When Life Gives You O.J. Read Online Free PDF Page A

sea robin triumphantly.
    “How come Charlie didn’t win?” I interrupted.
    Ace stopped midstory, turned, and stared at me. This wasn’t in the script. We were supposed to say our parts at the right times, or keep quiet and listen.
    “HOW COME WHAT?” he said.
    My heart beat faster, and I began talking to match it. “The contest was for catching fish, right? Like with a fishing rod. You didn’t catch that sea robin. It just sort of landed on you. So it shouldn’t count.”
    Ace studied me. “YOU ARE SUGGESTING IT WAS A TIE?” he asked slowly.
    “No,” I said, feeling dangerous. “I am suggesting that Charlie won. Because he actually hooked one more fish than you did.”
    Ace was silent. For a second he was going to congratulate me for making a good point. But then I saw my dad glance nervously in the rearview mirror.
    “NOT BEING A FISHERMAN,” Ace started, “YOU MAY NOT REALIZE THAT
CATCH
IS IN FACT A TERM OF ART. WHEREAS …”
    As soon as he said the word
whereas
, I knew I was sunk. My dad had warned me about this shortly after we moved to Vermont and Ace started living with us. The subject came up because of Ace’s beloved golf shoe collection. His golf shoes had spikes on the bottom, so they left these little polka dot prints all over the living room carpet and made clicking noises on the kitchen floor. Every time my mom would remind Ace to leave his golf shoes at the door, Ace would launch intoa lecture about arch support. Finally, my dad solved the problem by getting this tool for unscrewing the spikes.
    “I am the Zen master,” said my dad proudly after Ace walked off, happy yet spikeless. “Let this be a lesson to you, kids. Never argue with your grandfather.”
    “Why not?” I asked. My mom says that the fact that my dad doesn’t enjoy arguing is one of the reasons she married him. But, unlike my dad, sometimes I can’t help it.
    “Because,” said my dad, “Ace has high blood pressure, and when he argues, it gets elevated, which is not good for his health. Besides, with Ace, you will never win.”
    “But what if—” I started to ask, but my dad raised a hand to stop me.
    “You will
never
win,” he repeated.
    Sure enough, Ace went from
whereas
to the rules, the regulations, and what he called the “social morays” of fishing. By the time he was finished, I felt like a total idiot for suggesting that there was any doubt in anyone’s mind that Ace had won the fishing contest, fair and square.
    “Morays?” asked Sam. “Like a moray eel?”
    Ace stared at Sam for a long moment. Then he broke into a smile and let out a huge belly laugh. He put one arm around Sam’s shoulder and gave him noogies with the other while Sam protested, chortling with laughter.
    It was official. Ace loved Sam, and Bubbles loved me.
    Boy, did I miss Bubbles.

    Bubbles became Bubbles when I was a baby because I got
bubbe
, the Yiddish word for “grandma,” and
bubbles
, like in a bath, all mixed up and it stuck. When I was little, Bubbles and Ace lived in Brooklyn, right near us. But when Ace retired “from the bench,” he and Bubbles surprised everyone by announcing they were moving to Vermont. I guess it was so they could have more space and Bubbles could have a real art studio. Bubbles loved Vermont and claimed the light there was better for her painting. “And there’s no traffic, and not so much noise,” she used to say, for Ace’s benefit. Ace often replied, “SO WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO KVETCH ABOUT NOW? THE COWS?” “You’ll think of something,” teased Bubbles.
    Bubbles and Ace’s house in Vermont was called The Farm, even though there weren’t any cows or chickens or anything. There was a field out back, though, and Bubbles would take me on walks through the tall, sweet-smelling grass. I would hide and she’d say loudly, “Oh no! Have I lost her again?” I’d wait until I felt like I might burst, then I’d spring up and surprise her. She would always explode with laughter and what