The End of Hell

“Hello.”

“Dad.”

            “Matthew, it’s good to hear from you.”

            “How are things in sunny Florida?”

            “So-so.”

            “Any problems?”

            “Not exactly.”

            “Anything you want to talk to me about?”

            “Not really.”

            “Are you keeping busy?”

            “Not so much, lately.”

            “How about the card game?”

            “I stopped going.”

            “Why?”

            “Do you remember Maishie Cohen?”

            “Maish Cohen?  Maish Cohen?  Oh yeah, the heavy one with corny jokes.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Wasn’t he the one who smoked those stinking cigars?”

            “He smoked a cigar that smelled so, that if the EPA had sat in on our card game, we would have been considered a bigger threat to the environment than global warming.”

            “So what about Maish Cohen?”

            “He died.”

            “No.”

            “Yeah.  I can’t go back to the game and stare at an empty chair.”

            “I thought you couldn’t stand him.”

            “Well, he was a friend, except for the cigars and jokes.  It got so, I would say, ‘For Christ’s sake, Maish, deal the goddamn cards and stop with the Milton Berle jokes.’  To tell you the truth, now that he’s gone, I miss him like he was a brother.”

            “Are you still seeing that New York woman, Candice Schwartz?”

            “Not so much, anymore.”

            “Why?”

            “I think she was after my money.”