He clung
to the bum
of his very
own son
because
that’s how
long his arms
hung. This was
their first en
counter in
months—
the occasion
none but to
check in on
the son of a—
but given how
long his arms
hung, almost
at once he felt
the small gun
that rested up
on his son’s
left bun. It
was then that
Ben noticed—
Benjamin, the
son with the
gun upon
which his
pop had
his palm
overlayed—
the warming
bulge of the
pistol being
so steadily
pressed into
his butt that,
he gleaned
that his pop,
so stunned
by Ben’s gun
was no doubt
about to come
right undone,
and this rev
elation, of
course, was
no fun, so
that now
pop’s dear
Benjamin
was horribly
bummed.
This sad
little scene,
such a bun
dle of blun
ders, had
all played
out in a
run of
just over
a minute
at right
about
quarter
to one
when
Ben’s
poor
pop
had
arrived
in surp
rise. But
the sad
vignette
turned all
but tragic
would stay
frozen for
several
minutes
more on
account of
the dorm’s
loudspeakers
(which were
overly loud)
at right when
the man was
plumb coming
undone blared
none other than
Soundgarden’s
Black Hole Sun.
So, in light of
that spirit (and
forgive me the
pun), this dumb
little father-son
story is done.
