cents extra? Okay, gimme water then." And after a
pleasant meal you're done by 4:45. You've eaten your last meal
of the day, it's blinding daylight outside, and you have nothing
to look forward to but death and Tom Brokaw.

My first day in Florida, we went to this chain steakhouse that
looks like a bad Tudor castle and offers a wide variety of
eight-ounce prime rib. My aunt and uncle joined us, bringing
discount coupons. The highlight of the meal was the check.
With the coupons, the dinner for four ended up costing $28.95.
Being a sport, my dad threw $30 on the table.

"That's sufficient, isn't it?" my dad asked me.

"Sure," I said, "if the waitress goes home and eats dog food."

"How much should I leave her?"

"I'd give her five more dollars, and ask Uncle Arnie to throw in
a car wash coupon."

The next night Dad wanted Chinese food, and we ended up at
a place with a buffet for the extravagant price of $3.95. (If
Uncle Arnie were here, he'd have a coupon where they would
pay us to eat.) The food was set up in a giant steam table --
maybe 30 different dishes, 28 of which looked like sesame
chicken in brown sauce.

"What's that?" he'd ask.

I'd read the label, and he'd say, "That sounds good, give me
some of that."

When we got to the 10th dish I realized that it could be Dog's
Intestine in Custard Sauce With Dead Flies, and my dad would
say, "Yeah, give me some of that."

So I got him a little of everything. By the time I was done I'd
filled six plates. A waiter came over and asked if I was
expecting anyone else at the table.

"The Taiwan Little League team," I said.

My dad had been coughing all day, and his coughing suddenly
got worse. He was hacking and hocking. Loudly. The sound he
made suggested what would happen if you crossed a moose
with a rabbinical student.

"I've got something in my windpipe," my dad said.

"What, the Hindenburg?"

He coughed furiously and began to spit stuff into napkins.

"Give me another napkin," he'd say.

I went from table to table, picking up napkins. Meanwhile, the
terrible guttural noises had driven away the other three couples
sitting near us.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I'm fine," my dad said. "I think I just need to give myself the
Heimlich maneuver."

Pardon me?

I'm no Nervous Nellie, but I think it's reasonable to be
concerned about the health of an 87-year-old who is pounding
himself in the chest, trying to cough up something the size of a
hedgehog.

"There's a hospital a quarter mile from here," I said. "Let's go
there and fix you up."

"No," he said. "Just give me another napkin."

I could feel the cold sweat on my face. "I'm really beginning to
worry," I said.

"You're just like your mother," he said. "You worry too much."

I noticed the owner of the restaurant looking nervously our
way. "How about if we just go home?"

I could see this was a difficult decision for my dad, because
three full plates of food remained untouched. "Let me have
some of that egg foo yong," he said.

Finally, he agreed to let me drive him home. In the apartment
he told me sternly, "I'm going into the bathroom now. No
matter what you hear coming from in there for the next 15
minutes, do not come in."

I felt like I was trapped in a Sigourney Weaver movie.

Actually, the sounds weren't so bad. I could barely hear them
over the beating of my own heart.

True to his word, my dad came out in 15 minutes with a big
smile on his face.

"So where do you want to eat tomorrow night?" he asked. 

 
© Copyright 1997 The Washington Post Company 


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