The strike

We’re at Garrison’s furniture, looking for a new recliner for mom.

Hey dad, do you like this chair?

He’s walking away and towards a salesman.

Dad, come and try this chair and see what you think.
He reaches the salesman. I hurry to them.

Hey dad?

Just a minute. He’s angry.

Dad I need your help over here.
I’m asking this guy about the teacher’s strike. Angrier.
He doesn’t work for the teachers. He doesn’t know.
Yes, he does. Jaw clenched, spitting words, body rigid.
He doesn’t know about the strike, dad. Come help me over here, please.

Oh, fuck off then!

Okay. We’re by the door. It’s open. The man leaves. We’re outside now and I’m herding him farther away. He’s scary mad. Moving anger that I am leading away from the store.

I was trying to talk with those people about the strike. That’s what I do. And they know what’s going on! And you don’t interrupt me! I gotta take care of this thing. Fucking bullshit, is what this is. You don’t know what’s going on here. And I do!

His teeth touch when he speaks. His eyes are unrecognizable. He grabs his head. Works his fists.

We wait outside. Dad stays aggressively mad, although he soon forgets why.