To the teen-age member of our family, home means two things: a bed and a door – the former to get into at the last possible moment and the latter to get out through at the earliest possible moment. Whenever Beth can get by with it she hops into bed with her clothes on so that she won’t lose a precious second heading for the door the next morning.
. . .
“Hey, aren’t you a little old for comic books?,” her father inquired as she cruised past.
Her flight plan was set for the stairs but she altered course and established a holding pattern in the hallway.
“It’s not a comic book,” she snapped. “It’s a Cowsills book.”
“Well,” her father persisted, “14 seems a little old for animal stories, too?”
“Animals stories!” she shrieked indignantly. “The Cowsills aren’t animals they’re a group!”
“What kind of group?”
“A group group, for gosh sakes. Honestly, Dad, sometimes you’re as square as a bushel of dice.”
“O.K., so I’m square, but what does this Cow group do?”
“They’re not a cow group, they’re the Cowsills – a pop g4roup. They’re this neat family – the kids play, their mom sings and they’re all getting rich.”
“Don’t these kids have a father?”
“Sure, but they don’t mention him much.”
“And what does the father do while everyone else in the family is busy getting rich?”
“Oh, I guess he just stays out of the way and doesn’t bother anybody. I mean with a groovy group like that who needs a FATHER cluttering up the act?”
“So, fathers are a drag, huh?”
“Oh, Dad, you know what I mean. It isn’t like they need him for allowances or that kind of … my allowance! You didn’t give me my allowance yet this week!”
“All right, here’s your allowance – go buy yourself a legal guardian or something.”
“Gee, Dad, why’d you say a crazy thing like that? Know what, sometimes I get the feeling we aren’t tuned into the same wavelength at all.”
“Know what, sometimes I get that very same feeling myself.”