We buried the old man in a cheap casket in a hole dug by two black men from New Carrollton, Maryland. The old man would have been pissed at being laid to rest in a strange land, but the old man was dead and there wasn’t much he could do about it. I said: maybe one day we could pay to have him dug up and sent back to the old country. But I didn’t really mean it. My sister took three boxes filled with photos and I got his collection of books. There was some great shit in there: Kierkegaard, Schopenhauer, Sartre, Mann, Dostoyevsky, Li Po. I sold his Shakespeare to a used book store in College Park, just next to the university. I fucking hated Shakespeare. Still do. The clerk had one arm and a lisp and I think he took a fancy to my Doc Marten shoes. At the cemetery, when they lowered the old man into the hole, I thought: here you go old boy. You’ve always loved jigsaw puzzles. After the priest said whatever the fuck he said in Greek, I went to my car and had a drink from a half pint sized bottle of peach schnapps. Some big wig from the cemetery gave us little flags to stick to our cars in memoriam of my old man. During those days I was driving a 1973 Monarch made from steel, and the magnet at the base of the flag stuck to my front end. They don’t make cars from steel anymore. They’re uni-bodies now. Plastic or kevlar or something like that. Ask Detroit. My 454 Monarch was body-on-frame. I say this, but I don’t know shit about cars. My old man died on the hottest April of my life. I wore a white shirt and tie, with sleeves rolled up. Sweat rolled down my back and made me cold and sick. You ever feel that? After they buried him I went to a bar in Adams Morgan where all the fags hung out. I liked the fags. They looked but they never bothered me. I was too ugly for them to hit on me. Didn’t dress right either. Never had any fashion sense or any of that nonsense. I stuck out like a diseased thumb. There’s an old joke goes: what do you do if you drop your keys in Adams Morgan? You jus’ kick ’em on down Connecticut Avenue all the way to K-Street. I guess it doesn’t make sense if you’re not from D.C. Anyway, I like the boys and they like me. My old man was ambiguous about the boys. I think they amused him. He worked with them in the old country. He was an actor. A good one, too. I don’t care about them either way. My old man don’t care either now. I like old movies. In old movies there’s a shot they take from trains going away from someone standing on the platform. A point-of-view like. I like that shot. After a few months I went back and sold the old man’s house. Well, I didn’t sell the house really. Some Catholic freak with eleven children bought it and levelled the structure. Later he built a McMansion on the property. I’m sure it had granite countertops. Americans seem to only want one thing in their lousy lives: granite countertops. They’re like programmed robots. That’s all they think about. That’s all they want. So someone got their granite countertops in a McMansion sitting on my old man’s property. Walking distance to metro. Walking distance to Starbucks. Almost walking distance to Pier One. And that’s it. Oh yea, one more thing: I like One Flew Over the Cukoo’s Nest. It’s my favorite book.