“I need to get that rattle checked out,” he muttered while pulling his rusted pickup into the parking lot of the football stadium. His svelte 13-year-old progeny sat quietly in the passenger seat staring out the window with his arms wrapped lovingly around a massive bulletproof backpack. They were both dressed from head to toe in black and gold.
“You think it’s the crankshaft?” the son asked innocently as he watched his diagnosis fog the glass.
“Fuck if I know,” the father hissed when backing his rig into the last parking spot in a long row of vehicles, ensuring there was enough space between his Chevy and the shiny SUV parked next to him. “And don’t even think about dinging my ride,” he sneered while staring down the Hyundai; shifting into park; quickly removing the keys from the ignition; then garishly proclaiming, “Let’s do this!” as he forcefully leaned his fleshy shoulder into the driver side door which eventually opened with a Jurassic squeal.
The son slid himself along the bench seat with his paraphernalia in tow and exited on his father’s side of the vehicle. He used both of his gloved hands to close the finicky door 95 percent of the way, chased by an aggressive butt bump for the remaining five.
A seagull circled the scene from above.
“How is the hussy?” the father hissed while attaching his keys to a carabiner on his belt loop.
“You mean your ex-wife, aka mom, the one who divorced you for cheating on her a half dozen times, the same one who now owns a ten percent minority share in these great Pittsburgh Steelers, oh, and the one that pays for my private education as well as your right to freedom?”
“Fuck you.”
The hovering gull swooped down and unloaded a massive splat of liquid shit on the windshield of the Colorado LT with the extended cab.
The father raised his fist and howled, “Never forget!” as he fumbled for his keys in the hope of grabbing a BB gun from the backseat of the Chevy before the seagull was out of range.
“You’re kidding right?” the son said while watching his dad squint as he locked his sights on the circling bird.
The father fired the flimsy rifle three times, scarcely coming close. “Let that be a lesson to you. I could have blown your fucking brains out,” he bragged as he tossed the gun into the back seat before kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot. “Now where were we?” he said to no one as his son had disappeared.
“Pops, I’m up here!”
“What the?” his father whispered, mouth agape and arms akimbo as he witnessed his son hovering twenty feet above the asphalt.
“It’s my new science project! I’ve been working on it all summer; a bucket seat drone that can transport anything under 90 kilos! Plus, it’s solar powered. Check me out!” he exclaimed while navigating figure eights.
“But what about the game? We have seats on the 50-yard line. And I’m fucking parched! I need a beer.”
“Sell my ticket. It’s a division game against the Ravens. It should be worth $500, at least!
He furtively admired his son’s ingenuity and happiness. Nevertheless, “Your loss,” the father said, flipping him the bird before hustling toward the entrance gate sporting a puckish grin.
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