“Oh, hi Arlen.” the old man said from his arm chair, still fumbling for his TV Guide.

The younger man crossed the room, a forced smile on his face. He took a chair by its back and effortlessly spun it backwards, straddling it like in the cop movies.

“Hiya Pop,” he said, ignoring the chirp of his blackberry in the belt holster. "How’ve ya been?

The older man looked through his son and grunted something about the TV Guide not being right. “I just wish they had one good Jimmie Stewart movie on. They just don’t have any of the classics on anymore.” He trailed off for a moment. “All that’s on is this damn American Idol shit.”

“I know Pop. I brought a DVD for you last time I was here, remember?”

“Hmm? It’s just…” He went back into his haze.

The young man stood again, kissed his father on the forehead, and walked out of the room. His mother waited in the hall, quiet and somber.

“I can’t tell him again, Mom.” he said. “Arlen’s been dead 6 years now. And I can’t tell him again.”