You can’t do nothing. I mean if you’re doing, then it’s always something. And I’m pretty sure that it isn’t a double negative either because I think in this case, nothing is a positive. But I’ll leave that for the English majors to sort out. All I’m saying is, you can’t do nothing, but that morning I was doing as close to it as humanly possible. Then the phone rang.
My dad’s voice came over the airwaves through the hazy hiss of his favorite fifteen-year-old wireless earpiece. “Hey spaz. Why haven’t you called?”
I said, “Hi, Dad. Sorry.”
And Dad said something along the lines of, “I’m starting to feel like you don’t love me anymore.”
I laughed and said, “Shut up, you goof.”
“Oh gee,” he told me. “Now you’re making me feel all warm and fuzzy.” He goes, “Listen, Poopernickel, I know you’re just sitting around doing precisely nothing and I know that you could probably use some bread in your pocket.”
I told him he was making me sound like some kind of freeloader.
“Well, aren’t you?” he said.
I told him, “Yeah, but.”
“Yeah,” Dad said. “Well, as luck would have it, somebody stole something from me. Something precious.”
I said, “Oh no. What?”
And he told me his collection of skin mags had been stolen. He said, “I thought I could pay you to come down and help me get them back.”