Mrs. P pulled the car into the gravel parking lot and I hopped out and ran into the corner store of the shopping center to get a pizza. Biding her time during the brief wait, Mrs. P played with her phone.
A car pulled up in the space next to my wife's car. The windows were rolled down because of the sudden rise in temperature, allowing for a clear declaration of the conversation inside.
Man (in a very loud and angered tone): "You go in and get the fucking pizza. I got a few things to say to this fucking shithead!"
An expressionless woman got out of the passenger-side front seat and slowly walked up to the pizza place.
Man (yelling): "You're home all fucking day! You gotta clean your fucking room before you fucking go out and do anything! And don't leave the fucking bottles and the fucking cans either! You gotta fucking clean every fucking thing outta your room! I want you to clean your fucking room during the fucking day when everyone is at fucking work!"
He flailed his arms wildly and flicked a cigarette lighter absentmindedly as he hollered. My wife scooted up in her seat to get a better look at the object of this man's rage.
Turns out the "shithead" was a little boy about six years old.
Well that's disturbing. And probably more common than any of us want to think about. Perhaps pizza soothed the savage breast?
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