Here begins the essence of literary reflection, a “monologuized” view of the world (Proust), which I find probably the closest.

I can't help it if your uncle and his scumball friends keep crawling out from under every rock that gets turned over in this town.

“Anyway, we’re sitting down to dinner at his house, and there’s this plate of porkchops on the table. The only thing was—and I didn’t know it till it happened, it sort of took me back—you only got a porkchop if you worked. / “That was the rule. The porkchops went to the workers, nobody else. Didn’t matter who you were, how old you were. Tommy didn’t get a porkchop, I didn’t get a porkchop. I’ve always remembered that.”

A basket of fake fruit adorned the table.