I had always thought that bocce was the sport of kings until someone told me otherwise. Then I realized it was the sport of old Italian men. Granted, my father was not an old Italian man; he was half Portuguese, half Russian, and entirely without ethnic heritage. He told me once that his grandfather had been an immigrant, but given the fact that he also told me that men would walk on Mars in his lifetime, I didn’t really lend any credence to anything he said regarding the world of fact.

And now I had to tell him I was thinking of moving out of the house. Worse fates there may be in the world, but my father was not going to take it well. My mother wouldn’t take it well either, but she was a different story.

"So Ben, where’s the fire?" My father always thought I was too rushed. I’d tried to explain to him on numerous occasions that the world didn’t operate on his time, and that perhaps it would be better if he tried to operate on the world’s. My family was always late for everything when I was growing up. My father believed that time would go on flowing when my father was good and ready, so there was always a chapter to finish or another plate to clean. As a result, my parents’ house was very tidy and very well-maintained, and my father was reasonably wealthy, but my family was forever tarred with the reputation of being lazy.

"No fire Dad," I said, as I always said whenever my father asked me where the fire was. "Just hungry, that’s all." It was true; I was hungry. Having to wait for one’s meals might seem to be good for the digestion, and perhaps it was, but no matter how many times my father cooked dinner, I never seemed to get used to the fact that it was always several hours late.

"I’m trying a new recipe I got out of a book on Arabian cuisine," he beamed. "And then I changed a few things. I call it Saudi Samoan Sandwiches. They’re in pita." My father was the biggest international food junkie this side of Bangladesh, which I enjoyed. I take after him in my rather catholic tastes on food. But the problem with his cooking was that he could never leave well enough alone, so fusion was a word that could have been used to describe my father’s style of cooking. My mother preferred, "Awful," but kept quiet about it.

"What makes them Samoan?" I asked curiously, as I took a bite of mine. Then I stopped.

"Sugar cane!" crowed my father triumphantly, saying what I had just discovered. Sure enough, there were large slices of sugar cane in these sandwiches. "I found some at the store yesterday and I just had to buy it."

"Dad," I tried to say politely out of the side of my mouth, the middle still being filled with Saudi Samoa, "you do know that sugar cane doesn’t really... um... eat well."

"What do you mean? I thought the flavors..."

"No, it’s not the flavors. It’s the texture," I said, finally working up the strength of will and throat to swallow. "Sugar cane is very hard. It’s not meant to be eaten raw like this. You can suck on it or chew it, but it’s not like a pickle."

"I guess it’s a good thing your mother had her activist meeting tonight then," laughed my father. "Ah well, c’est la vie. Just pick out the tough bits. The rest of it is good, right?"

I didn’t answer, my brain trying to work out just what of the sandwich besides pita wasn’t a tough bit.

"Well anyway, what is life but experimentation," continued my father, digging into his dinner. He seemed to have no trouble with tough bits. I wondered whether or not he’d just added them to mine for a joke.

"Well, as long as we’re talking that way, I just wanted to tell you something," I said, throwing caution to the winds. "Mentha says she’s got some spare room in her attic and she wanted me to move in."

"Okay, so you can put some of your clothes up in her attic," said my father absently, chewing. "Your mother is always after you to get rid of those clothes."

"Um... no, you don’t understand. I mean, she wants me, as in my personal self, to move into her attic."

"Well, as long as you’re don’t wake us up when you get home..."

"I’m not going to be getting home. I’m going to be staying over there. I can come by and visit, but I’ll be living in Metha’s attic."

My father stopped chewing. Then he spit out a wad of sugar cane.

"But who’ll I bowl against in the afternoons?" came the question, finally. Bocce. The sport of Portuguese/Russians and their hapless progeny.