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The 1997 Dodge mini-van was idling in the parking lot of a used bookstore.
"I'm just not going to go in there if that's what you are going to do, Paul. I'm just not."
This huffed, slightly exasperated statement was followed by several seconds of uncomfortable silence."I just think that it's very embarrassing to be seen with you like that, and I have no idea why you started it. Just no idea. It's weird, Paul. It's very, very weird, and everyone who sees you like that gets very uncomfortable, which makes me even more uncomfortable, you know."
Barbara was sitting in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands as she talked, staring straight ahead. She spoke as though she were on her very last thread of good temperament, like a school teacher making her last attempt to use reason when scolding an unruly child. Paul, for his part, was sitting in the passenger seat with his chin resting in the palm of his hand. His elbow in turn was resting on his thigh, and, striking this pose he resembled a melancholy, middle aged gargoyle. He hadn't spoken in more than 5 minutes.
"Why do you feel the need to do this?"Barbara huffed hurriedly,"You know just as well as I do that your doctor told you could start wearing them two weeks ago and yet here you are, doing this, of all things of all times, Paul, Jesus."She finally took her stone stare from the windshield and had a look at her husband. What she saw gave her a feeling somewhere between the tinge of guilt one feels after scolding a young dog and the awkward pain a son feels when he first see his father cry. Paul had abandoned the gargoyle stance and was now sitting straight up and looking forward. His eyes looked incredibly soft, like they could very possibly lose form and drip right out of his sockets. His grey hair was slightly mussed from his un-conquerable habit of running his hand through it. He was wearing a conservative maroon sweater that he had picked out himself several weeks before. He wore pleated slacks with a dark brown belt. Both his shoes and socks were seated neatly in his lap and he wore completely bare feet. For a moment her angry, frustrated eyes softened, but only for a moment.
"Paul, I want you to put those on this very instant. If you don't, we are going to have a very serious problem. Put them on, and we can go into this nice store, and find something good to buy." Barbara's grip on the wheel was tightening and her temper was loosening; these last statements were spoken in a deep, throaty voice, almost a growl. Paul did nothing for the time being: he continued to look out the window, clearly making his best attempt to escape the situation.
"PUT ON THE FUCKING SHOES, PAUL!!!!" Barbara screamed as she pounded the steering wheel. "I WILL NOT HAVE EVERYONE IN THIS FUCKING STORE STARING AT YOUR FUCKING FEET WHILE WE SHOP!! PUT THEM ON!! NOW!!" She was out of breath, panting heavily, and her face had turned a terrifying shade of red. She still gripped the steering wheel, but in the aftermath of her outburst she rested her head on the middle of the wheel. Her hair was now pulled out of its tie in a most distressed fashion due to her inevitable furious gesticulations. Soon her breathless panting changed very slightly into small gasps of air. She began to cry softly. Barely audible because of the steering wheel and the crying, she began to speak, more calmly, "I just.. I want my Paul back. Why does this happen? Why do you do this? What's happened to my old Paul?" She asked all of these questions with raspy, tired, high pitched voice, the kind that, no matter what is asked, almost always convinces you that perhaps you should be crying as well. "Won't you say anything? Why do you do this, Paul? Is there something seriously wrong with you? Why won't you talk to me?" she continued with the same tone.
Paul slowly took his thoughtful gaze from straight ahead of him and looked at his wife, slumped over the steering wheel and moving into the hiccupping stage of a crying bout. He looked at her for a long time and said nothing. He then looked down at his two bare feet. His countenance took on a look of questioning, and if you looked hard enough, there was a hint of a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. He wiggled each of his toes in turn, paying special attention to whichever toe was in movement. He gave each at least a minute of consideration. After his far left pinky toe ceased to wiggle he closed his eyes and nodded, as if in understanding, and took the shoes and socks from his lap and meticulously put them on his feet. Barbara, who had begun watching him, as he watched his toes, nearly 3 minutes before, looked hopeful behind her tear streaked face. She put her hand on Paul's shoulder for a moment. "Let's go into the store, honey." She said, as sweetly as she could muster. They both stepped out of the van and began walking toward the doors, Barbara a few steps ahead of Paul. As he walked Paul stared down at his shoes and dropped a tear of his own from one of those almost drippy eyes. He entered the Nice Store with his wife.
Kent must eat, though he wishes he could shoot shot-guns instead.