Yesterday my mother and I went to visit my grandfather. He’s a 94-year-old fedora wearing concentration camp survivor that still has a sharp sense of humor. We spend most of the visits listening to him list off reasons why he thinks the nurses are stealing his button down shirts–apparently they’re taking them while he’s sleeping and selling them to kids at the mall. He might be imagining this. I’m not sure who to believe. The nurses do seem a little shady, but on the other hand he’s been wearing the same button down shirts for thirty years. I don’t think any of the tourist at the mall are looking to buy button downs from a Miami Beach retirement home. But you never know.

After pointing out which nurses he thinks are stealing the most, he spends a solid ten minutes reminding me not to trust anyone. Going by what he has to say, eventually everyone I know is going to betray and backstab me (getting old seems so appealing). I guess if I spent four years in a concentration camp I might not be the most trusting of people either.

After the stories of the thievery and betrayal, he likes to ask questions about me–his favorite grandson. He’s never actually said I’m his favorite grandson, but come on, all my other cousins are super boring with kids. This is the thing, his memory has begun to falter in recent years so the same questions are usually asked every time. The most important being, “what are you going to school for?” This is guaranteed to be asked every time he sees me. I could be thirty-years-old and he’d still ask me this.

This is how the conversation went yesterday.

• My Grandfather: What are you going to school for?
• Me: English
• My Grandfather: English? You already know English.
• Me: Spanish?
• My Grandfather: Seriously, are you going to school to be a doctor or a lawyer?
• Me: Neither.
• My Grandfather: What do you mean neither? You’re Jewish, you become a doctor or a lawyer.
• My Mom: He’s trying to be a doctor of comedy.
• My Grandfather: What the heck is that?
• Me: I prescribe jokes to people who need them.
• My Grandfather: What’s it pay?
• Me: Nothing.
• My Grandfather: Yeah, be a regular doctor–they get paid better. They’re respected.
• Me: I think people respect my jokes.
• My Grandfather: What people?
• Me: The people who read my website.
• My Grandfather: What’s a website?
• Me: Nevermind. I’ll be a doctor.
• My Grandfather: Good. And once you have your license I want to you get a job here. There’s some nurses I need you to have a talking to. Did I tell you they’re stealing my shirts? Good shirts! They’re selling them at the shopping mall.

Becoming a doctor of jokes,

Daniel Dickey

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