Jack Sh*t

My father, Jack Friedman, CPA (even if he made the diploma himself), and Purple Heart recipient (even if he lifted it from the guy in the bed next to him in a Tokyo Army hospital), moved to Las Vegas from Atlantic City when he was 78. This is that story. The early years — and by early, I mean his 80s. Voluptuous Bagels and Other Concerns of Jack Friedman is the first volume (there will be three) of my conversations, arguments, buffets, and philosophical musings with my father from the years 2004-2014. There was the "The Mob," the survivors group of those who buried their spouses, the bowling, the mortgage he got at 84, the possible death of Bernie, the coupons, the long-suffering Jeannette, who buried two husbands, and always the toupees, many kept in boxes in the bedroom, garage, and sometimes out on a table. "I was 16 two weeks ago, Barry. Where did it all go?" Jack Friedman, in his 80s and 90s, couldn't hear, didn't listen, had no short-term memory, and mostly didn't care. It was the perfect time for a son to be re-introduced to his father. As my sister, his daughter, whose name he couldn't always keep straight, said about our father's approach to life, "He's always been like this." I should have started the book sooner.