Going to the Movies with My Dad

And our unwelcome guest

Photo by Kilyan Sockalingum on Unsplash

“Do you wanna see Twisters tonight?” asks my father in an impromptu voice on the idle, sweltering July day. The air is thick with humidity and the clouds overhead brighten and darken with a pendulous uncertainty.

He briefly tries to coax my mother into coming, but unlike the clouds above us, she’s made up her mind. So with enough time to spare to stop for snacks, he and I set out on our adventure.

“Remember when I used to drive you, Ryan, Anthony, and Gabe to the movies and we would rush to grab candy before we’d all race into the theater?” he says with a warm, nostalgic smile, thinking of me and the childhood friends I’ve scarcely seen in fifteen years. We reflect fondly on the time he took us to see Harold and Kumar: Escape From Guantanamo Bay — and when the film’s abrasive antics arm-barred the well-meaning man into sending each of their parents profuse apology texts once the movie had ended.

Moments later, our fond reflection on the childhood mishap is jarringly interrupted by a buzz and a blood-curdling bristle along my arm. A wasp has flown in through the open window, skimmed past me, and found a temporary home on the interior windshield of my father’s blue, dulling-Biden-stickered hybrid. My dad maintains a meditative cool as the colossal-stinger-brandishing creature scuttles menacingly along the glass. Its antennae spasm omnisciently as it rubs its arms and legs together strategically — sadistically.

“Oh god. Oh no. Oh god,” I repeat, taking shield behind the sweatshirt I fortuitously schlepped along for the ride in preparation for the frigid tundra that is our local cinema. I defensively zip up my hoodie despite the swampy day and sport it like the chainmail of a knight — bearing middle-aged discomforts to fend off prospective stabs from the ill-intentioned, sword-sheathing insect.