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disguised as Arab sheiks busting a prostitution ring. When I said surely members of law enforcement have better things to do than hassle those poor women, my father said he disagreed. Those poor women are criminals, he said. So I said prostitution should be legal.
    I don’t know why I said that. I don’t even know if I believe it. I was twenty-five years old, old enough to have and assert a controversial opinion, but I suspect there was nothing grand or lofty about what I was saying. I think I was just trying to shock my father, get a reaction out of the old man, who said he was disappointed in me, he thought he had raised me better than that. He looked sad. He said do you have no morals? What happened to your morals? I wanted to raise you better than that.
    And there’s this:
    One year my father made me watch the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon to benefit the Muscular Dystrophy Association. I was fascinated by every detail. I remember how in the final hours, his hair black as shoe polish, slick with pomade, dapper tuxedoed Jerry loosened his bow tie, tugged open his collar, and made a case for the kids, his kids, those poor sad tragic hopeless crippled kids. Jerry sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” You’ll never walk, period flashed through my mind, and as if to punish my wicked thoughts, my father pledged my allowance to the handicapped children on my behalf. He asked if I understood how lucky I was that I could talk and walk and sit up straight. I imagined how awful it would be to be handicapped in a wheelchair or on crutches, and I felt happy that I wasn’t. Then I felt guilty about my happiness, guilty about my good fortune, my healthy body, my strong mind. Then I felt resentful about how it wasn’t my fault that I possessed good fortune, healthy body, strong mind, and who were Jerry’s Kids to get my allowance? Then I felt ashamed of my selfishness. I broke open my piggy bank and threw some Susan B. Anthony silver dollars at the problem. I became a Democrat because of my father, who keeps how he votes to himself.
    And finally, there’s this:
    My father is the smartest man I know. He remembers things he learned in fifth, sixth, seventh grade, things like how many feet are in a mile and how many cups are in a gallon and what’s the state capital of North Dakota. He wanted me to know things, too: how to work out math problems in my head and why I should pay attention to interest rates, what my constitutional rights include and why I need to pay off my credit cards in full every month. He told me to trust no one, that the United States government wants me to be ignorant and stay ignorant, and that the media are trying to keep me that way, and so is corporate America, and so is the pope. He told me if I ever wanted to make some real money, I should major in business, not English. He believed college wasn’t really even necessary, and he said if I went into business, then I needed to learn to play golf because the big business deals are made on the golf course. Shortly before I moved to Syracuse, New York, my father told me that someday the entire state of New York will be underwater. He told me gas prices will drop in the weeks before an election. He told me to always carry enough money to make a phone call or pay a cab for a ride home. He told me to always carry some form of ID in my pocket so they can identify my body if I’m ever in a disfiguring accident. He told me no one is more important than my family.
     
     
     
     
     
    What happens is sometimes a girl will go with this one, and he isn’t right for her, so she’ll go with that one, and she doesn’t like him, either. The girl isn’t a pig, she just doesn’t know what she wants. Or maybe she is a pig, but she’s young and reckless and doesn’t care. She likes romance, she wants adventure. She sees that one over there, and he doesn’t look so bad. In fact, he looks to her like he’s pretty good, and she thinks what the hell, why not.
    So I went