The Monster
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Who is the monster?
Well thank God they left. Nice local sports bar; I sat close to an elderly man, probably 80 years old, and a younger guy that was his son, as I gathered from their conversation. The old boy kept an even keel and decently good humor throughout; he was used to it; the allowances we make for close family; or no use to fight a battle now. Much of what the son said bounced off and ended up on the floor, like water off a duck's back, and thank God for that too. I was instantly irritated - the constant patter of vacuous suggestions from the son as to what the father should be doing in his life, what he should do differently.
Just look at him: the old guy is fine, you can tell just by seeing him. But the son, ah now this was worthy of a stage character, the slight build, the receding hairline, the pencil-thin mustache, a mousey look overall, even rat-like, with furtive eye movements and almost constant physical twitches, he must fear silence indeed to have the need to fill it with such drivel, if not telling his father how to improve his life, he was proclaiming his own shrewdness and ambition, such prowess we rarely see, to joke about it - ah, when the truth is that he's a 35 year old in a job that would be barely good enough for a 20 or 25 year old. When you have to go on about it so, we all know it's not the truth. I never once snorted, or caught the old guy's gaze and rolled my eyes; I stayed within myself.
Maybe it's just me. Really, how bad could it be? Well no, it's not just me - any sane person would be inwardly cringing, massively, fighting the urge to run screaming into the night before the younger man's words induced brain cancer in them. What a world....
But I suppose that at least a little bit it is just me.
Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016
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