Two Eggs, Toast and Napalm

Dec 24, 2007 - 10:51 AM PST

The cold blues of an American morning lighten and diffuse into platinum. Long lines of smoke from chimneys swirl up marvelously slow over a solid frost. The boy sits at the kitchen table before a bowl of cereal and glass of Sunny-D, chewing away. His doodled-upon backpack lies on the floor next to him. The kitchen looks normal. His normal mother is cooking his father a normal breakfast of two eggs, toast and—
Dad comes jaunting down the stairs grinning like the governor on Founder’s Day. He has his fashionable leather briefcase in hand with his hair slicked back and a black suit to match, iridescent shoes made for Yahweh himself. Lord knows he was up late the night before, strategizing his big pitch, full of loads of charts and graphs made from months’ worth of important data. He even had note cards with the key numbers highlighted in pink.
And then there's that big smile, a kiss to mom and she hands him his steaming plate, and for a second he's really glowing. He sits down in his captain's chair and thinks fast for that scorching cup of coffee coming his way, and he and mom both chuckle, but mom doesn't get too carried away.
But not junior—no sir! He's all solemn and angst-like, in that adolescent way. So Dad, ever the optimist, and hoping to lift his son's spirits, resolves to force a conversation on him.
"So, what do you have goin’ on today?" Dad’s soft–but-down-to-business lenses perch just over the rim of his mug, dark eyes smoldering behind the growing condensation. The boy coughs, and for the first time stops chewing. The boy just loves his goobery chocolate crank balls; he even eats them dry while playing video games with his friend Tim. The boy is in tennis too, so he doesn’t get too chubby.
"Uhm... I have a test today in Spanish. It will be easy though." His eyes never leave the irresistible glucose treats.
"Well, what else? You know, the other stuff! I mean, how are you spending your free time?" Dad is looking stern and persistent. He still feels empowered by his tantric lovemaking performance the night before; mom couldn't even make it to the bathroom. Any other day and he would've dropped the issue and left for work, feeling satisfied that he had at least talked to his son momentarily.
"Daaaad," the boy finally moans in annoyance, eyes ablaze, longing to return to his cereal for moments too long—he even sets down his spoon, "if you are talking about me smoking drugs with that girl, Jasmine, down the street, and experimenting sexually with one or more partners, then for the last time, I tell you NO! Your 'free spirit jive' is a corporate lie and you will never take them down from the inside—look at us; we have sold our souls already! It is just like you said, Dad—the government invented fluoride to control our dreams. That means there is no escape from it all, except death! We are FUCKED! So, just let me become a renegade programmer, accrue mortal power and breed anarchy!"
"NEVER!" Dad screams, and launches his mug against the wall, resounding against the tile backdrop beneath the cabinets in a massive explosion of ceramic shrapnel and black acid. Mom and the boy scream, too. "I'll sell my wife into slavery for the mother fucking fascists before I buy into one word of that nihilist shit! You WILL make a difference in this world!" The boy whimpers something and picks up his spoon. Dad finally stops yelling, turns pale, and assesses the scene: his son is frozen in place and bleeding from the cheek, and dear old mom is sobbing over the sink with the water on, since she was scalded by that flaming-hot java. Then they all panic and make excuses.
Dad kind of breaks down later on that morning, after he sat silently as mom cleared the table still weeping a little, and when he goes to lie down after muttering something about not feeling too well at all, poor old mom has to call up those men with their clean, white uniforms, And the boy cries a little when they take Dad away, but mom wins the boy over again with more video games.