“Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” Nat King Cole crooned out of the car radio.
Bob Smith angrily snapped it off. Snow was falling on the Long Island Expressway, traffic was thick, and he was distracted enough. He had received a phone call at the office from his wife.
“Dear, I want to warn you-“she had said.
“About what? Did Mark’s bus get in all right?”
“Yes, dear, that’s what I’m calling about. He…he looks a lot different than he did at the beginning of the semester. And I don’t think you’re going to like it, and I think you need to prepare yourself for a little surprise.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Mary, I’m a grown man. I can handle it.”
“Bob, remember your blood pressure. That’s all I ask.”
He remembered it now, and unclenched his fingers from the steering wheel. What had his idiot son done? He knew he should have forced the boy to get a haircut at Thanksgiving.