Another One of His Punishments by Paul Beckman

My son and I meet in the City, dinner and talk. And drink. More and more drink as time goes by. He is quite the drinker, my son is, Old Overholt Rye on the rocks–a drinkers drink. None of those blends that people call Rye. Who am I to talk? When I was his age, twenty-seven, I was out drinking every night and my poison of choice was Tequila.

But it’s not the same. Sometimes I think he needs his golden anesthesia to tolerate our time together. We hug hello and goodbye and he never acts embarrassed to kiss me when he sees me. We never have a bad time, not like the old days, which were rocky as all Hell. That’s okay. Fathers and sons should have a little conflict to make them stronger and bond as more than just parent and child when they get older. By now we should be bonded at the hip, but I worry that he’s getting the Irish disease which is even worse for a Jew than for a Mick. I should know.

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The World’s Greatest Painting by James Freeze

When he was a young boy, he had pictures of cartoon superheroes taped to the walls of his room.

When he was in high school, his walls were covered with pictures of great athletes.

In college, he had posters of movie stars on the walls of his dorm room.

When he got his first job, framed pictures of fancy sports cars were on the walls to motivate him.

As he moved up the corporate ladder, his walls became almost completely covered with personally autographed pictures of celebrities he had met over the years.

On the day he retired from his position as the CEO of a Fortune 500 Company, he packed up his belongings all by himself. He went back to the office one last time to take down the only remaining painting left on the walls.

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