My Last Project With My Dad: Building My Own Coffin
My father’s 86th year, which would prove to be his last, began at the Washington Square Hotel in Greenwich Village. Dad and I sidled up to the reception counter, a conspiratorial air between us, checking in. We’d secreted my 21-year-old son, Evan, off to wait in Washington Square Park so the hotel staff wouldn’t pick up on the fact that we were sneaking three grown men into a room with two twin beds.
After stealthily reconvening in the little room, we set off on our adventures. Dad, a retired engineer, had a list. A beer (two, actually) at McSorley’s Old Ale House. Spaghetti in Little Italy. Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. At every restaurant and bar, I strategically mentioned that it was my dad’s 85th birthday, even though this was technically true for only one of the four days we spent in the city. I did this not so much to celebrate my father as to try to score free drinks. All it got us was a single limoncello, for him, at
