 What does the description in the second paragraph of the article about Wayne's parents show about how Wayne feels towards them?
And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. School over, waiting for the draft and all. Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in the same old ways. A freak sideshow all the way to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or with eyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retire into limbo. One thing—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pants off Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget his punkie origins in teeveeland. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was no doubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion. So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alone waiting for the breakout call from HQ. "Well, dear, if you say so," Mother said, with the old resigned sigh that must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly. They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up. "What, son?" his old man said uneasily. "If you wanta walk. "But we promised the Clemons, dear," his mother said. "Hell," Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. "Oh, my dear boy," Mother cried out. "So gimme the keys," Wayne said. He was still laughing as he whoomed the Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramp onto the Freeway. He strode under a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casually to the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and a pansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.
 He dislikes them because he feels repressed by them.
 He dislikes them because he feels repressed by them.  He has strong disdain for them because they do not approve of his aspirations.  He fears his parents because they are aggressively against his future goals.  He is annoyed by them because they will not let him be drafted.