For his 40th they gave him folders of printed photos and transparencies. There was a machine, from a different era, where he had to insert the photos to be projected for everyone’s amusement. He had to do it himself; that was part of the fun.
Some photos were animated. Others, inappropriate, and not in the dawww bare baby ass way. Borderline marriage bedroom inappropriate, like when a lurid lovemaking scene pops up in the action movie you’re watching with your parents. She was just stitching up his shoulder–she’s only an EMT so there was extra, inexpert touching involved–so it made sense that their dirt-smudged limbs would slide around each other in the abandoned barn.
He made sure never to watch movies anywhere near his folks. He fought with them about that weed smell and the family car.
Everyone laughed at the projected images. His dad’s sense of humor was soured because the machine looked like an old snowblower that continually gave him trouble every start of winter. Someone, possibly drunk on the grappa, laid hands on the birthday boy’s head and muttered airy adages about not ending up dead until after another 40 years have passed. His hands crushed his head into the ground so his eyes were level with the bottom of the grass. He was the family priest so they both felt obliged to play their parts.