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.”