Tom

Tom shifted in the seat, the stiff plastic meant to imitate leather creaking beneath him and digging into the bare skin below the hem of his shorts, “You see what I’m saying though, right?” He raised his brows with both expectation and emphasis to the man across from him. “If our fathers had just been more willing to express their faults, rather than exaggerate their victories...”

The man glanced over his shoulder, acknowledging him from behind mirrored glasses, “No I get it,” The man nodded, “It’s like... fuck, just tell me how it really is... instead of spinning me up on this fairytale I’m supposed to... what, be? fulfill? Whatever...Then you’re there, did your best and it’s not the fairytale. I get it. Fed a line of bullshit.”

“Exactly!”, Tom shifted in his seat, rubbing his thumb against his wrist; the tension and the gravity somehow soothing in this interaction. Skin on skin. Friction and warmth. “We do it to ourselves and we pass it along – moral herpes. I can learn from what you fucked up. Give me the fucked up, feed me, educate me so I can mitigate it! But if everything is so artificially polished in the aftermath...?”

The man tossed his sunglasses on the seat next to him, rubbing the bridge of his nose in both habit and thoughtfulness, “Then life is just a trophy, right? Some bar that was set – an ideal to be chased and revered? But never fucking honest.”. The man deftly retrieved his glasses, quickly composing and quietly articulating, “Yeah, feels like everything’s a three-legged race; County Fair shit. You’re always tied to this person who, no matter how well you can do on your own, rules of the race, you carry their burden too.”.

“Corn dogs and Conscience.” Tom smirked, “Backlit by a cosmic glow of neon lights and celestial drifters with rigged games. Still fun though, if you take it for what it is.”

“Stomach Aches and Stuffed Plushies?” The man flashed a genuine smile back, “Non-licensed of course; knock off Garfield.” He tapped a cigarette loose from the soft pack on the dash, lighting it “The American Dream turned Legacy.”

The subtle crackle of the tobacco smoldering in its paper sheath, “Can I get one?” Tom asked, the twinge of addiction plucking at a cord just beneath his jawline.

“You killed your neighbors Pomeranian with a kitchen knife, Tom.” The man shook his head, ashing out the cracked window. “Dad’s suck. Not an excuse to cross the white picket fence and fuck up ‘Franny’.” The cop grimaced and muttered, “Stupid fucking name... ‘Franny’...” then gathered himself. “You’re going to jail. Good talk though, Buddy.”.

“Allegedly.” Tom whispered, deflated in the back seat behind dull wire mesh, “You have to say ‘Allegedly’.”

“Do I?” Officer Richards took a long, slow drag, “I mean... fucking Ring cameras, Tom.”