An old dirt road rattles the rusted bones of a pickup truck.  Sun, warm and bright, shines through the windshield painting a warm glow on two faces; one ripe, one weathered.  The rifles hanging behind their heads bounce and try to jump free, but are firmly secured in the gun rack. 

            “The big game’s coming up soon.  You think you’re ready for it?”

            “Sure, Pa.  Coach says I’ve been improving the most on the team and that if I keep it up I’ll be on the starting line.”

The father’s skin wrinkles in the corners of his eyes out of satisfaction.  He can picture it, his boy being on the starting lineup just like he was.  Technicolor memories float through the old man’s head and his face parts in a grin.  Something keeps him from fully showing his true elation.  His mind is somewhere else, lost in thought.

The son, 17, looks like a Renaissance oil painted angel; golden haloed hair.  His skin is taught and tanned, stretched over a maturing frame.  He looks out the window on his door and decides to roll it down.

The old man, dressed in generic faded blue denim, keeps his right hand loosely rested on top of the steering wheel as he inches down the washboard road.  Time doesn’t exist here. 

Summer air blows through the windows of the truck cooling the warm skin of the father and son.  The father decides now is as good as time as any to pull off of the road.  The truck gently slows to a stop along a open green field.  There’s a tree, shade, and a mood that sets the scene for postcards.

“Go get the cans from the box and set them up.”

The boy follows the orders.  As he walks further away from the truck the man swallows deep.  His mind is in an intense awkward fog.  He pulls one of the rifles out of the truck: .22 caliber.  The boy begins to walk back after he sets the empty cans on fence posts about 50 yards away.  The father hands the gun to the boy.  The juxtaposition of the cherub-like boy and the gun is almost too much to look at without ironically smiling.

            “So, it seems like you and Becky have been getting pretty serious lately.”

PTANG!  A can acrobatically jumps from atop a post.

            “Yeah, she’s a nice girl.”

Crosshairs focus on thin aluminum.  PTANG!  Another can plunges to the ground, flipping and spinning.

            “Listen, uh,”

The words fumble around on the man’s tongue.  He tries to spit them out, but they just jerk from the back of his throat.

            “Dad,”

The old man stops trying to talk.

            “I know.”

            “Just be careful.”

            “I know.”

As the late afternoon sun begins to fade the boy throws his bounty of dead cans in the back of the truck.  Both men get back into the cab.  The engine starts with a gentle roar, reminiscent of ancient North American lions.  Long shadows have crept up the hood, and the pollen in the air highlights the rays of the sun.  The truck turns around and makes its start back down the tired old road.  Clouds of dry dust billow in small poofs as the tires spin.

In the truck, the old man turns on the radio.  It hums quiet country melodies of lost love into the passengers’ ears.  The old man reaches under the seat and fumbles around as he tries to stay on the road. 

            “Good shootin’ today.  Here, son.”

            “Thanks, dad.”

A smile paints across the young man’s face.

KTCSHHHT!

Budweiser.