348 and dropping

1974, November 3rd, Dear Dairy, Population:348

This is junior by the way /\ /\ /\  

I sat on the crumbling paint of my father's Ford mustang, although its original colour was an off white, it is now the sort of grey that dust can make any colour turn to, given enough time. My father was one of the only people in the village to have a car at all, but he still acts like it's just some pieces of metal. It is in desperate need of a clean but when I mention it to father the response is always about the same, 'I will soon, son promise' or 'tomorrow definitely'. It's always amused me how, 'tomorrow' always gets postponed one way or the other. Thus far, tomorrow has lasted two months.

As I spread my long fingers over the paint job and took it away, a handprint was left. I looked up at the noise of my father slamming the door of his hotel and the strained sound of his voice. "I want those people out immediately," he said in that hushed sort of shout that adults always do when they're angry, as if the way you say the words make them mean more or less. It dosen't by the way, not by my standards any way. "Sir" said a boy just a few years older than me, he was wearing a black and white suit and his face was pale, "we can't ask them to leave, they are main investors."

"Are you talking back to me son?" my father says. I swear sometimes my father thinks he's a corporal in the military or something because he has that look about him, that look that says I'm better than you. Full stop. End of story.

The boy, who I do not know the name of, cowers away from my father as if he were holding a gun to his head. "n, no sir not at all" he stumbles " I'll ask them to leave right away, if you wish."

"Ask them now," said my father, but he had lost all patience and had stopped whisper-shouting and gone in to full-blown-spitting-in-his-face-shouting. I hate it when he does that. It's the kind of shouting that the next door neighbour complains about. Good thing we don't have to worry about that any more, Bishop Kinton bit the dust a few days ago. Actually I take that back, one day he just didn't come back, so the Mayor told me he was still on the missing persons' list. I like the phrase 'bit the dust' though so I try and use it when I can.

"Junior" my father called to me, that's my name by the way, but then again most anyone who still has a papa that's alive is called Junior. I'm John Junior and am happy to say the only one in All Hallows Town. There is a Jon Junior, but it's spelt different so I still consider my name to be one of a kind. "What you doing out here messing up my paint job?" there really isn't much to mess up and to be honest, no one would notice if it did get worse, but I slumped off the car despite myself and keep my mouth shut, just like he always told me to.

"Look son," he said and put a cold hand on the back of my neck, his hands are always cold, "you didn't hear that conversation, ok?" he's always telling me that I didn't hear something or didn't see something and sometimes I just want to answer back and say, 'you know what, I did see that, I saw it right here with these eyes in the front of my head.' But I don't open my mouth, just nod like I always do.