“Dinosaurs,” “Casino,” and “Disabled with Dog”

My childhood friend says:
I don’t believe in dinosaurs anymore.

I laugh

but he insists

he’s not kidding.
Stunned,
I search his eyes

for a glimmer

of the person

I’ve loved

since “Happy Days”

was on the air.

But a stranger

stares back

as if we didn’t climb

plumb trees together

in the summers

and pelt

each other

with Wilson

tennis balls

when we were bored.

I say:
Gotta go—talk soon.

But I know

we’re extinct now,

too.

My late dad

became a gambling addict

in his old age

and the amount

of energy

my family spent

denying

this fact

could fuel

a roulette wheel

spinning

to the moon

and back

more times

than Dad lost

cash

at the casino.

Brilliant and kind

with an askew wit

and wry grin

he was a wonderful

father

and indeed

my family

was quite well off

until I became

disabled

and my mom became

disabled

and my brother sustained

a massive

facial injury

and then

Dad’s heart

nearly murdered him

all within nine months

of each other.

The four of us

were pummeled

not against the

proverbial rocks

but by our own

bodies

and somehow that hurt

the worst.

Fellow Greeks

whispered

that instead we were

cursed

but we

remained stalwart

and bemused

because we knew

life

sometimes just deals you

a bad fucking hand

so no one

need bother

with a trifling curse—

life

like the casino

always

wins.

My brother

recovered

But Dad, Mom

and I

only grew

sicker

and in America

illness and disability

hurl you

into financial ruin

faster than saying

“Hit me”

when the cards

say 18.

Dad tried

with occasional

limited success

to win

our money

back.
He didn’t make us

anymore broke

than we already were

really

and blackjack

made him happy

as his heart

made him weak

and forgetful

and prone to getting

lost and falling

in the produce aisle

next to the same

food

his family

could never

afford

when he was a child

starving

in Nazi occupied

Greece.

But life

like the casino

always

wins.

I have to have

another surgery

next week

this one on my

heart.

Hi, Dad!

The four of us

were pummeled.

Life

like the casino

always

wins.

My dog Jordan and I

enter our local used bookstore

one of the last

such outposts

in an increasingly

unaffordable Seattle.

An employee

lumbers up to us

and yells:

IS THAT A SERVICE DOG?

I walk with a walker

and must wear

a mask.

Surprised

I ask:
Excuse me?

The owners keep

dog treats

behind the counter

and Jordan excitedly

drags me here

many times a week.

I look

irregular

but we’re regulars.

He repeats:
IS THAT A SERVICE DOG?
louder this time
and the other customers

swivel

and gawk.

I’m stunned.

I answer:
No, he’s a cuddly Pomeranian

and give what my late

best friend

called my

Spartan Death Glare.

I’m increasingly ill

—some doctors think

I’m dying—

and will not allow

this clown

to frighten Jordan

or humiliate me.

He yells yet again

like the world’s worst

windup toy:

WE HAVE NEW OWNERS!

YOUR DOG CAN’T BE HERE!

I now fervently hope

he never experiences

the correct

ratio of milk

to cereal

ever again

in his ridiculous life.

But I say instead:

You mean I can’t be here.

He storms off

in a cartoon

plume of smoke.

Jordan and I leave

and no one

comes after us.

We stop to get

my little dude

a dog biscuit

on the way

home.