A FUNERAL ON FRIDAY
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He kicked the empty beer can into the gutter. He had started crushing them in his hands, one at a time, drinking the beer, mangling the cans. The wind whipped at him, like the belt his father used, when he demanded respect from his son. Respect, he wanted to yell, you must be nuts. You’re a piece of crud, how can I respect you?
His mother had picked up this loser, when Lenny was thirteen. First she killed his real father, by working him to death, then she married this garbage; she needed a husband, he needed a man who would be a pal, while he grew up. He kept his last name, Rossiter, that’s all he had left of the man, now dead and buried, the one who would always be his father.
His mother had picked up this loser, when Lenny was thirteen. First she killed his real father, by working him to death, then she married this garbage; she needed a husband, he needed a man who would be a pal, while he grew up. He kept his last name, Rossiter, that’s all he had left of the man, now dead and buried, the one who would always be his father.
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