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He sports a T-shirt worn over a sweatshirt, and his shoulders slope. Over lunch you’ve learned that this son rides trains up and jay z down California. My son the hobo, the man said. You always thought of hobos as men whose jay z wives had left them, men in stinking overcoats and dirt in jay z the creases of their faces and tennis shoes. The man said he is sure his son does not take drugs, and you hoped the man was gaining some solace from that assumption. You learned more about the son, who looks like the front man of a Sunset Boulevard band. To your surprise you discovered the son—Damien? Josh? You try to remember if the man has mentioned a name—is a Berkeley dropout with a Muslim wife (the man draped a paper napkin over his head at this point), who mans a flower kiosk at a Los Angeles mall. My Ephraim and his Fatima, man and wife, Jew and Muslim, that’s how I raised them, the man said.
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