The Toynbee Convector

“If you don’t know what’s been wrong with me for twenty years, you’ll never know.” The father turned to the son. “Daughters of course. Must be full-grown now. Little tads, last time we saw—”

“Let son tell us about them,” said the mother.

“There’s nothing to tell.” The son paused awkwardly. “Hell. Lots. But it doesn’t make sense.”

“Try us,” said the father. “Sometimes—”

“Yes?”

“Sometimes,” the son continued, slowly, eyes down, “I have this feeling my daughters, mind you, my daughters have passed away and you, you’re alive! Does that make any sense?”

“About as much sense as most families make,” said the father, taking out, cutting, and sucking at a fresh cigar.

“You always did talk funny, son.”

“Pa,” said the mother.

“Well, he did and he does, dammit. Talk funny, that is. But go ahead, talk on, and while you’re at it give me some more wine. Go on.”

The son poured wine and said, “I can’t figure them out So I’ve got two problems. That’s why I summoned you. Number one, I missed you. Number two, I miss them. There’s a joke for you. How can that be?”

“On the face of it—” the father began.

“That’s life,” said the mother, nodding, very wise.

“That’s all the advice you can give?” cried the son.

“Sorry, we know you went to a lot of trouble, and the dinner was fine and the wine jim-dandy, but we’re out of practice, boy. We can’t even remember what you were like! So how can we help? We can’t!” The father lit a match and watched it flame around the cigar as he drew fire. “No, son. On top of which, we got another problem here. Hate to mention it. Don’t know how to say it—”

“What your father means is—”

“No, let me say it, Alice. I hope you’ll take this in the kindly spirit with which I offer it, boy—”

“Whatever it is, Dad, I will,” said the son. “God, this is hard.” The father slammed down his

cigar and finished another glass of wine. “Damn and hell, the fact is, son, the reason why we didn’t see you more often over the years is—” He held his breath, then exploded it: “You were a bore!”

A bomb had been tossed on the table to explode. Stunned, all three stared at one another.

“What?” asked the son.

“I said—”

“No, no, I heard you,” said the son. “I heard. I bore you.” He tasted the words. They had a strange flavor. “I bore you? My God! I bore you!”

His face reddened, tears burst from his eyes and he began to roar with laughter, beating the table with his right fist and holding to his aching chest with his left, and then wiping his eyes with a napkin. “I bore you!”

His mother and father waited for a decent interval before they, in turn, began to snort, whiffle, stop up their breaths, and then let it out in a great proclamation of relief and hilarity.

“Sorry, son!” cried the father, tears running down about his laughing mouth. “He didn’t really mean—” gasped the mother, rocking back and forth, giggles escaping with each breath.

“Oh, he did, he did!” shouted the son. “He did!”

And now everyone in the restaurant was looking up at the merry trio.

“More wine!” said the father.

“More wine.”