Bozos and Cronies I walked into my favorite coffee shop awhile back and joined a table of my cronies who had gathered there. In addition to being worried about my daughter I was feeling a bit depressed that I’d reached a point in life where I had such a thing as a table full of “cronies”. They noted that I wasn’t my chipper self and asked what was wrong. “Well, nothing really, it’s just that my daughter....” “Say no more!” Cronie 1 said. “Daughter’s are a curse! Mine ran off to California with a guy who sells Tupperware out of his trunk. He travels while she watches his three kids from a previous marriage.” I smiled and said “Ahhhh.” in that non-committal tone we use when we don’t want to criticize lest opinions and alliances change later. “That’s nothing.” Cronie 2 said. “Mine shaved her head, hocked her college books to buy tattoos and then moved to Philadelphia where she plays the trombone on street corners.” “At least she has a marketable talent.” Cronie 1 said. “What talent?” Cronie 2 wanted to know. “She doesn’t play the trombone. Somebody left it under the seat of the bus she rode to Philadelphia. The people who put money in the case are encouraging her to stop playing the damn thing.” “Are your all crazy?” Cronie 3 chimed in. “With daughters you’re all blessed. Sons, now there’s a heartache! My oldest just got out on parole and celebrated by getting drunk and painting a police car maroon. Now my kid’s back in the slammer.” They turned to me with great trepidation “Where is your daughter?” They asked hesitantly. “Or don’t you know?” They lowered their eyes in anticipatory commiseration for whatever tales I had to share about my daughter-gone-bad. “Well...actually...I do...she’s in college...she’s gone back to get her master’s degree.” “And she’s living with a rock band?” Cronie 1 asked hopefully. “No.” I said. “She lives in a dorm with two of her girlfriends from our old neighborhood.” They exchanged uncomfortable glances. “And you’re depressed because....because she has a drug problem?” Cronie 2 hoped. “Certainly not!” “Don’t tell me...she’s pregnant and the father’s....” Cronie 3 glanced around the table for suggestions. Finding none he plunged ahead. “...the father’s...a FATHER! A catholic priest...who...who’s going to leave the church and support your daughter by....by...” They were getting desperate. Cronie 1 finished the thought. “...by selling Amway products over the internet!” He was sure he’d nailed it. “No guys. You’re not even close. I was just a little down because I hadn’t gotten a letter from her in a couple of weeks.” They licked their lips in nervous anticipation. They were sure there was more. They wanted to know more. There had to be more! I sipped my coffee and one by one they came to the disgusted conclusion that there simply were no further delicious details to be had. I had stated my entire complaint. Their eyes grew cold and distant as they took disgusted turns slapping their dollar bills down on the table and sliding out of the booth. I realized it was a defining moment and that if I wanted to keep my friends I’d better do something quick. “She took a day trip into Mexico once!” I blurted. “With three other kids! And she didn’t know one of them...very well.” That even sounded lame to me but I was desperate. The attempt only intensified their disdain. They left leaving me to contemplate my pathetic excuse for a crisis. Cronie 2 stopped at the door and turned back. He looped a comforting arm around my shoulder. “Actually.” He said. “Your daughter does have a serious problem that you may not be aware of. It’s one that will be much more difficult for her to overcome than any of our kids face.” “What is it?” I whimpered. He shook his head with grave concern and leaned forward conspirationally. It was going to be worse than I thought; so horrible he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud “Her father’s a Bozo.” He whispered, and left. I finished my coffee and walked to the nearby post office. Inside my box was an envelope with a familiar postmark. The letter began “Dear Dad” and ended with “I love you.” I whistled all the way back to the office and decided that bein’ a Bozo wasn’t such a bad gig after all.