Like Holden, I don't feel like sharing stories full of nonsense and drivel like in David Copperfield, although in my case, a few stories about my parents might be more interesting than reading about myself. My father, for example, was born in Brooklyn when it was all farmland, worked as a ticket taker for the Brooklyn Dodgers, was a billiards hustler, a bookmaker, a small man but a tough Jewish guy with fashionable shirts, and had perfectly combed-back hair with a diamond-like shine like George Raft. He didn't go to high school; he joined the Navy at sixteen, during an execution in France when they lined up an American sailor against the wall because he had raped a local girl. A decorated marksman, he always liked pulling the trigger and carried a pistol with him until the day he died, with thick silver hair and impeccable eyesight. One night, during World War I, his ship was hit by a shell somewhere beyond the coast in the icy waters of Europe. It sank. Everyone drowned except three who swam three miles to the shore. He was one of the three who managed to face the Atlantic. But that was also the moment I almost wasn't born. The war was ending. His father, who had made a little money, always spoiled him, favoring him over his two foolish brothers. And I mean truly foolish.