“Yes. Hello Richard.”

“Did you see the movie they made from one of his short stories? The Philosophy of Paradise? Not my sort of thing, but it won a special prize at the Cannes Film Festival. Did you ever see it?” I extended my hand to the doctor. He was ignoring my father, which was okay with me. Why bother with something as boring as a proud parent, when you can mix it up with an actual somebody?

As I clasped my dad’s doctor’s smooth, dry hand, his brow furrowed. He searched my face with mock compassion and said, “And how are you doing, Richard?”

“Very well, thanks.” I girded myself to repeat for the umpteenth time a synopsis of A Gentle Death. He might have found my new book of interest. But no, that’s not what he was after. He had much bigger fish to fry.

“Richard, when was the last time you had your cholesterol checked?”

“What?” I was sorting my mental Cliff Notes, preparing my opening statement. (“This time I wanted to write something about personal history…”) But he wasn’t talking about that.

“You are your father’s son after all.”

Cholesterol—the key word. Oh, I got it. He wanted to play in his court. As his deceptively mild eyes searched mine, I had an urge to slap the professional smile off his face. Or maybe just give him a quick cuff behind the ear, and say “Cut it out, asshole. You’re not talking to one of your groupies now. I don’t buy your scare tactics.” Just one more high priest, this guy. Reminding every person he meets that only he can save them.

But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I meekly hopped up onto the examining bench and perched like a schoolboy while he pumped the blood pressure collar and pressed a stethoscope against my chest. I humored him. As if this was something I wanted to do.

Why would I have wanted this? Because I had an urge to bond with my dad before we had lunch and this is how I was going to do it. See? Me and Dad, we’re just two old guys visiting the doctor! Used to pee into the toilet bowl at the same time, now we’re giving urine samples together! And however we bond, we bond. A visit to the doctor is no more different than strolling through a car dealership to check out the cool new Mustangs.

And dear reader (whoever the fuck you are, I’m probably dead if you’re reading this) you know what’s coming, you’re ahead of me on this one, right?

The doctor frowned. Something wasn’t right. He wanted more testing. Right then before I left town. I told him that was impossible. Almost dragging my father after me, we escaped the clutches of the condescending quack. But not before I had sincerely promised Dad that I would visit my own doctor and endure a stress test when I got back to the city. Of course I was concerned too, but no way would I give this self-satisfied physician the gratification of being right about anything.