You’re not listening. This is not some game. Not a trick. It’s staring you in the face, he said. Looking down your soul to the very pit. That’s what life does, boy. Takes you for a ride. A wild trip. Trip? Is that what your generation says? Trip? the boy nodded and smiled, began to laugh. Look at this mess, the father said. Some kind of metaphor. Messy room,untidy bath, your toilet is unclean. Stains in it from God knows when. And you come home at all hours. Leaving beer cans in the front room for your mom to pick up; always picking up after you. TV dinner trays. KFC boxes with chicken bones in them. And no job. Where do you get money from? the kid looked at him, then looked down at the dirty carpet. He began laughing hysterically. The father took off his black leather belt with a silver buckle on it. The old man swung it in the air wildly while the son just sat there with no fear. Laughing the whole time. Taking the remote and turning on the television. Old reruns of Good Times were on. He flipped the station. The strap came towards him. The boy caught it in mid-air. The two looked at each other as the kid pulled the belt away. The old man sat in the torn recliner. They just sat there in silence, the young man snapping the belt in front of the father. His hands in the air. The belt made a popping sound as leather hit leather.

Next time, get a gun, the son said. This, he began hitting the floor with the object, doesn’t quite cut it, he smiled. You have to mean what you say, old man. Gotta have a purpose. You want to kill me? Do it right. Shoot me through the heart. But, you got to get in close, he said. You’re not that good a shot, he held the folded belt across his chest. The old man didn’t make a move. Both of them in the dark with the light from the TV glowing and the National Anthem playing in the background. They stood up and placed their hands on their chests; kind of a truce. A cease fire. The song ended, and the television was turned off by the kid. Goodnight, dad.

Goodnight.