A miasma of Axe body spray and teen condescension fills the space between us. “This sucker leaves eggs on her porch,” I say. “Let’s get some.” His eyes, buried in his phone the entire ride, open wide. “Dad,” he shrills, “you can't steal eggs.” “Quit being a baby." I race up the steps, make a show of furtive side glances, find my name on my weekly dozen in my CSA farmer's cramped handwriting. “Don't tell your mother,” I say, sliding behind the wheel. Now his panicked pleas fill the space between us. I’ll eventually tell him. But it’s payback time.
Jim Parisi lives in Occupied D.C., with his wife, Beth, and dog, Dolce. Their kids, including the one in this story, have flown the coop.