The Good Father
"Michael, would you like to swim with the fishies?" he asked.I squealed discontent. I didn't want to play Marco Polo with them either.
My father was making a joke about organized crime. I would never wish to belly flop with fish.
It was the '50s. Who in their right mind would welcome a baggy cement overcoat with those hideous pleats?
Besides, I know my family and the sea. Just when I thought that I was out, they push me back in.
"Yeah," Billy cheered. "Throw him to the fishies!"
My other sibling seconded the resolution.
This was the moment I chose to speak my first words. I turned my face to the right and said: "Bob-o, you're my older brother and I love you, but don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again. Ever."
"I like to drink wine more than I used to," added my father.
"It's good for ya, Pop." I said.
"Anyway, I'm drinkin' more," Pop said.
With groveling apologies to the Corleones.
