Like during softball season.
He claps, loudly, three times as he struts through the double glass doors into the reception area. As if we needed an announcement that John Yarmouth was officially in the building. His full head of white hair is covered by a baseball cap, a stark contrast to his tucked in button-down shirt and khakis.
“Hey, hey now, team!” he calls out.
I sigh, push my chair away from my desk, and poke my head out of my office door.
“There’s my ace in the hole!” Dad booms.
Poor Daisy—the sixty-six-year-old receptionist—ison the phone, and either Dad’s too blind to notice or too egocentric to care. At six footthree, he towers over the reception desk. “I’ll have him call you back soon, Mr. Parker,” she says with her hand cupped over the mouthpiece.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” I ask.
Before he can respond, Gordon Aycock power walks his brown-nosing ass right past me and over to my dad. “So great to see you, Jack!”
My father’s name is John Yarmouth. Gordon is the only dipshit who calls himJack.
“Hiya, sport!” Dad says, giving Gordon a heavy-handed pat on the back.
“To what do we owe this great honor?” Gordon says.
I look at Daisy. She rolls her eyes at me and hangs up the phone.
“Team uniforms!” he announces.
Gordon looks around. “Where are they? Are they in the car? You want me to go get them?”
“That’d be great, Gordy. Thanks,” my dad says, handing him the keys.
“No prob. Be right back!” he announces, rushing out the door.
“Hi John,” Daisy says. “Sorry about that—I had a client on the phone.”
“Good to see you, Daisy! No problem at all! Love to catch people working hard.” He looks my way. “What about you, son? Busy day, today?”
“Yup. Sure is.”My schedule is literally empty.“Right, Daisy?”
“Oh, yeah. Colin’s got a Zoom meeting in about ten minutes and then a call right after that,” she corroborates.
“Well, we better get you your uniform straight away then. Let me get a look at you!” I emerge fully into the reception area. He nods. “Okay, okay. Not bad. What do you bench these days?”
Nope. I run and lift free weights, but I haven’t used the bench press since college.“About 180,” I say.
“And what do you weigh?” he asks.
Daisy raises an eyebrow.
“About the same, Dad.”
“Colin, Colin. Those are rookie numbers! Kids your age should be benching more than a hundred percent of their body weight, you know?”
“I’m sorry.Kidsmy age? I’m thirty-one years old.”
“Yeah, I know, but you get my drift. You can push a little harder. Put in a few two-a-days at the gym. You’ll be benching at least two hundred in no time.” He gives Daisy a wink. She gives me the side eye.
“And what exactly doyoubench, Dad?” I ask, but I’m interrupted by Ass-Hat-Aycock, who has returned with a big cardboard box in tow.
“Here ya go, Jack!” he says, breathing like he just finished running the goddamned New York Marathon.
