Ahead of their recent visit, d'Andre's wife Pam—
We interrupt this sentence so that I might express my supreme annoyance at having to type two apostrophes in a name.—called me. We chatted about Ohio State's football team, or as we like to call them, "our other common problem." When the call wrapped up, she implored both d'Andre and me to behave around their nine year old girl, Danielle.
"Can you two please curtail the racist crap around my daughter?"
"Sure," d'Andre said.
"Not a problem," I agreed. "We can pretend to be someone else."
CUT TO:
EXTERIOR - JOHN'S PITTSBURGH APARTMENT
THE NEXT DAY
I greeted Pam warmly at the door, and then d'Andre less warmly. I turned to Danielle, whom I have not seen since she was a baby.
I nodded and shook her tiny hand. "d'Sheni'qua," I said.
"Jeeeeezus," the kid said, glaring at her mother mid-handshake.
"That's your Uncle Egger," d'Andre said, visibly delighted that I broke character first. "Absolutely no relation."