Croupier smoking a cigarette, hesitates picking up the red phone;
His father has a job for him, he doesn’t want it.
“Jacko, call Mr. Reynolds at the Golden Lion Hotel.”
I’m reminded of the little room in the school library
where I called my father up every day at noon
and I say:
“Listen to your father, Jacko. He can call. You can call. You’re there. He’s there. Some people can’t call anymore.
Some people you can’t call anymore.
Like Marion.”
