DerpDaBerp
Smash Champion
Frankie walked into the garage to see the lower half of his father on a roller board under an elevated car frame. The clicking of some turning instrument echoed out from underneath.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, bud.” The response sounded distanced by the speaking end of his father hiding in the metallic depths of his work.
“How’s the car going?”
“Troublesome as usual,” he chuckled.
There was a pause for a few moments.
Frankie’s father could see his son’s feet walk over, and they showed that he was now leaning against a workbench opposite the car.
“How’s, um, Madison?” Dad asked.
“You mean Alison?”
“Oh, I… hell, you know I’m bad with names.”
“It’s cool. But, she and I,” he shuffled his feet, “aren’t really together anymore.”
“Eh? What happened?”
“Oh, nothing bad. Nothing, like, hostile. She moved. She’s going to school out of state.”
“That’s too bad, bud. When’s she coming back?”
“I don’t think she is.”
There was a metallic sigh from under the car. “Well I’m sorry to hear that, Franklin. I, um… well your mother’s usually better to talk to about these kinds of things.”
Frankie didn’t respond.
A while passed where the only sound was the pervading clicking.
“You know the problem with cars?” Frankie started.
“Ha, I could name a few,” Dad responded, “What's up?”
Frankie walked over toward shotgun.
“It’s that you invest all that energy and there’s all that gasoline combusting to get the car up and going, and you’ve got a bunch of momentum keeping you that way. But if you come to a stop, where does all the energy go?”
The clicking from under the car stopped.
“You lose it,” he continued, “All that momentum lost through the heat of your brakes. All that heat. All that energy, with nowhere to go but out and away. Wasted.”
There was another pause. His dad wheeled his way out from under the body of the car. He stood up beside Frankie and wiped at the oil stains on his hands and face with a rag from his pocket. He brought his burly arm around his son’s shoulders.
“Let’s have a drink, I’m sure your mother’s busy.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, bud.” The response sounded distanced by the speaking end of his father hiding in the metallic depths of his work.
“How’s the car going?”
“Troublesome as usual,” he chuckled.
There was a pause for a few moments.
Frankie’s father could see his son’s feet walk over, and they showed that he was now leaning against a workbench opposite the car.
“How’s, um, Madison?” Dad asked.
“You mean Alison?”
“Oh, I… hell, you know I’m bad with names.”
“It’s cool. But, she and I,” he shuffled his feet, “aren’t really together anymore.”
“Eh? What happened?”
“Oh, nothing bad. Nothing, like, hostile. She moved. She’s going to school out of state.”
“That’s too bad, bud. When’s she coming back?”
“I don’t think she is.”
There was a metallic sigh from under the car. “Well I’m sorry to hear that, Franklin. I, um… well your mother’s usually better to talk to about these kinds of things.”
Frankie didn’t respond.
A while passed where the only sound was the pervading clicking.
“You know the problem with cars?” Frankie started.
“Ha, I could name a few,” Dad responded, “What's up?”
Frankie walked over toward shotgun.
“It’s that you invest all that energy and there’s all that gasoline combusting to get the car up and going, and you’ve got a bunch of momentum keeping you that way. But if you come to a stop, where does all the energy go?”
The clicking from under the car stopped.
“You lose it,” he continued, “All that momentum lost through the heat of your brakes. All that heat. All that energy, with nowhere to go but out and away. Wasted.”
There was another pause. His dad wheeled his way out from under the body of the car. He stood up beside Frankie and wiped at the oil stains on his hands and face with a rag from his pocket. He brought his burly arm around his son’s shoulders.
“Let’s have a drink, I’m sure your mother’s busy.”
