Who among you would not have six billion questions for your new brother in law…a man who
worked as an FBI agent in the J Edgar Hoover era.
Unfortunately, the first time I met him was at my brother’s funeral….and that MIGHT NOT HAVE BEEN THE BEST TIME TO PEPPER HIM WITH QUESTIONS.
“So, Art, is is true that Edgar dressed as a shapely woman at private parties and called himself Mary?”, I quietly asked.
“Uh, Greg, we never comment on that.”
“Come on, Art, he’s dead! Tell me!”
“Art, that photo of Dillinger outside the Biograph theather…that thing under the tent, was that Dillinger’s dick?”
“Greg, I wasn’t even alive then.”, cursed Art.
“Art, everybody knows that you guys kept dirt on everyone….how many women did JFK shtup?”
“Greg, the next person in line wants to express his condolences to you.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure Art, but nothing we can do for my brother….so, Martin Luther King, he was doing the honeybadger dance with Rosa Parks or what?”
My sister leans over Art’s shoulder, iciest of glares…”Greg, this is hardly the time or the place.”
“Got it, sis.”
Stop for a minute to pray for my bro….
“So, Art, were you knee deep in the Bay of Pigs fiasco…I can find out, you know, lots of pics on the Internet.”
“Greg”, said Art, “this is the first time I have met you, and this is the day that your brother is moving on to the next world, but obviously this event is a lot more about what you need than what your family needs.”
I was impressed with Art’s statement…whew, brutal.
Paused for twenty seconds.
“OK, Art, you are so very correct on this, just one more question, Patty Hearst, was she porkin’ Field Marshall Cinque in that little LA one bedroom house?”
Art left the line, a conspicuous gap that my sister bridged in short order.
“Greg, that was so inappropriate.” she lasered between clenched teeth.
Well, OK, day one with Art did not go well. I will admit that.
Further family functions took place. And Art avoided me like I was Ebola Eddie.
Couldn’t get within twenty feet of him…..but oh, did I try.
Art, I believe, counted the seconds till he boarded the plane back to California, three thousand miles away from me.
What the hell, I’m retired, and I am sick of staring at my piggy man cave…maybe Sis and Art have a spare bedroom.
Just want to ask him if Edgar and his assistant director put on the dog in Hoover’s office.
Appropriate question, no?