Brandon Econ
WALTER MOORE, 39
WALTER MOORE is the kind of guy that really tested the boundaries of his body, mind and spirit in college. When he got married he vowed to never go back to the “dark days”. That doesn’t mean he’s ignorant however so when it comes to sniffing out the onset of bad behavior with his son his sense memory kicks in and he knows exactly what’s going on. He doesn’t want his son to miss out on experiences but he wants to make sure he understands the consequences. He’s talking to his son at the top of the stairs in a two story townhouse.
WALTER Hey buddy, before you go to practice, I want to talk to you about something. Alright? So, I was in your room earlier today. I know what you’re going to say—that’s a violation of your privacy . . . and you’re right. I’m sorry I did it. But I saw something while I was in there. I saw some crusts. Have you been eating sandwiches? Don’t lie to me.
Pastrami on rye? Jesus, Brian. I thought your mother and I raised you better. You know pastrami on rye is a gateway sandwich, right? Listen to me. I’m not just your dad—I’m your friend.
It’s just one sandwich? Yeah, now it is, but just you wait. Next it’s going to be corned beef on rye, then it’s the Rachel, and god forbid you start eating reubens. I know all about it alright. Your dad was a kid, too. Is it peer pressure? Your friends probably got you into this. Remember that boy, Tommy, up the street? Didn’t he just get caught handing out PB&J’s? Listen, son, I’m glad we caught this early on.
I’m not making a big deal out of it for nothing, alright? Let me tell you a story. Back when I was your age, maybe a little older, me and my buddies took a trip to New Orleans for spring break. We did it all, the French Quarter, the church of St. Expedite, the jazz clubs, the beach, everything. But that’s also, unfortunately, where I discovered, muffulettas. I’m ashamed to say that in front of my own son, but your pops is addicted to muffulettas. Any chance I got, I’d try and get my hands on one. It got to the point that whenever I heard the pop of a lid, I’d go into a rage thinking it was someone opening a jar of giardiniera.
It’s a kind of olive salad son. It’s not important. The point is, I don’t want that to be you. I don’t want you to be walking down Bourbon Street with your friends and them having to physically pry you away from a deli window just because they’re carving up mortadella.
Look—my hands are shaking.
Listen buddy, I know where you get it. Our whole family’s this way. My father, your grandfather, used to place bologna on top of the toaster so it would drip onto the bread. I mean, I’m lucky. I’ve got your mother. If it wasn’t for her, who knows where I’d be. I’d probably be giving out hand jobs just to lick a piece of provolone. But you’re young—you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Don’t throw it away on a little meat and bread. Promise me.
That’s a good boy. Alright, now you want to come downstairs and have a drink with your old man?