It wasn’t a brilliant gag. As a gag, it would have been scorned by any actor making the rounds. But it was good; it was homey.
The store closed, and Joe walked with his father to the parking lot. The man pushed the key into the ignition lock and reached his foot for the starter button.
“What is it, Joe? Trouble?”
“Not exactly.” Joe was still thinking of Pop Bartell. “I’m through at the agency. I’d like to come into the store.”
Tom Carlin’s foot did not touch the button. Horns honked and cars backed out of symmetrical lines as an attendant directed parking-lot traffic. Silence, brittle and strange, lingered in the Carlin sedan.
“I—I thought you’d be glad,” Joe said uncertainly.
“Is that your reason for telling me?”
The boy was startled. “Don’t you want me?”
Tom Carlin stepped on the button. The attendant waved an arm and he shook his head. The motor idled, warming.
“When you told me you wanted to be an actor,” the man said as though he debated each word, “I let you have your fling. Was there anything else for me to do? I was afraid of making you a round peg in a square hole. You failed as an actor. But you still stayed in show business and turned to production. That’s the rub, Joe.”