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"He has some friend who owns a restaurant or something. Mario. I think he helps Dad."
"Who?"
"I don't know, Chelsea. Don't ask. Some weird Italian guy who thinks Dad is hilarious. It's very strange. I think he thinks Dad has money or something. I don't know what's going on there."
"What do you mean, 'what's going on there'? What do you think is going on?"
"Well, nothing sexual, if that's what you're getting at."
"What?"
"I know how your mind works, Chelsea."
"Really, Sloane? You think that I think Dad is sleeping with an Italian man?"
"I don't know."
"Sloane, shut up. I'm asking why Mario would be doing anything for Dad."
"Maybe Mario's the Jamaican cleaning lady's pimp," she speculated. "I have no idea. I tell you I think he thinks Dad has money."
"Who would think Dad has money? He wears house slippers to temple and has hair growing out of his eyes. Not to mention he drives a minivan that looks like the Rock of Love bus."
"Chelsea, he tells people about his homes and describes them using words like 'paradise' and 'ecstasy.' "
"Ew."
"If I were you, I would change my last name, because he's got more energy than ever, and I don't think he's going to die anytime soon."
"That's wonderful. Well, he has to reimburse this woman, and not only for her deposit. He needs to give her all her money back."
"He probably already spent it. He just borrowed another five thousand dollars from Ray, after he sat in my living room, ate an entire pizza, and told me I looked like I put on a few pounds."
"Oh, my God, what is wrong with you people? Why do you keep giving him money? He's never going to sell the Livingston house if you guys keep loaning him money."
"Ray told him that's the last time. Greg's going over there next week with a Realtor to talk about listing the property. He told Dad he has no money left, and we all have families to raise and that he is cut off monetarily from all of us."
"I'm calling Dad. I'll call you back."
"Don't tell him I e-mailed you that letter, Chelsea. He'll call me and yell at me-or worse, come over. He already has one of his cars in our driveway and is mad at me because I told him it was embarrassing and asked him to move it."
Sloane's kids were both screaming in the background without any reaction from her, so I hung up. I was disgusted with her lack of respect for herself and her driveway. I looked at Ted, who was shaking his head in disgust.
"Has anyone tried to talk to your father about the legal ramifications of renting a house that is in such disrepair?" Ted asked. "I mean, someone could hurt themselves and he could lose the entire property."
"No, Ted, no one has ever said anything to him about it," I said as I smacked the palm of my hand against the side of my forehead. "Of course we've told him! He's a giant fuckwad who thinks the whole world is out to get him. He doesn't listen to anyone, and he is not a reasonable person. We're dealing with a psychopath."
Ted couldn't grasp how my father couldn't be reasoned with. He grew up with parents who paid their bills on time, got their shots on time, and pi
I picked up the phone and dialed my father's number, half hoping it would be disco
"Is that you?" he answered, in the singsongy way he answers the phone every time I call, as if we are about to reminisce about all the amazing days of my childhood when I would get screamed at for not knowing the capital of Hungary.
"Yeah, it's me."
"How ya doing, love? I miss you."
"That's nice, but I just got a letter from one of your Vineyard rentals that is about three pages long detailing everything that was wrong in the house."
"Who?"
"You know who, Dad. A letter from the woman who brought twelve people to the Vineyard and nothing in the house worked." I looked at the letter on my computer. "A Mrs. Danziger."
"Oh, that woman. She needs a psychiatrist."
"No, Dad. You need a psychiatrist."
He chuckled at this. "That woman complained about everything. She was a pain in the tuchus when she called me on the phone to rent the property in the first place. I should have known then she was going to cause problems. She's a schoolteacher from West Virginia. West Virginia's got the highest delinquency rate in the country, Chels. Woman is obviously confused."
"Dad, the freezer and the refrigerator did not work. They had melted squid leaking out onto the kitchen floor, and the dishwasher was broken, and that's only the first paragraph."
"Chelsea, that squid I left for them was a welcoming gift. I had some extra left from a little barbecue I threw and thought it would be a nice gesture to leave it for them, and this is the response I get?" He followed that with a loud grunt and a cough that sounded like he was spitting up a chicken wing that had gone down the wrong pipe.
"What was that?"
"A rib, that's all," he declared, and was back to speaking clearly again. I looked at Ted, who was reading the Robb Report, then back at the letter.
"A barbecue you held? Since when do you throw barbecues? I thought you just eat at McDonald's every day."
"That's right."
"What's right?"
"Both are right, but there's no McDonald's on the Vineyard, so I had a couple of friends over."
To be very clear, my father has no friends, so when he says anything intimating that he does, I know more likely than not he is referring to one of his Jamaican girlfriends. None of my brothers and sisters can get an honest answer from him regarding his personal life, and, to be honest, we'd rather not know the details. We just know that he is very secretive, has a prescription for Cialis, and frequently has over young black Jamaican women who are supposedly "cleaning" and hide in the bathroom when someone drops by his house una
"Who would come to your barbecue?"
"What kind of question is that?" he asked, still in a jocular mood. He was enjoying our little conversation and didn't know it was about to go south fast.
"A pretty good one, if you ask me. You left all the food on the barbecue grill and didn't even clean it when you were done, and since when do you even know how to operate a barbecue, Dad? What are you even talking about?"
"Chelsea, darling, you are in such a precarious mood."
"Please don't call me darling. Actually, don't call me Chelsea either."
"Well, what would you suggest I call you, then?"
"Who were you up there with, and why didn't you have your little cleaning-lady girlfriend clean up your mess before you left?"
"I don't know what you're referring to, love, but I told the maids to come before I left, so if they didn't, then obviously they're unreliable. I don't see how I'm at fault."
I could tell from the inflection in his voice that he wasn't comprehending the seriousness of my mood. This had happened throughout my childhood, but with the roles reversed, with him chasing after me with whatever food item was closest to him.
"Listen up, fathead." I wanted to get to the point of the phone call and had to make up something that would force him to reimburse this woman's funds. "I just got a call from the Martha's Vineyard Times, and guess what they said?"
"What?"
"They said they're writing a story about the fact that Chelsea Handler's father, who owns property on the Vineyard, is misrepresenting his home to renters, even after several complaints that have been ignored by you, and they have the woman's letter, which they are pla
"Who called?" The lilt in his voice was replaced with a crack and a shot of adrenaline.
"A reporter from the Martha's Vineyard Times, Dad. You are not allowed to misrepresent a property, not clean it, have no appliances working when they get there, broken screen doors, and a cellar that you try to pass off as a bungalow. Are you out of your mind?"