Everything Changes

unmistakable blood red. I feel an icy sensation in my belly, a tremor in my bowels. I study myself in the mirror for a minute, my brow furrowed in consternation. “That can’t be good,” I say.
    When I step into the shower, I find myself wistfully wondering what it could be, and if it might somehow get me out of the engagement party.

Chapter 2
    My father has an erection. I haven’t seen him in at least six or seven years, and he shows up on my doorstep at breakfast time with a hard-on that lifts his suit pants like a tent pole. “Hello, son,” he says, like Pa Kent to my Clark. Fathers from New York generally refer to their sons by their proper names. “Son” definitely requires a sun-drenched cornfield in the background. And fathers all over the planet generally tend to maintain a substantial distance between their offspring and their erections.
    “Norm.”
    “That’s right,” he says as if pleasantly surprised that I recognize him. “How are you, Zack?”
    “I’m okay. How are you?”
    He nods slowly. “Shipshape. Shipshape.”
    But seaworthy?
I wonder. “You have a hard-on.”
    “Yeah,” he says, looking down and shaking his head sheepishly. “I took some Viagra a little while ago, and it just won’t quit.”
    “Of course,” I say, like it makes all the sense in the world. “I always like to sport some wood when I visit the family.”
    My father grins, wide and devilish. “I had a sudden change of plans,” he says by way of explanation.
    “Well, I don’t think all of you got the memo.”
    He smiles good-naturedly, his perfect teeth gleaming white like a toothpaste commercial. “Teeth and shoes,” he used to say. “Teeth and shoes. You show up to a meeting with lousy teeth or shabby shoes, you’ve already made a bad impression, before you say word one.” He’s sporting a day or two’s worth of stubble that’s tellingly whiter than the ring of unkempt hair that encircles the radiant center of his balding head. He’s allowed these few remaining strands to grow ridiculously long in the back, and the effect is kind of like Jack Nicholson playing Ben Franklin, which would actually be an inspired bit of casting, if you think about it. Despite Norm’s pronounced gut, he’s somehow smaller and altogether less substantial than in my memories. I don’t keep any pictures of him around.
    “I heard you’re getting married,” he says. “Heard she’s a beautiful girl.”
    I don’t know how he could have possibly heard about it, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking. “She is,” I say.
    “Listen,” he says. “Can I come in?”
    “What for?” I say.
    His smile falters. “I’d like to talk to you.”
    “I’m late for work.”
    “Have you been getting my messages?”
    “Sure.” He’s been calling sporadically ever since the Twin Towers came down, leaving long, rambling messages saying that the tragedy had made him realize what was truly important, and that we needed to get together and talk. It’s typical of Norm to see the annihilation of some three thousand lives as an opportunity. I’ve taken to screening my calls.
    “Well, I can certainly understand why you don’t call back, but I am suggesting that I’m here in the interest of getting past all of that. I know I’ve let you down before. I’ve been a lousy father, no doubt about it. But I wanted to tell you, in person, that I’m sober now. Just hit my ninety-day mark—”
    “So now you’re an alcoholic?” I say skeptically.
    “I am,” he says with an air of practiced humility. “And I’m up to step nine of the twelve steps, which is making amends.”
    “Nice tactic, Norm,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from creeping into my voice. “The nine-eleven thing didn’t work, but who can say no to a recovering alcoholic, right? It’s brilliant.”
    “Naturally, you have every right to doubt me.”
    “You think?”
    He sighs. “Listen, I’ve been on my feet for a while already. Can I please just come in for a glass of water?”
    I peer down at him, trying for a moment to look past all of my issues and his bullshit and just see him for who he truly is, but all I can see is a sixty-year-old con artist in a worn, wrinkled suit, down on his luck, with the bad sense to play the sympathy card while sporting a chemically induced erection. He looks dirty, decrepit almost, and even though I’m disgusted with myself for the sudden wave of sadness and pity that washes over me, I let him into the