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“I’m outside by the pool.”
“I can see that too, Mom. You know this is a video call, right?”
“Don’t be a wiseass with your mother.”
“Sorry.” Myron headed into his office and closed the door behind him. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Let me see your face.”
“Okay.”
“Sheesh, I can barely see anything on this screen.”
“Take your sunglasses off,” Myron said.
“What?”
He repeated himself and told her to go into the shade. She did so.
“Oh, that’s better,” she said.
“Where’s Dad?”
“What do you mean, where’s Dad?” That was his father speaking now. “I’m right here.”
The camera stayed on Mom, so Myron couldn’t see him.
“Hey, Dad.”
“So the reason we’re calling,” Mom said, “is that your father made a new friend.”
“Ellen, stop.”
“His name is Allen too. He spells it just like your father. Allen Castner. The two of them met at the poolside breakfast buffet and guess what? Allen Castner wants to teach Allen Bolitar how to play pickleball. Can you imagine such a thing?”
From off-screen, Dad said, “What’s the problem?”
“You’re going to hurt yourself, that’s the problem. You’re an old man. And what kind of name for a sport is pickleball anyway? Who came up with that? Myron, do you know who came up with that name?”
“I don’t.”
“Pickleball,” Mom said again. “A grown man playing a sport with that name. And your father is no great athlete, let me tell you.”
“Thanks for the support, Ellen.”
“What, I’m not telling the truth? You, Myron. You got my genes. I come from a long line of great athletes. Shira, she got them too. Your brother? Not so much.”
“Is there a point to this call, Mom?”
“Don’t rush me, I’m getting there. So, like I said, your father made a friend.”
“Allen Castner,” Myron said.
“Right, Allen Castner. They’re going to play pickleball together and then—get this, Myron—they both love trivia so tonight they’re going to compete as a team at the local trivia contest at the JCC.”
“Sounds fun,” Myron said.
“It’s not, but never mind that. Guess the name of their team.”
