Ten of my old pick-up game regulars attended this winter’s reunion at the west Berkeley bar. We discussed a few hearts, a hip, a cancer, two backs. Five of us still worked. Only one played basketball.
One fellow, who’d worked for the park district, told me he’d enjoyed “Cheesesteak” and regretted missing the launch party of “The Schiz” (flu). Copies were still available, I told him.
Three fellows had bought copies at the launch party. Two did not mention it. Which did not surprise me. But one, a lefty trial attorney, said, “I read your book.”
“What’d you think?” I ventured.
“It was funny.”
Which did surprise me. “Which book?”
“The new one.”
“‘The Schiz’?”
I mean, it is funny, but most people…
He said he had liked the skewering of lawyers and doctors.
He also said, when it got slow, he skipped ahead.
I did not believe it was ever slow, but, over all, I was pleased.
“How’s the heart?” I said.