I thought about writing something to accompany these images other than that I had a sudden rush of memories of the father when I came upon this car resulting in a stream of pictures shot in the area directly around it that function like a mini-narrative, but I am second-guessing the writing of anything lately. I will say this: The father clung very tightly to his own mythology as a tough guy. More than ever, when I think of that it seems sad and pathetic and I feel slightly sorry for him in a complicated way that is both condescending and sincere. It is easier to feel genuinely sorry for a dead guy, even when that dead guy was a bully. It's also safer to speak openly about a dead guy because there is no way that he can kill you for it. He lost his chance forever and you can turn corners more freely with that knowledge.
Once again my fingers say more than the brain intends.