You know, it’d be easier if you were an asshole about it.
“So, what’s the story?” Charlie asked, peeling the foil back from his cheeseburger. He stared straight ahead, out the windshield of the car, and into the night that was punctuated with streetlamps rather than stars.
Junior didn’t touch his food. He stared ahead as well, not wanting to look at his father. He wasn’t ashamed — no, shame was long past. But he was conflicted. He spoke quietly and flatly. “You know, it’d be easier if you were an asshole about it.” He looked at his father, hoping to glean some insight into his thoughts.
Charlie took a bite and chewed slowly, his face remaining stoic, a bit of grease dripping into his thin blonde beard. When he swallowed and promptly took another bite, Junior knew he wasn’t going to get an answer to that.
“I don’t suppose you’d take ‘I can’t tell you’ as an answer,” Junior turned his gaze back outside to the parking lot and failed to suppress a deep sigh. He could see the vague outline of his own face in the translucent reflection. He looked tired and dead, his own golden beard thick and unkempt. He suddenly felt as though that specter in the window wasn’t him, but was haunting him, and he shifted his gaze to his hands as they idly wrung themselves out.
Charlie wiped his mouth with a napkin and spoke, simply and sternly. “Well, I might. Why can’t you tell me?” He took another bite.
Continue reading “A Son’s Commitment”