Wendell parked in front of the Black Roast Coffee House, two blocks shy of the downtown, and rolled his eyes at the mostly millennial crowd through the windshield. “These kids and their toys,” he scoffed, approaching the front entrance. “Can’t even enjoy a cup of joe without a screen in their—”

“Excuse me, sir?” A young feminine voice interrupted from behind. “Sir!”

Wendell’s stride slowed, but his focus remained on the front door.

“Excuse me?” the voice asked again, louder. Wendell noted the reflection of a girl in her early twenties wearing a blue and pink tracksuit, then entered the coffee house, figuring she’d continue down the sidewalk. She followed him inside. “Excuse me, sir?”

Wendell spun around as if caught off guard. “Yes?”

The girl removed her earbuds and gestured outside. “You’re in the blue Bentley, correct?” Wendell didn’t confirm or deny, he just stared, trying to make the girl feel uncomfortable. “You’re parked in a handicapped spot.”

Wendell looked outside, looked at her, then shrugged. “And?”

The woman gestured to his legs. “You can walk.”

“And you can run. What’s the issue?”

“You parked in a handicapped spot.”

Wendell shrugged. “So?”

“So, you’re just gonna stand there and—”

“Uh-huh.”

“—force handicapped people to—”

“Back off, sweetheart. No one cares.”

The woman raised a finger. “Well, actually—”

“No one cares, little girl, now go away.”

The lady swallowed hard and forced a chuckle. “Fuckin’ boomers.”

“Don’t, don’t give me that shit!” he pointed back. “We, boomers, built this country!”

She rolled her eyes and replaced her earbuds. “Keep telling yourself that,” then she left the shop, waved to the slowing traffic, and jogged into the crosswalk. Wendell ogled her backside until she was out of sight. 

“Something I can get started for you, sir?” asked the young barista behind the counter. He had hazel green eyes, a thick black mop smothered in styling paste, and ASHTON embroidered in silver on the front of his apron. Wendell faced him. “Hey Dad, what’s going on?”

Wendell gave his kid a wink, then pointed to the handwritten blackboard above the espresso machine. “Ride-the-Rainbow? What’s that?”

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“Sounds kinda fruity.”

“Oh, it’s very fruity,” Ashton agreed, gesturing to the board. “We’ve got tons of traditional stuff though. We got the classic Americano, the Hot Drip, the Columbian Brew, we got the—”

“Son,” Wendell said, stopping him, “I told you I want. I want the Rainbow drink.”

“And I am telling you, you will not like it.”

Wendell held up a hand. “Son, the customer is always right, remember that.”

Ashton studied his father’s determined stare, then sniffed in hard. “Okay,” he grinned, pulling a ceramic mug from a nearby shelf. He turned to Derek, his assistant manager, a twenty-two-year-old with short blond hair and a matching goatee, checking his phone inside the kitchen. “Derek, can you come here for a second?”

Wendell pointed at the mug. “Can I get it to-go?”

Ashton replaced the mug as Derek stowed away the phone. “You mind making me another Ride-the-Rainbow?” he asked, retrieving a clear plastic cup from the sleeve under the expresso machine. “It’s for my dad.”

Derek looked at Wendell, then checked with Ashton. “Seriously?”

Ashton nodded. “It’s what he wants.” Derek grinned, took the cup, then stepped into the kitchen. “Alright, so—”

“Is he always like that?” Wendell asked, interrupting, “second-guessing your authority like that, playing on his phone. If I ran this place, he’d be the first guy I’d kick to the curb.”

Ashton shook his head, then checked his watch. “Nah, he’s a good guy. Still has eight minutes on his break.” Wendell didn’t believe him but nodded along anyway. “So, what brings you into the city?”

“Just got back from the bank.”

“They give you a great interest rate on a consolidation loan?”

Wendell shook his head. “Guess again.” Ashton thought about it, then shrugged. Wendell glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in as though it were an illuminati-level secret. “They forgave seventy percent.”

Ashton’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope.”

“How?”

“Simple. I told the guy I wouldn’t pay it. Told him the interest rates were way too high and that if he wanted to keep my business, he’d have to work with me. So…he wiped most of it and put the last hundred grand on a loan with a 4.5% interest rate.”

Ashton was speechless, wide-eyed and unmoving.

“I know, right? I go back later to finalize the paperwork.” Wendell said, then initiated a high five. “Not bad for your old man, huh?”

Ashton completed the high-five. “You just said ‘I won’t pay,’ and they did the rest?”

“Pretty much.” Wendell nodded. Derek returned with a rainbow-swirl mountain of foam and milk, garnished with a long brown and white cookie straw, and placed it on the counter. “What’s that?” Wendell asked, glancing around himself at an uninterested crowd as a wave of embarrassment slowly slid down his spine.

“The Ride-The-Rainbow. It’s what you asked for.”

Wendell pointed at the cup. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” Ashton replied. “It’s a pride month special.”

“You’re telling me I ordered a gay man’s drink?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what you did.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I tried. Multiple times, Dad, but you persisted.”

Wendell reached into his jacket. “Fine, what’s the damage?”

Derek tapped some keys on the tablet. “$6.87.”

“What?!” Wendell exclaimed, drawing scattered looks from the coffee shop crowd. “This is fucking highway robbery. Coffee should go for no more than $2.50.”

“Yep,” Ashton agreed, “but you didn’t order coffee. You ordered the Ride-the-Rainbow.”

Wendell fetched a five and two ones from his wallet, tossed it on the counter, and took a long swig from the rainbow-swirled cup. “What is this shit?” he asked as Derek popped open the register and stashed the cash inside. Wendell took a second swig and again recoiled. “My god, this is disgusting.” He took another swig, then another. “Just awful.”

Derek watched he with disgust. “Why’s he sucking it down like that if he hates it?”

A soft grin appeared on Ashton’s face. “Don’t worry, this is just—”

“Because I paid seven bucks for it, kid,” Wendell snapped, scrunching his nose and taking another swig. “I’m gonna need an actual coffee after this, none of this gay-sugar shit. So perhaps one of you should start brewing—”

“Excuse me?” asked a soft feminine voice from the crowd. A black woman, in her mid-twenties with a tiny red afro, raised her hand behind an open laptop. When Ashton’s eyes met hers, she pushed her dark-rimmed glasses back and pointed at the mounted television in the far-left corner. An attractive female news anchor in a purple blouse inaudibly spoke over a bright red headline: STUDENT DEBT FORGIVENESS DECISION UNDERWAY. “Could you turn it up, please?”

Ashton grabbed a thin black remote next to the cash register and turned it up.  

“…futures of close to 43 million student loan borrowers are in the hands of nine men and women,” the lady anchor said, “The Supreme Court will hand down their decision next week, regarding two separate cases which argued the Beasley Administration didn’t have the authority to forgive millions of debtors. Pundits on both sides say it’ll be a 5 to 4 verdict, however, no one is sure in which direction. President Beasley has gone on record saying he wants to relieve at least $20,000 per borrower, but his critics say it’ll cost taxpayers $400 billion over the next two decades. Since its inital rollout, 26 million Americans, mostly Millennials, have applied for the debt relieft program and 16 million have already been approved. However, if the bill is blocked, those seeking forgiveness will receive nothing. Back to you, Debra…”  

The lady returned to her laptop, and Ashton muted the television. Derek read the scrolling banner at the bottom.  “You think they’ll vote in favor?”

Ashton shrugged. “I’d like to think so, but doubtful.” 

“It’d be great if they did. For all of us.”

“Yeah. A buddy of mine in Ohio graduated ten years ago and is still underwater. Last we spoke, he had put a hundred grand into a degree worth eighty at seven percent interest and, for some insane reason, still owes seventy-three.”

“Thousand?” David asked. “How is that legal?”

“Because he, like most of us, signed a contract we didn’t fully understand. It was a fucked-up offer, and we took it because we didn’t know any better.”

“Why not just stop paying? My uncle did that with some outstanding credit card bills. He dodged calls from collection agencies for two years, but now it’s like it never existed.”

“Defaulting on student loans is impossible. They wrote it into the contracts. There’s wage garnishment, lawsuits from the loan provider, uh, there’s—” 

“I swear,” Wendell scoffed, finishing his drink, “you kids and your handouts.”

“Handouts?” Derek asked, “Is that what you think debt forgiveness is?”

Wendell tossed the empty cup into a nearby trash can. “Look, I get it. You’re mad. Mommy probably pulled the tit back too soon and Daddy probably missed a few of your games, but here’s the issue. You’ve been programmed by the universities and the liberal media to envy guys like me for not having the same lifestyle. I know it feels unfair, but it’s not. You’re just unhappy with your choices and need someone to blame.”

“That’s not the issue, sir,” Derek replied, “we don’t envy you, we just—”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, we don’t. The cost of tuition doesn’t match the—”

“Don’t interrupt me, kid,” Wendell snapped, pointing. “That’s very disrespectful.”

Derek scrunched his brow. “I didn’t interrupt you. You stopped talking.”

“Look, I’m all for people expanding their lives through higher education, but I also believe in fiscal responsibility. And all this, if we’re being honest, is just another way for you, kids, to get something for nothing.”

“You’re joking, right?” Ashton asked behind scrunched eyebrows.

“You’d rather play games, order take-out with your VR headsets, and make little internet videos while the rest of us contribute to society. But yet, I’m the bad guy for telling you to go out and do something with your life instead of complaining about the good life we gave you.”

Derek shook his head. “We aren’t asking for the world, sir, we’re asking for—”

“You are, though. You want the big homes, the fancy cars, you want—”

“Dad,” Ashton interrupted, “would you just relax?”

“Son, your little friend has a problem and I’m addressing it. You say you just want help, but we all know that’s not true.”

“Dad, you’ve made your point.”

“You want the world handed to you on a silver platter.”

“No, we don’t,” Derek replied. “We want a chance to—”

“Then maybe you should show a little gratitude to us, evil Boomers, who gave you—”

“Dad, enough!”

“I’m not finished!” Wendell snapped, his rising tambur pulling ears from all over. “You entitled brats are not just willing to place the financial burden of your cushy lives on everyone else, you’re begging for it like a whore on the street. It’s pathetic and irreprehensible. I mean, do you have any idea how the financial system operates?”

Ashton held the silence. “Not until recently. Do you?”

Wendell grinned. “You can’t get to where I am without knowing how to play the game. I’ve been working the system since I was seventeen. I’m a go-getter, son—a hustler. If I want something, I don’t ask permission, I just take it. And that’s the problem with your generation. You lack grit, and it’s only going to get worse.”

“So why didn’t you teach me?” Ashton asked, “Was it because you were too busy banging the rest of the neighborhood?”

Wendell’s eyes bugged, then retracted. “I, uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ashton waved his hand like a magician doing a sleight-of-hand trick, then counted his fingers. “There was Janice, your secretary. Clarissa, the Hispanic maid. Meredith, the cougar on Sullivan St, and those were just the ones before the divorce. Then there was Sandra from Philly, the ‘surrogate’ you’d fly in on holidays and let—”

“Sandra was not a prostitute.”

“Not on paper, no, but everywhere else, she was.”

“Ashton, I’m telling you…” Wendell trailed off, then changed the subject. “Do you have any idea how much student loan forgiveness would cost the taxpayer?”

“Nothing, Dad, that’s why it’s called forgiveness.”

Wendell burst out laughing. “Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Ash, can I take the rest of my break outside?”

Ashton nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

“What’s wrong, kid?” Wendell asked Derek scornfully, watching him leave. “Can’t handle the truth? Are my facts giving you anxiety? I swear, Representative Matt Grimes was right about your generation when he said that—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ashton interrupted, “you mean the guy in D.C. who just had half a million in PPP loans forgiven?”

Wendell was caught off-guard. “That’s not the same thing.”

“They got free money from the government they never had to pay back. Sounds like the same thing to me, but I guess when the recipient is a guy you’ve been programmed to root for, you embrace it.”

“First of all, smartass, the company wasn’t his. He was just a shareholder.”

“Yeah, but he owned like a shit-ton of them, right?”

“Not anymore.”

“Kinda convenient, huh?” Ashton asked, holding his father’s stare. “Bail out the big boys, but fuck the youth for being dumb enough to believe a college degree would actually be worth something.”

Wendell leaned in, then whispered. “Do you hear how ungrateful you sound right now?”

Ashton closed the distance. “Do you KNOW how selfish you ARE?”

Wendell leaned back. “I get why you’re upset. You’re jealous.”

“Oh, is that it?”

“After the good news I gave you, I would be too. But don’t hate me for knowing how to work the system. In fact, a real man would suck it up, stop talking so much, respect his elders, and…” Wendell trailed off, whispering, “maybe, move out of his mommy’s basement. One phone call and you’re out on the street.”

“So you’re gonna cry to your ex-wife because your only son can see right through you?”

Wendell licked his lips, then fiddled with the buttons of his jacket out of discomfort. They both knew he had no authority or sway over his ex-wife. “Do you have any idea what my old man would’ve done if I had asked him to pay my bills?”

Ashton scrunched his brow. “When did I ever ask you to—?”

“He would’ve knocked me in the mouth, then kicked me out of the house!”

“Yeah, but instead he gave you everything, right? Which is probably why it’s so fucking impossible for you to control your urges and appetites these days.”

“How dare you?!” Wendell screamed. “I am your father and you will show me respect!”

Ashton remained stoic. “Wasn’t it you who said I’d amount to shit if I didn’t go to college?”

Wendell rolled his eyes. “I…I…I didn’t say it like that.”

“You did. You said community college or trade school was for losers. And you didn’t just demand I go, you shamed me into it, said I’d be wasting my life if I didn’t. At the time I thought you believed in me, but now I’m starting to wonder if it was meant to impress your rich investor buddies. So, tell me, was your support authentic? Or was it to appease them?”

Wendell didn’t have an answer. Well, he did, he just preferred not to respond.

“Just pay it off later, you said,” Ashton added, lowering his tone to mimic his father’s raspy voice. “The economy is bulletproof and will never crash twice before you’re thirty, leaving you and all of your friends in unpayable financial ruin.”

Wendell scrunched his brow. “What are you doing?”

Ashton ignored him. “And, of course, my generation is constantly rewriting the laws to parasitically suck off the poor and the youth, but we promise we’re only looking out for you…and our multi-million-dollar tax-sheltered endowment that’s secretly used to sway the stock market.”

“Is that supposed to be me?”

“So, go to school forever, change your major six times, and put off having a family until you’re at least fifty because that’s what the television said you should do.”

“Oh, come on, Ashton, now you’re just acting like a—”

“Oh, and when it all inevitably implodes,” Ashton continued, still in character, “just know, we won’t help you like our folks did. No, we’ll just mock the shit out of you and constantly remind you how far behind you are. We won’t teach you how money works either, no, we’ll say it’s evil and tell you to take unpaid internships while we charge by the hour, then ridicule you for never learning what we were supposed to teach you.”

“Are you done yet?”

Ashton held his stare but softened his tone. “Why do you do it, Dad? Why are you so quick to blame the youth for everything? Why do you mock us for questioning authority like you did in the ’60s and viciously criticize us for smoking the same weed you proudly normalized? Why are so many of you such proud hypocrites?” Wendell wanted to reply, but couldn’t think of anything to say. “I think it’s because you’re broken,” Ashton added, “I think it’s because you know that, one day, all of your toys and all of your earthly accolades will eventually return to dust. And all your precious money will be thrown back into the system. Derek was right, we don’t envy you. We feel sorry for you.”

“Oh, how virtuous, Ashton, you feel sorry for us.”

“You’ll never be truly fulfilled, because under that self-righteous, judgmental exterior lives a frightened, lost child, so terrified of death that clutching pearls and hoarding the financial system is the only way you feel safe. Because without status and clout, you’re nothing.”

Following a long deafening silence, a slow clap started in the back of the coffee house. It rose, then plateaued to about half of the crowd. Ashton smiled, almost took a bow, but stopped before the thought converted to action. It would only give his father prideful ammunition.

Wendell chuckled. “Hey, it’s not my fault you wanted to be a theater fag. Everyone knows art is a lost cause. Besides I worked my way through college like a man, and so will you.”

“How much was it back then?” Ashton asked. “Two, maybe, three thousand, total?”  

Wendell’s eyebrows rose. “So what, are you a socialist now or some shit?”

“You draw social security, that’s a few steps shy of universal basic income.”

“No, it’s not. I paid into that. For decades.”

“Willingly?” Ashton asked. “Like a 401K? Or was it a tax?” Wendell started to reply, but stopped. “I have to ask. Do you really think the treasury is sending you the same money from forty years ago?”

“And what’s your solution, Robin Hood? Steal from hard-working Americans who—” 

“You stole two grand from my emergency fund for a down payment on a boat after a blog said you’d be put on a list for withdrawing too much. By the way, did you ever pay me back? Or did you gas-light me, say I misplaced it, and hope I’d forget?”

The corner of Wendell’s mouth curled up. “Is that what you call it? You think that ratty old fucking blue and white puzzle box is an effective storage deposit—”   

“Excuse me?” asked a voice from the crowd. A man in a blue business suit behind a miniature laptop, gestured to the counter. “Excuse me, Ashton, is it?”

Ashton nodded. “Yes sir.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear you mention a boat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you, by some chance, happen to know what kind of—?”

“Hey, uh, Mr. Brinkley, sir,” Wendell interjected, awkwardly wiping the sweat from his neck as the blood in his face ran south, “I was just telling my son the good news, uh, told him about how, uh, generous and accommodating you were concerning the, uh, deal you gave me. You’re a miracle worker, for sure, a miracle worker.”

Brinker grabbed his briefcase from his chair, set it on the table, and unlocked it.

“Sorry you had to hear all that,” Wendell said, “A little family squabbling, you know?”

Brinker removed a packet of papers, retrieved the blue ballpoint pen from his jacket and scribbled some notes. “What’s your middle name?”

“Gregory,” Wendell replied, “why?”

Brinker shook his head. “Not you. Your son.”

Ashton touched his chest, then replied timidly. “Calhoun.”

“Ashton Calhoun Green?”

“Yes, sir.”

Wendell looked confused. “Can I ask why you’re taking down my son’s information?”

Brinker gave the document a quick glance-over, flipped back two pages, ahead one, then paper-clipped his business card to the top right corner. He retrieved a smaller, stapled packet of papers from the lid pocket, then approached the counter with both documents. “I am rescinding our deal from earlier.” He placed the contract in front of Ashton. “That said, the offer is yours, if interested.”

Wendell’s jaw was on the floor. “You can’t be serious?”

“Very.”Brinker pulled up a photo on his phone and showed it to Ashton. “By the way, is this the boat you were talking about earlier?” Ashton met Brinker’s gaze, then nodded. “Do you know where it is?”

“In a—”

“So, Brinkley!” Wendell interjected, “How are you sir? Out enjoying the city?”

Brinker bore a hole though Wendell, then looked at Ashton, who finished the statement. “A storage unit upstate.”

Brinker gave him the pen. “Give me the details and maybe we can get your money back.”

Ashton hesitated, wrote down the address, then handed back the pen.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Wendell said, waving his hands. “What about all you said at the bank?”

“That was before I saw who you truly were, so…now your deal belongs to him.”

“You can’t do that.”

“You should really stop talking.” Brinker said, then turned to Ashton. “Your student loans will be tricky, but maybe we can figure something out.” He faced Wendell, now by the door. “Oh, and Wendell, we’re gonna bill you for the mess you made at the bank.”

Wendell started to reply, but changed his mind and left the coffee shop.

Brinker retrieved his cell phone. “Does your phone accept videos?”

“Yeah,” Ashton nodded, retrieving his phone from under the counter.

They exchanged numbers, then Brinker scrolled to the end of his Photo Album. “I’m gonna air-drop it. It’s twelve minutes long so it may take a bit.” When it went through, Ashton pulled it up. The screenshot depicted the interior of an executive office. Wendell sat, frozen, in front of the desk. “Mini security cam,” Brinker said, “taken earlier today in my office.”

Ashton pressed play and turned up the volume. The footage began with Wendell farting, wiping his forehead, then straddling the A/C by the window. “I…I…I’m not surprised.”

“May I?” Brinker asked, then dragged the red dot to the 8-minute mark. “This is when things really start to pick up.”

“I can’t,” Wendell cried, now seated, his face in his hands. “I wanna pay it off, but I can’t. I just can’t do it.”

“Well, Mr. Green,” Brinker said on the video, “if you are willing, there are ways—”

“Be patient with me, okay?”

“Patience isn’t the issue—”

Wendell fell to his knees. “Don’t take my stuff, please, it’s all I got, be patient with me.”

“It’s not an issue of patience, Mr. Green, it’s an issue of—”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Wendell blubbered, then crawled on his hands and knees to Brinker’s side of the desk. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

Brinker rolled his chair back. “What are you doing, Mr. Green?”

Wendell lunged for Brinker’s lap, gripping his right knee. “Please don’t do this to me…”

Brinker shoved his hand away and stood up. “Get up! Get up off the floor, Mr. Green!”

“I’ll do anything,” he cried, still on his knees. “Please, don’t make me, don’t make me—” but then his back straightened and his eyes bugged from their sockets as if he had seen something terrifying.

“What’s he doing?” Ashton asked, eyes glued to his screen.

Brinker grinned. “Wait for it.”

Wendell grabbed the edge of the desk, picked himself up, and side-stepped to the door. “You, uh, bring up a really good point. I just, uh, gotta make a quick phone call,” he mumbled, then wedged himself into the hallway. The video ended a few seconds later.

“Did he make it?” Ashton asked.

Brinker grinned genuinely, then shook his head. “He left a trail. The lobby’s being cleaned as we speak. It’s why I’m here and not at the office. I feel bad for Sandra, the receptionist, she watched it unfold in real-time, poor girl.”

“And even after that, you agreed to wipe out most of his debt?”

“Out of pity,” Brinker nodded, then gathered his belongings, “next time he gives you shit, show him that video. And after you’ve had a chance to look over the paperwork, give me a call.”

The End