Uncle Slappy called last night on the house phone—the only one who ever calls on the house-phone, save for robo-calls from corrupt political candidates and scammers who usually claim they are representing the electric company, the NYPD or the IRS.
“Boychick,” he began by way of no introduction. “Sylvie and I thought we lost Forrest Plotnick this morning.”
Forrest Plotnick was a lawyer from West 99th Street who lives next door to Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Slappy. He had a very nice practice and lives with his wife Hermione and their two King Charles Spaniels, Church and State (‘I always keep them separate,’ Plotnick says at least twelve times a day.)
“I knocked on Forrest’s door to get some breakfast,” Uncle Slappy said, “his wife was out of town, visiting their grandkids and we promised we’d look after Forrest.”
“That’s a good neighbor,” I added meaninglessly.
“Be down in a minute,” Plotnick said. “I’ll meetcha downstairs.”
“So Sylvie and I headed to the breakfast room. After 20 minutes, Plotnick was nowhere to be found.”
“’To his condo you should go,’ Sylvie urged.
“So to his condo, I went. Again, he said he’d be right down.”
“He’s usually so punctual.” I added.
“He should be,” the old man continued. “He’s a lawyer, he charges by the minute. Anyway, our whole breakfast we eat—with me having two toasted sesames, we must have for a hour been down.”
“That’s a big breakfast. You’re not worried about bikini season.”
Uncle Slappy ignored that barb.
“So up to his apartment, finished with breakfast, we again on the door bang.”
“Call the fire department,” I hear Forrest yell. “I have lost control of my legs and cannot get up.”
“Gott und himmel,” Syvie intoned, and she reaches into her handbag which contains in it rolls from our dinner three nights ago and coupons from the Bohack’s on West 92nd Street in 1966--the one with the eight items or less express line that was always closed. She pulls out a set of keys for the Plotnick’s apartment.
“They’re for an emergency,” said Uncle Slappy.
“So this isn’t an emergency,” Sylvie said.
“So we opened the door and there was Plotnick prostrate on the floor.
“I can’t get up. I have no strength in my legs. Call 411,” he shouted.
“911.” Slappy said, “411 is information.”
“Whatever,” said Plotnick from the floor.
Meanwhile Sylvie went over to Norman to calm him down. It didn’t take her long to determine what was the matter.
“Both legs in one pant hole he has,” she said, “and they’re stuck.”
“And sure enough, Plotnick had fallen from his own pants.”
“I suppose that happens all the time,” I said with more charity than sagacity.
“It happens all the time, yes,” Uncle Slappy said, “if your brain is scrambled like powdered eggs. Sylvie got him up and dressed.”
“It happens all the time, yes,” Uncle Slappy said, “if your brain is scrambled like powdered eggs. Sylvie got him up and dressed.”
“So Plotnick was ok,” I asked.
“OK, and pissed,” Uncle Slappy responded. “He was angry that we hadn’t brought him a bagel.”
And with that, the old man hung up the blower.
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