Change of Address

Having left Boston's South Shore for the allegedly tonier North Shore, I am now happily ensconced in a domestic partnership with Kathleen, the hospice nurse and mental health counselor. Some would call it living in sin, but I claim that, after 50, it's only venial sin.

The Quincy house is now occupied by lovely daughter Erin Kate and her best friend. Erin's former pad on the top floor has now been converted into an emergency stopover station for me, my brother, or my son and his wife as needed. Since it's outfitted with my leather, oak, and brass furnishings, we have taken to calling it "Mantown."

Erin the Tenant's comments usually go something like this: "Dad, we're having company so don't come down, because you might freak out. But the pool filter pump isn't working right, so come down and fix it, but then leave."

The move went well, except for a few minor glitches. One occurred when we suddenly decided to buy a timeshare on the Cape, so I needed to get five thousand dollars from my brand-new North Shore bank account. Unfortunately, I was having trouble with the tonier North Shore pollen, so Kathy had given me a tonier North Shore antihistamine that essentially prevented any consequential thought or intelligible speech while giving my eyes the dazed sheen of a crack addict. I probably shouldn't have gone to the bank unshaven wearing a royal blue hoodie and shorts, either.

The young female teller looked up and saw the apparition described above approach her window.

"I nee' five thousan' dolliz'," I managed to mutter. "I doan know my coun' numba."

"You can't just have five thousand dollars," she replied, probably reaching for for the silent alarm.

"No, hhhheah!" I handed her a personal check from a Quincy account to cover the withdrawal.

She looked at the check like it was used tissue. "You'd have to wait for this to clear. It will take three days."

"No, I nee' now!"

She began to look around for the manager. I began to look for Kathleen to serve as interpreter and character witness.

"I'm sorry, sir. You'd have to be able to cover this with deposited funds."

"Funz? I got funz. I got lotsa money in this bank. Lookitup."

"You do?" She reluctantly punched in my SS number, found my account, and determined that I was, indeed, solvent. By this time, Kathleen had retrieved Jamal, the bank executive who'd opened my accounts, to expedite the transaction.