A very short story and some snaps

I don’t know…whatever

“Damn it Dick, the whole world’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket, and all you want to do is take photos of things we’ve all already seen—I mean sidewalks and sunlight and shit–and drink cheap tequila on the rocks in bars that claim to be either Black or Irish.”

‘Dick,’ Goldberg thought. Seventy-five fucking years old and he still couldn’t be sure if he was being called by a nickname name or a body part. “So show me a Jewish bar in New York–a real one. I don’t mean one that’s just owned by a Jew. Latanzzi’s is owned by a Jew. Maison Fou Fou is owned by a Jew.”

“You mean ‘Frou Frou.’”

“Whatever. Just show me one where there’s Klezmer music on the box—not Steve Lawrence and Edie Gorme or the Non-Nazi Clams.“

“And batter fried lox-wings with cream cheese dip?”

“Yeah, cream cheese fuckin’ dip twelve for a dozen!” Dick and Ron stared at each other, silent for the moment, then raised their glasses.

“Death to the Kaiser!”

And there it was, the toast of great and total healing, the eraser obliterating whatever grief each—however smiling—might have caused the other in the preceding fifteen minutes of lunacy projected as fact.