Sharon looked out the window hoping to see that godforsaken Trans Am, but all that drove by were the humdrum sedans usually reserved for rental fleets.
It was after 10 and Billy should've brought Garry back by now but her ex-husband had a history of tardiness, so this wasn't all that unusual.
When she was done with the dishes she heard the gravel in her driveway mushed by the growls of Billy's 455 engine, and it wasn't long before a little body popped out and ran into the house.
As the boy flicked the light on, Sharon was horrified by what she saw.
"What in Jesus happened to you?" she asked her son, hoping it was some sort of all-too-realistic prank he and his pop were playing.
"Dad did it. Ain't it rad?" he said looking into a mirror.
Outside, Billy lowered the Def Leppard and leaned on the Pontiac, waiting for the woman he thought at one time was the end-all and be-all of barmaids.
"What the fuck, Billy?" hands outstretched, was all she could muster.
He smiled. "I told you, the next time you hand him off to me in a prissy tie and creampuff shirt, I'd make a man outta him."
"That dumb mohawk makes him a man?" she screamed.
"It's a start," Billy answered, flicking his cigarette into a pile of half-melted snow. "We're buying a gun next week."