The older man glances at the younger man, plugged in to his mobile device. Spacey is how he'd describe him. Wearing his bright purple shorts. Bright blue t-shirt, some graphic he couldn't see and didn't care to. A pretty young girl walks in front of the younger fellow, but he doesn't look up. Absorbed in his phone, his music, both. The older man shakes his head. Adjusts his glasses: a habit of his to soothe his annoyance his wife uses as a cue to edge away from whatever errand she's telling him she'd like done, some overdone topic, some question she wants answered. Men don't know how to be men these days, he thinks. Back in my day, back in my day. But his day is long gone, stuck in small towns where rule-keeping for manliness is kept in check like his gut by his belt, not exploited and dishonoured in this transgendered time. Acceptance my ass, he thinks. No one knows what they are, who they are, and God help the man who tells another man who he ought to be. Driving their cars, working for gas, driving their cars. Young men preach night and day about saving the world but don't know their own neighbours. Wearing bright blue t-shirts and shorts shouting look at me, ignoring all else in those selfish gaddam headphones.