Your father is standing in the Trader Joe’s frozen meat section absently rotating a plastic shovel. He has dug a wide, deep hole in the frozen meat section. Your father is proud of what he has done. You are nonplussed, but you are finding it difficult to move your face in a way that indicates anything but placid, unraveling indifference at what he has done. He is smiling. He has dug a hole the size of a small van in the middle of the store as if he were leading an archaeological dig in the ruins of Jerusalem and not a single Trader Joe’s employee has politely asked him to leave. He grabs an armchair and he is sitting in the middle of the hole. The hole is moist with melted frozen chicken ice. The hole is humming the Strausberg variations, orotund crumbling baritone, and your father is eating a jar of pickles, morose and incomprehensible, and the pickles are humming too.