The Age-Old Tradition
And again they followed the age-old tradition of arguing the entire car ride. The man, in the front seat, was driving. His son, a fourteen year old with the audacity to yell back at his father, sat in the backseat. She was in the front passenger seat, trying to ignore both of them.
“You have the time to grab all of that crap you have with you, but you don’t have time to get the check for your tuition payment?”
“What crap? My book bag? My gym clothes?”
“What about that CD player?”
“I don’t have the CD player. It’s in the-”
“Where’s the check?”
“On the dining room table!”
“You’re absolutely unamazing!”
She snickered to herself, wandering if “unamazing” was even a word?
“What are you waiting for? An invitation from God?” Her father yelled at the car ahead of them because it was stopped too long at a stop sign. He was the epitome of road rage at its peak.
She closed her eyes and tried to get in another few minutes of sleep before she was dropped off at school.
her nap was disrupted when another yelling match broke out. This time because her brother stated that he was going to take the bus home.
“No, I’ll be here to pick you up.”
“Why? Taking the bus is quicker.”
“I’ll be here to pick you up!”
“Yeah, at like three! Like I like waiting here everyday!” The car door slammed shut and my brother stormed into the school.
Her father drove off and she closed my eyes again. And there was a time when she thought they were normal.
Copyright (c) 2001 JC. All rights reserved.
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