Paradise

I spent a few minutes speaking to my sister in New York on the phone the other day. Her husband joined us on the line, and eventually, as little ones do, their three year old replaced my sister and began interrupting everything his father said. We listened to what he had to say, and then J would repeat himself. It was that way that we carried on our friendly conversation on Ultraviolet up close and personal. He happened to score a job working for the semi-famous singer, song-writer, visual artist, old buddy of Andy Warhol's, member of his factory, lover of Salvador Dali, convert to the church.

Then, after reassuring my nephew I would take him camping in Minnesota next week (build a tent, have a fire, roast a marshmallow--or seven)he asked the question.

"Who are you talking to?" he inquired in that out-growing your childhood, sing-songy, innocent baby voice of his.

"I'm not talking to anyone, R" I replied--And continued to rant and rave of the glory days, my college years, when I studied art, and knew a professor who knew a purple-crazed lady with little patience, but an eye for truth.

"Who are you talking to?" he interrupted again.

It was then that I realized I had been talking to someone located in the next room in R's apartment. He didn't realize I was talking to his father.

"I am Klatu, the Robot," J deceivingly admitted.

...

"What does Klatu do?"
"Why is Klatu not at my house?"
"Will Klatu go camping with us?"
The little guy asked, until of course, they were formally introduced.

"R, Klatu tells jokes. You should ask him to tell one."

"Will you tell a joke, Klatu?"

"Knock! Knock!" the robot spoke.

"Now you have to say 'Who's there'" I instructed.

"Who's there?" he responded.

"Alena," his robot accent revealed his roots--the outermost sector of the galaxy.

"Alena, who?"

"Alena little closer, and I will tell you."

No laugh, but an immediate response:

"Knock! Knock!" their roles changed, as R began to tell his own.

"Who's there?" replied Klatu.

"Reuben."

"Reuben who?"

"Reuben Sandwich."

...

And, so the story goes, in the upcoming weeks Klatu will camp and sing and tell intergalactic tales, to his son, who will happily listen, on the phone, as Klatu, will call to inform him his battery was not charged in time to make it on the plane from Utah to paradise--a place that is referred to, on occasion, as Minnesota.