The generation gap

John and Fred come stumbling into the house. Outside, a garbage truck rumbles past as the salmon tinge of Thursday morning touches the horizon.

“Dude, we have to get to my room” says John, “my dad is going to get up any time now to go for his run.” Fred giggles drunkenly. “Where can I put the stash?”

“Just put it inside the Froot Loops box, my mom won’t look in there,” John replies. Fred fumbles clumsily inside the cupboard. “OK, hid it, lets go grab some sleep”

The two of them walk haltingly to John’s room, rock-paper-scissors for who has to climb into the top bunk, and collapse into the dreamless zen that is the end of every truly enjoyable party.

Ripped from sleep by the blaring klaxon that is his alarm clock at five in the morning, John Sr. stumbles from his bed, fumbles on his running clothes and starts his daily battle with his love handles.

Freshly showered after his run, he sits at the breakfast table and enjoys his porridge. Looking at the time, he leaves for work in a rush, swearing sotto voce.

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