He looked over at Larry. The boy hadn’t noticed the intrusion. He was still meticulously backing his yellow truck up to a small mound of sand. Just keep walking, Agrippa thought, his eyes tracking Trent and his crew as they swaggered closer. Just keep walking and let us be. But the world, as Agrippa had learned long ago, rarely listened to what a tired man wanted. They didn’t walk past, they drifted into the playground like trash blowing across an empty lot, settling exactly where they were most in the way.
Trent hoisted himself up onto the backrest of an empty bench just 10 ft from Agrippa, planting his muddy sneakers on the seat. The others leaned against the chain-link fence or squatted on the plastic border of the sandbox. The atmosphere in the park shifted instantly. The mothers at the swings exchanged quick, nervous glances. Within 3 minutes, phones were tucked away, diaper bags were zipped tight, and toddlers were scooped up. Agrippa watched them leave. He understood.
When the air pressure drops, you get out of the storm’s path, but Agrippa couldn’t leave. Larry had just found the perfect rhythm with his truck, and to interrupt him now meant a meltdown. Agrippa wasn’t going to let five bored kids steal his son’s joy. He remained on his bench, a monument in faded denim. Trent pulled a disposable vape from his pocket, taking a long drag and blowing a thick, artificially sweet cloud of strawberry vapor directly into the faint evening breeze. It drifted over the sandbox.
Larry stopped playing, coughing softly, waving a small hand in front of his face. Agrippa’s jaw tightened. The mechanical grinding in his back was suddenly gone, replaced by a cold, familiar clarity spreading from the base of his skull down his spine. “Hey,” Trent said loudly, aiming his voice at Agrippa, “your kid’s eating dirt.”
Agrippa didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on Larry. “He’s fine.” His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, betraying nothing. “Looks like shit.” One of the followers snickered, the scrawny one with the neck tattoo. Agrippa’s heart rate didn’t spike. It actually slowed down. This was the moment the cage door locked, the realization that words were rapidly losing their utility. He shifted his footing, sliding his right foot back half an inch, planting the ball of his foot firmly against the concrete.
“He’s playing.” Agrippa said, turning his head just enough to catch Trent in his peripheral vision. “Why don’t you guys move along? Park’s closed at dusk, anyway.” Trent hopped down from the back of the bench. He puffed his chest out, a classic primate display of dominance. He took three steps toward Agrippa, stopping just outside striking distance. He was tall, maybe 6’2”, with a good 20 lb on Agrippa, but it was soft weight, beer and fast food wrapped in unearned arrogance.
“You telling us what to do, old man?” Trent asked, his tone mocking, playing to his audience. The other four chuckled, moving closer, forming a loose, ragged semicircle. “I’m telling you you’re bothering people.” Agrippa said, his voice dropping an octave. “And you’re blowing smoke on my son. Move along.”
“It’s a free country, grandpa.” Trent sneered. He took another step forward. He was in the zone now, the radius where bad things happen fast. Agrippa’s eyes mapped the geometry of the situation. Trent was the loudmouth, but his hands were low, his chin was up. The scrawny kid on the right had a nervous energy, likely to throw a wild overhead. The two in the back were non-factors unless things went to the ground. The fifth guy, standing near the sandbox, was the wildcard.
Trent looked down at Agrippa’s hands. He saw the calluses, the dirt beneath the fingernails, the cheap digital watch. He saw working stiff, a loser. “Nice shirt,” Trent said, gesturing to Agrippa’s frayed flannel. “Get that at the soup kitchen?” Agrippa didn’t respond. He was watching Trent’s shoulders, the telegraph system of the human body. Trent, irritated by the lack of fear, decided to push the envelope.
He turned his attention back to the sandbox. He took a few steps toward Larry. “Hey kid,” Trent barked. Larry froze. He looked up, his large dark eyes wide with sudden alarm. He pulled his yellow truck tightly to his chest. Agrippa stood up. He didn’t jump up. He didn’t aggressively spring to his feet. He simply rose, unfolding his frame with a fluid mechanical grace that seemed entirely out of place for a man who had looked so broken moments before. The movement was so smooth it momentarily confused Trent. He stopped walking toward the sandbox and looked back at Agrippa.
“Don’t talk to him,” Agrippa said. The gravel in his voice was gone, replaced by a flat deadened tone. It was the voice of a man stating a physical law of the universe. Gravity pulls down. Water’s wet. Do not talk to my son. Trent’s ego wouldn’t let him back down in front of his friends. He puffed his chest out further, closing the distance between himself and Agrippa, stopping just a foot away. He tilted his head down to look Agrippa in the eye.