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Breslin column; half soapbox, half water balloon.
    Wanda, not exactly Ariel Durant, wasn’t able to give Burt much perspective since she had the depth of a serving platter. Alan had never felt she was good enough for his father, but Burt had few complaints. She was his twenty-eight-year-old doll and made him happy no matter how much of a snipped kite she was. The word
dip
came to mind when contemplating Wanda. So did the word
user.
But Alan could never allow himself to say that to his father. It would’ve stabbed what little communication they’d managed over the years. It just wasn’t worth unscrewing the bulb over a woman who couldn’t understand peanut butter.
    And it didn’t help that Alan was hormonally thrilled by the sight of her. When the sun hit her just right, like a crew of overhead lighting techs, he could see himself in bed with her. Lost in tight little muscle caves. Sometimes he thought it would be so easy to just—
    Burt grabbed Alan’s shoulders.
    “Hey, you made great time. Played Pac-Man with your radar gun, huh?”
    The two laughed. But it was that strained sound thatdoesn’t make you think either person is that happy about things. Burt’s grape-green eyes blinked, waiting for Alan to fill in the blank. Alan was feeling it again; the way his dad always put him in that position. Waiting for Alan to do something. Expecting him to say something. Perform for him. Please the director. It was these moments Alan could see himself loading the chamber and pressing the barrel against Burt’s—
    “… happy birthday, Dad.” Alan walked closer, gave his father a big hug. Burt smiled, hugged back.
    See, it was things like that that drove Alan into the wall. Burt would hug like some big, loving, Italian father, then let go and stare. Not say a word. “Zorba goes zombie,” Dee used to say.
    “Hungry?” Alan asked, even though what he really wanted to say was, “Dad, I’m uncomfortable in your company, but I love you and I wish maybe together we could work on it and make it better. What do you say?”
    But he couldn’t. He’d opted for the safe topic. The habit. Anyway, he was only down for the day. How do you fix thirty-four years of being politely estranged from someone who gave you life and can barely see you, in an afternoon?
    “Starved. I was thinking you’d be getting here around now, so I skipped breakfast. Wanda went shopping … picking me up something at the last second, no doubt.”
    They walked toward the front door.
    “How is Wanda, Dad?”
    “Looks younger every day. I think her next birthday she’ll be what …?”
    “Twelve?”
    “Hey! I got a crazy idea for lunch. Little different than we planned. Okay with you?”
    Alan shrugged. Smiled. It was nice to be with his dad.
    The tram car tipped from the platform and groaned free, suspended by arm-thick cables. It had been made by the same firm that rigged the ones in Switzerland, which crept up snow-frosted mountains, snail-shuttling wool caps; red noses.
    Burt was moving from side to side, staring out the window, acting like Mr. Gyroscope.
    Alan felt sick.
    “Ever been up this thing? You’ll love it. It’s a kick. Goes from the desert floor, thousands of feet up. Snow up there, too. Believe it? We’re going to eat in the snow. Crazy place to live.”
    Alan acknowledged the wonder of it all by closing his eyes, trying to plug a cold sweat. Don’t pass out, you fucker, he told himself. It’s your Dad’s fucking birthday. Don’t be an asshole. Stay calm.
    “Hey.” Burt was pointing. “Over there. Mountain goat.”
    He ran a tanned hand over the railing under the window. “I mention your sister sent me a card? Cute message. The marriage must be wobbling, though. Loren didn’t sign it. Just her and the kids.” Burt gestured philosophically.
    Alan always dug Loren. But when he and Marie had this garlic/vampire effect on each other, it was hard to like either one. Good was quickly pleated into anger anddestruction when