The father was cleaning his pistol. His service weapon. The son stood close to the table, but not too close.
The father said: You’ll go to school and become an accountant. The son didn’t say anything.
He thought about his electric guitar. If he couldn’t have that…
And the father continued, as if replying to the thought: Dreams are for other people. There’s no money in it.
The son thought about playing on stage for thousands of rabid fans who worshiped him. Girls screamed his name from the front row. He was singing an already famous song that was older than him, but in the fantasy it was his.
The father slid the bullets into a drawer, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. He thought about the beach.
The son, as if replying to the thought: I wished we’d gone to Coney Island more when I was little.
The father’s head jerked back and his face screwed around. He reminded the son about the crime, the muggings, needles in the sand. They couldn’t possibly. He couldn’t have, in good conscience, brought his children there.
The son thought about this for a moment, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, unsure if he should, but he does: But, all my friends used to go. And they still do. A lot of people do. Every day and they’re all fine.
The father put his head in his hands, exasperated, annoyed to have to state the obvious: Sure, but did you consider they just haven’t gotten theirs yet?
The son didn’t say anything else. He looked at the father, past him, through the wall, out into the air that maybe wasn’t so hot and suffocating. Maybe.
The father slid the gun across the table towards the son: Here. It’s unloaded. If you’re curious.