A Dead Red Heart

Following the sound of the blender into the kitchen, I jiggled the pharmacy bag under my dad’s nose. He turned off the blender. “That our meds?" I was having a hard time keeping a straight face. He was dressed in a dazzling green polyester slacks and a white shirt with a big collar. The seventies were all over the pages of Vanity Fair and Vogue, but somehow the retro look didn't quite translate to sixty-eight-year old men with thinning gray hair and jug-handle ears. I cringed at the matching lime green suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair.I put the bag on the table, drawing out one small bag for him and another for his buddy, Spike.“Okay. Heart meds, Lasix, arthritis pills, and Spike’s crazy pills.”“He can hear you, you know.”I looked down at the small brown Chihuahua, his tail beating an uneven rhythm in time to some inner demon. When he lifted a lip and snarled, I said, “And not a minute too soon, I see. When do you think the vet will take him off the Prozac?"My dad uncapped the bottle and tipped out a pill. The dog's ears went up in trembling anticipation. “He’s much better, don’t you think?”I studied the floor trying to find something kind to say about our resident Cujo, then got an eyeful of my dad’s shoes. He followed my stare down to his feet. "White for summer, right? They're already patent leather so I don't have to polish ‘em. Lucky for me, huh?"I worked my lips around the laughter bubbling up, imagining my father in retro style leisure suit, escorting his latest squeeze to a potluck at church, or better yet –a funeral and its wake. I slid a glance at the blender looking for a reasonable topic of conversation, but since the frothy blue concoction might or might not have Viagra as its key ingredient, I blurted, “You need a haircut!”