“Write it, print it and send it to Phil, motherfucker,” said the skeleton of my father from his grave off that quiet road north of Peekskill. This struck me as a good indication of his impatience, I don’t ever recall him referring to me as ‘motherfucker’.
Eliot Widaen here, son of your former colleague at the Human Relations Unit Irv Widaen. That is, if you are indeed the Phil Trombino who had that magical 1967 season at Iona College when you hit like Ted Williams, torching the league at a .441 clip. I’m hoping you are, and that you’d be willing to talk to me about what you recall of the workings of the Human Relations Unit and any good stories you might have about Irv (I’m writing a memoir of his life). You can reach me at this address, or by email (here), or by phone or text (here). I hope you are well and I look forward to hearing from you.
“Was that so fucking hard? What did that take you, ninety seconds?” said the skeleton.
I wasn’t counting, dad, but it was probably around ninety.
“Shut up, print it and mail it, damn you,” he said, slouching back into his eternal bed.