Dad, Joy Behar, Kramer and me, and a tiger make 3, or an eggroll, or whatever

 

I was in an upstairs apartment owned by my mom and Greg. It was a nicely appointed townhouse, with an understated white on white theme: white furniture and white walls adorned with white abstract artwork, and the carpeting, bed and bedspread -- all white. But it wasn't monochromatic or oppressive. Things were various shades of white, though without appearing dirty or mismatched. Just a tasteful pallet of all things white.

As I sat on the bed, thinking about dinner, my dad arrived, without much fanfare, for a visit. Except that I hadn't seen him for many years, so it was a big deal to me. He greeted me with a smile, and I noticed that his teeth were gleaming white, as well. 

I wanted to get a photo of the two of us, so I whipped out my trusty phone to take the typical selfie. A tiger, not white, but your average orange and black type, kept photobombing the shot, so I never wound up with one with just me and my dad. I'd get one with my dad and the tiger or the tiger and me, or ones with all three of us, but with the tiger crowding one or the other of us out of the shot.

Joy Behar was there, offering culinary advice, and possibly in a drug dealer capacity. My dad mentioned that he needed to score some kind of blood-based drug that was a part of an obscure Jewish rite involving pork, the tiger and a small amount of marijuana.

"I don't really smoke the weed anymore," he told me, "Except in small amounts, and only to activate the blood in this other drug, which I hope to get today from Joy, if she is agreeable." 

Joy seemed agreeable and went off to the synagogue to score the ritual potion. 

"So, you are using weed as a gateway drug to some other kind of drug?" I found the notion as cliche as a 70s PSA about the dangers of reefer. "So tell me, Dad, just how does the tiger figure in?"

I don't think even he knew that part of the formula, only that it was a critical element, like the pork or the mystery blood-drug which Joy was out procuring.

Kramer from Seinfeld was in the hallway examining some pork which had been brought out for the occasion. Several bags of frozen picnic roast had been left out atop a floor chest type deep freezer and were in various stages of thawing out. They looked good to the naked eye, but Kramer was having none of it.

"AHT-AHT-AHT!" He chided curtly, dismissing the pork as unfit for man or tiger. He sniffed one of the baggies and did a dramatic head-jerk away from the offensive frozen meat, making a "Yick-ick-ick" sound and squinching his eyes and mouth in revulsed protest. 

"This bad boy is gonna have to go back in the freezer for another occasion. It just won't do." He squealed out the last sentence like it was breaking his heart. Kramer set the bag back down atop the chest and walked away, shaking his head.

I don't recall much after that. My dad was still hanging around waiting for Joy to get back with his drugs, and we were running out of topics of conversation. I guess we'd talked about my childhood a bit, about my brothers and about how I'd been so infatuated with the movie "Jaws" as a kid, but no real memorable dialogue stands out. I think my mind was just too preoccupied with the blood drug thing, the tiger in the room and the rancid meat dilemma.

That and the fact that my dad's teeth were so damned white. Just how did he manage that at his age, I wondered? Oh well, at least he and the tiger got some good selfies together, with their perfect smiles and all.