“Read well, but don’t ever become well-read.”
My dad at this time in his life had skin the color of chicken fat, like they used to keep in pitchers at old Jewish restaurants. His hand pointed with a limp index finger grown enormously fat, or perhaps that was loose skin making it look so.
He had come to live by the Port Authority. Or at least that’s where I always saw him. He probably lived somewhere else and just hung around at the Port Authority during the day; it’s strange that I never knew where he lived, even though we were close. After him and my mother separated he became hard to find. We would meet for a bag of potato chips in one of the parks. Each time I’d offer to pay for something nicer and he refused.
Dews and Don'ts 