I have a telephone that makes the old-fashioned “ring” sound because it reminds me of old times at the farm, my family, and that most of my life was spent in the Twentieth Century. Anyway,the telephone woke me up early Sunday morning. After a few rings I picked up the receiver, and said“Hello.”

“Isaac?" Peter said.

“No, it’s Vincent," I said, laughing despite myself. "I’m the guy Isaac brought home from the disco last night.”

“Hah! There are no discos anymore, Isaac. People go clubbing these days.”

“Smart ass!”

“I’ll take you clubbing sometime, if you want.”

“No you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“I went with Adam and Stephen a couple of times. I enjoyed watching all the young guys dance, but I couldn't participate because I got too tired.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Okay, so I danced once. I thought I’d have heart failure right there on the dance floor and the boys would have had to call an ambulance and rush me to the hospital, and…”

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?"

“So, I won’t dance. Don’t ask me.” I confess I sang the old song to Peter on the telephone. My voice wavers with that old-man-raspy-voice quality that young actors use to great advantage when portraying us old farts.

“I had something a bit more sedate in mind anyway.”

“Like?”

To be continued.


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