Umberto D.

Matty, my personal biographer, has been on this Italian neorealism kick lately. He saw my copy of Umberto D. when he was over the last time, so we watched it together. It had been years since I’d seen it, and there was an aspect of film I understood now that I’d missed before: who was going to look after me when I got older?

Mads, my Norwegian companion, came home, and I broached the issue with him.

"You’re worried about that? You’re ridiculous."

"I am not. It’s easy for you to say when you have seven or eight kids. You’ll be well taken care of when you’re senile. I have no one: no kids, no family."

"What about your niece with the kid that all the politicos want to get a hold of?"

"Does that count?"

"Why not? Besides, I’m not sure you noticed, but Umberto was struggling to procure 10,000 lira a month for rent. You’re worth like $220 million dollars. Remember, the porn spamming device you and those guys developed at MIT?"

"Hmm, I never thought of it like that. I could probably pay for my own Maria, right?"

"God, Maria, she was hot as hell, huh?"

"She was also 15."

"Well she’s not now, right?"

"No, she’s like 73."