#71

Jack has manners. He wasn’t born with them, and growing up in New York doesn’t provide a kid with ample opportunity for public reinforcement (the whole “elevator-as-public-toilet” phenomenon, & c.), but my first born is nothing if not sensitive to social norms. Of course, this is a kid whose long hair sometimes gets stuck to his snotty nose, so maybe I should downgrade him from “polite” to “easily embarrassed”. Especially when it comes to using the bathroom.

When Isaac has to poop, the neighbors hear about it. He’d put out a press release if he knew what one was. He wants you to hang out with him and read books while he works his magic, but while my wife (bless her) does it without question, I firmly refuse. This kid can WRECK a bathroom like no teenager aver dreamed. Jack, on the other hand, simply disappears, and summons us when assistance is required. If we are in public, he will discretely whisper in the nearest parent’s ear, and off we go.

The other day, the boys and I were in the basement, watching our neighbor Murray work on something. Murray is one of those individuals who is always working on something, whether his project or someone else’s. The first time I met him, he was under my sink within 20 minutes, fixing my dishwasher, thereby earning my undying friendship and the adoration of my two pajama-clad youngsters who were fascinated by a man who could actually fix something without kicking them out of the room so he could curse. If I got out of bed at 3am and decided to, say, remodel my kitchen, I have no doubt that Murray would smell my toolbox being opened, sit bolt upright in bed, and be in my apartment in coveralls within 15 minutes, looking for a nail to pound.

So anyway, there we are, watching Murray build something, when Jack starts walking up the stairs. Our apartment door is right there, so I don’t think much of it, until he stops at the top step and says, “Daddy, I need you to come with me.” Since I like watching Murray work even more than I hate working myself, I resist. “No, pal, I want to stay in the basement.”

“But Dad, I need you to come with me.”

“Why, Jack?”

At this point, he sighs at my incompetence, comes partway down the stairs, looks at Murray, then at me, raises his eyebrows and says in a stage whisper:

“So that when I say ‘wipe my butt, please’ you will hear me.”