EVERY OTHER WEEKEND
A short story about growing up fast in the passenger seat.
Thanks for subscribing to the Reset Theory. 2026 brings lots of new output including short stories. This week, a story about inherited masculinity, crime and the cost of curiosity on a sweaty afternoon in Westlake.
Benni raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.
His reflection filled the rear-view, a baby face trying on aggression. It scared no one, least of all himself. He flopped into his seat. Boredom returned.
He lost minutes watching dust in the afternoon light float and settle on the dash. It filled the quiet, but it wasn’t enough. A tap at the ashtray flipped a lid. A pool of butts stared back. Snatching a half-chugged cig, Benni gripped the butt between his lips. Eyes to the mirror, his mean mug returned, this time a little more menacing.
Unsurprisingly, he’d been here before.
At twelve years old, Benni had spent more than his fair share of long Saturdays with dad. But today was one of those days, the kind where he’d repeatedly be told to “Wait here.” Here being the car, and the wait feeling like forever.
Searching for distraction, Benni scanned the tired interior of Eartha Kitt. A 93’ Lincoln Continental, dotted with dents and rust. Named after the “The sexiest Cat Woman in the history of Batman” Eartha was his father’s pride and joy. But given her threadbare seats and cobwebbed corners, you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
Benni popped the glove.
It vomited parking tickets between his legs leaving an empty box, all but for one item. From his seat, Benni tried to work it out, but couldn’t. He reached in, producing a mess of knotted plastic. A black grocery bag wrapping something heavy, hard and cool.
He picked at the plastic, unknotting its corners, but before its secrets found the light, a loud thud boomed from the other side of the window. A doorway bounced at the wall; dirty boots cracked the concrete as Johnny made a bee-line for Eartha.
Johnathan, Stephen James was the name on his I.D. A name only said in full by two people, his mother and the Court Bailiff before listing the charges against him. Most people called him John-John, or Johnny for short. A nickname he hated and tried to shake since his teens to no avail. Handsome, unshaven and messy in the way only good-looking people can get away with, Johnny wasn’t a criminal. He was just good at crime.
Charging out of ‘Gold 24’, Johnny stamped the strip mall sidewalk leaving the rinky-dink pawn shop behind him. He folded a wrap of twenty-dollar bills and jammed them in his 501s.
Sliding into the Lincoln with a quickness, he turned the key forcing Eartha’s engine to cough its way back to life. The ‘wait in the car’ portion of Benni’s Saturday was over, but replaced by what?
Koreatown’s unseen filled the windows, as Johnny zipped between buildings and down back streets. Benni watched the worst of Westlake flash by, in dark doorways and huddled between overflowing dumpsters. He dropped the window allowing scraps of nameless strangers in. Seconds of an argument, the cackle of a laugh…
For most kids his age, everything about this corner of Los Angeles was off limits, scary. For Benni, this was everything his mother tried to keep him from, but everything his father threw him into. This was exactly where he wanted to be.
Johnny never drove to music; he liked the quiet rumble Eartha made. Usually, a car journey with Benni and his father became an interrogation room on wheels. A dad quizzing his only son on school, fights and why he didn’t have at least two girlfriends by now. They’d laugh and talk endlessly about basketball. While Benni would rant about stat-padders and crooked referees, Johnny found a way to make everything about Lebron’s bald spot – because fuck the Lakers.
But, today was different.
No basketball talk, no balding jokes. In fact, no talking at all. Johnny was in his head. He drove the long way avoiding Wilshire, eventually pulling in at the lake. Feet from a cluster of tents, Johnny hopped out of Eartha and slammed the door. Turning back, he barked what had become his trademark instruction. “Wait here”
Once again, Benni and Eartha sat in silence, only now, something new begged to join the gang. It was wrapped in a bag and jammed out of sight. It was in the glove box, but once again, it had found its way back into Benni’s tiny hands.
He checked a shoulder to be sure he was alone. The only sign of life was on the other side of the water; an ice cream truck manned by a disinterested teenage girl scrolling her smart phone. Every other weekend Johnny claimed his allocated time with Benni, time he never missed, forgot or skipped. He made Saturdays their day and filled it with their favourite things.
Usually, the girl in the truck would be fishing around the deep freeze for two Mango Paletas. They’d be sat by the water talking smack about the Lakers; it was the only time Johnny allowed Benni to drop the occasional F bomb, because Fuck the Lakers.
But, today was different.
A performative peal of laughter cut the silence. The kind of laugh a man forces out while telling an unfunny story. Annoyed, Benni threw the unopened bag back into the glove. He clambered to the back seat and waited.
Benni knew that cackle all too well and given its proximity, it could only be a matter of seconds before the days unnerving silence would be a distant memory. Doors slammed as Johnny slid behind the wheel, and a man in Cargo shorts and a T-shirt tattooed with sweat stains filled the passenger.
Eartha roared as she slipped through gears, cutting up passing cars and running red lights. The untrained ear might confuse their loud, profanity powered conversation as conflict, but for Benni, this was just the way his dad and ‘Uncle Ricky’ communicated.
Gripping a greasy paper bag of Pan dulce, Ricky ripped and inhaled handfuls of sugary dough peppering the car with crumbs. He was portly and fast talking, that permanent kind of sweaty with a constant film of grease on his forehead. Somehow, he smelt like cigarette ash and syrup at the same time.
Bat and ball since pre-school, they were best friends with Ricky happily existing in Jonny’s shadow. He never had a plan nor needed one, because whatever John-john decided they were pulling next, he was riding shotgun.
Ripping across Westlake, Ricky pointed out directions. From the back seat, Benni’s shoulders dropped as his day with dad had become something new and charged with a nervous energy. A day with a third wheel no one asked for.
They had somewhere to be, somewhere they weren’t telling Benni about. Ricky turned to Benni in the back, causing the old car seat to moan under the weight. Bad tattoos peaked over the collar of his dirty t-shirt as he offered the kid pan dulce with a toothy grin.
Eartha screeched to a stop.
Johnny eyed a lot across the street. Towers of scrap metal wrapped the entrance, creating a dark tunnel into a quiet workshop. Johnny took the lead as Ricky silently drank the cool-aid of what sounded like a fool-proof plan. Benni had questions, but he’d only vocalise one.
“What can I do to help?” he asked. Johnny and Ricky turned to their wannabe assistant in the back. “You can wait here” snapped his father.
From his Cargo shorts, Ricky proudly pulled a knife to the annoyance of Johnny. “Better safe than sorry John-john.” He twisted the weapon as its tip pinged in the afternoon sun. Angered by the mere suggestion of things not going to plan, Johnny snatched the knife and threw it in the glove box.
“If we can’t get this done without needing that thing, maybe we deserve whatever’s coming our way” Johnny hopped out of the car as Ricky reluctantly followed unarmed. Popping his head into the open window, Ricky reminded Benni to stay put.
Digging into his deep Cargo short pockets, Ricky fished out a Butterfinger and threw it at Benni with a wink. The two men crossed the street and disappeared into the workshop leaving Benni watching on from a distance. Alone in the car. Again.
Minutes felt like hours as time passed slowly.
Benni made light work of the candy bar and balled up its foil wrapper. Dropping his trash to the gutter, boredom returned. His patience withered as curiosity took its place. The glove box silently flirted with his better judgement. He Climbed over the centre console, and back into the seat Ricky had stolen.
The instruction to “stay put” was clear, but nothing was said about the glove.
He had to know what was in that bag. Decided, he sat up… but before his tiny hand made for the lock, a thud at the door made Benni jump out of his skin. A bloody fist thumped the glass. Ricky screamed from the street while yanking at the door.
“The glove. Pop the glove” he yelled.
