DRIVER 1
The music bounces in syncopation with the shocks. It’s the kind of van that would give even a joey motion sickness, and really no one should be driving it, much less a distracted father trying to do the right thing for once.
But he’s trying to do the right thing for once.
That’s, of course, why he’s clattering up the road to the hardware store. And at first, of course, like in the first four minutes of the trip, he takes a wrong turn, so he’s coming at the destination from a totally unfamiliar angle. So says the onboard navigation, and that’s another tick up in the blood pressure, and another reason to turn around.
But he doesn’t because he’s trying to do the right thing. For once.
When he finally pulls into the lot, the two kids in the back are sick of the car and who could blame ‘em? Their flustered father takes a second to lean back and rest his head, and it’s just the briefest infinity; he breathes in and out, and he is making a little “o” with his lips, like his wife taught him, and breathing in through the nose. It’s not enough to stop time, but he feels a little better, and then he leans forward and opens the door and helps the kids out and heads across the parking lot, a case study in trepidation.
And by the way, he inquires, does anyone see the entrance?
DRIVER 2
Every delivery has been botched.
First stop of the day: fragile package accepted reluctantly and dropped immediately by inept neighbor.
Second stop: a sudden tumble on icy steps and a bruised tailbone in return.
Third stop: ferocious dog.
And now he’s here, stuck in traffic and late for stop number four and getting later for everything else.
It’s not like this is new. Most days go wrong for this champ. Most days feel like a heavy dose of fumes straight to the lungs, followed by coughing, disorientation, regret, and more coughing. Coming home after hours of road rage will do that to a person, and so it has done it to him. Plus, it doesn’t help that his landlady refuses to maintain the plumbing and his boss is threatening termination and his gambling habit is approaching rock bottom.
He’s a tough guy, but c’mon, a man can only take so much.
I’m entitled, he thinks, to at least a bit of indignation.
DRIVER 1 AGAIN
Okay, he found the doors.
And it’s a colossal structure, a warehouse brimming with metal shapes he doesn’t understand. He’s roaming aisles with the boys and talking too much to try to lighten the mood. The sweet thing is, the little guys don’t even seem to care that this fifteen minute trip has taken forty five already, and they must really like labyrinths because they’re gawking at the towering shelves of hardware as if they might set up shop and stay a while. And maybe that’s all they need to do. Whatever happens now, he thinks, I should remember this moment. They’re having a good time. That’s what we came for. I should remember this.
I should be here for this.
DRIVER 1 AND DRIVER 2
Here’s the part where they meet. But let’s take our time.
After circling through the aisles dozens upon dozens of times, the boys are exhausted, and their father is hysterical, but they have all the materials they need for the project. Now, they just need…to…leave.
Of course, paying is an affair, and before they walk out the doors into the sweet sweet sunshine they check in with four different representatives to make sure that they have: a) paid the right amount, and b) paid in advance of pickup, and c) paid anything at all, and d) waited for the appropriate amount of excruciating minutes. Indeed, they have.
Meanwhile, traffic is equally lethargic around the corner; the second key driver in this anecdote is sweating and swearing. Bad news is brewing.
It all comes to a head when the minivan pulls out of the parking lot, into the flow of traffic, and directly in front of the delivery truck.
THE KIDS / OPTION 1
At first, they think it’s pretty funny that the silly man is standing outside their car. The younger boy noticed him getting out of the delivery truck behind them, and he tried to wave as the stranger marched to Daddy’s window.
It doesn’t take long, though, before they realize this isn’t silly. Far from it. The man is yelling, and Daddy is gesturing, and then the man spits against the glass. Then three things happen:
- The father and older brother shout, /HEY!/ in ineffectual unison.
- The man moves to the front of the car, slipping a hammer from his belt.
- The hammer slams against the windshield.
And everything just short of reality splinters as the children watch the slow motion lines expand within the glass and they feel the cracks warp their minds.
Something has happened: the impossible.
The man with the hammer, once a strange and distant parallel, has played the interloper. And more! His violent interference has marked him the enemy. He stands beyond the broken windshield, a hostile silhouette, and bids the hero make his move. It is the cliché climax. It’s exactly like the stories that Daddy tells at bedtime. It’s the promise repeated throughout the centuries. It’s the sword against the dragon. It’s the heel against the snake.
And it’s also a choice. It’s always been a choice.
It is the apocalyptic intersection in which constantly find ourselves, ready or not. Promises met or unfulfilled: it depends on a choice.
That’s why tonight, at bedtime, there will be nothing to say.
Because there will be nothing to tell.
Because the hero basked in the crackling indecision splashing through the new mosaic of his windshield, and then he opted for inaction.
The kids noticed that. What else can be said?
THE KIDS / OPTION 2
Or maybe something might be said after all.
Maybe the hammer struck the glass even as their father opened the door. The splintering gathered momentum as he stepped, decisively, around his door and toward the enemy, and the children strained to see through the blur of the windshield.
Archetypes of ancient heroes assembled in two nascent minds. A collective of the very best; David. Esther. Frodo. Harry. Names that met with giants. Names that set their imaginations skyward. They whipped a glance at one another, and their eyes voiced every hope. They believed before they saw.
And this is what they saw:
Their dad, fully turned to face the opposition, his form sure and strangely taller than they could remember, taller than any giant.
Their dad, his hand held up, and light bursting with the cracks toward the shadow.
Their dad.
Maybe there would be something to tell at bedtime after all.