So I told him to clean it up or I'd tell everyone he was the headmaster's "special boy."
I mean, honestly, I'm not his mother, that witch got out while she still could. I'm just the upperclassman who got stuck being assigned to him once he got to St. Ignatius on the Hill. Not one of my favorite duties, but what the hell, right?
When he locked the door behind me, I didn't think anything of it. I had checked in on him, just like the schedule said. I went back down to the common room and didn't think twice about it until you guys woke me up this morning.
I'm surprised he was able to climb down the drainpipe without it breaking. He was a bit of a chunk if you now what I'm saying.
Good luck, officer. I don't think you'll need the dogs. He's not very good at running or hiding.
His room reminded me of a magpie's hoard I stumbled across. Everything cheap and worthless and eye-catching. How could he even get through this mess?
I’d come straight from SFO and spent most of the afternoon trudging the tight, filthy streets of Chinatown looking for him. It was June and I was soggy and cold. The fog had crept in and invaded my bones. Damn San Francisco summers. The other reason I moved to LA.
I’d found him in a studio apartment above the fortune cookie “factory”; a store space snugged in an alley that housed an ancient conveyer type machine supervised by two wrinkled ladies who mindlessly poured batter in on one end and folded the discs into their final cookie shape at the other end. We’d always taken out of town visitors here. It was the last place I thought to look.
The apartment offered no comfort. It was stifling and it stunk of woody herbs. The medicinal kind used by the Chinese for healing and poultices. There were open Mason jars scattered around, on side tables and stacks of newspapers, with the dregs of gritty brown liquid covering the bottoms. I wrinkled my nose in disgust and covered my mouth before taking a breath. I felt like a scuba diver who’d ascended too fast. My head was pounding and I was disoriented.
The disheveled man standing across this room crowded with overstuffed furniture, gaudy wall hangings and Asian urns simply could not be my father.
“You found me,” he turned from the window and stared at me.
“Dad?” I was hoping this man would tell me I’d made a mistake. That he was not my father. “Sally called me. She said you’d disappeared a week ago.”
“Sally?” His eyes registered something familiar.
“Yea, Sally. Your daughter.” I took a slow step toward him. “Do you know who I am?” I didn’t want to go any closer.
“You look familiar,” he said with a nod of his head as his hand reached up to rake his gray hair.
“I’m your daughter Katie.” I backed up a bit to let him absorb the information. “Dad, are you working on a new project for the lab?”
“Oh yes,” his eyes lit up. “I found the answer.” He grinned and winked at me, just like he did when I was a kid listening to his stories.
“What answer is that, dad?” I asked carefully, turning my head at the thump of heavy footsteps in the hall outside.
My dad had just touched his finger to his lips to shush me when the door exploded open.
So I told him to clean it up or I'd tell everyone he was the headmaster's "special boy."
ReplyDeleteI mean, honestly, I'm not his mother, that witch got out while she still could. I'm just the upperclassman who got stuck being assigned to him once he got to St. Ignatius on the Hill. Not one of my favorite duties, but what the hell, right?
When he locked the door behind me, I didn't think anything of it. I had checked in on him, just like the schedule said. I went back down to the common room and didn't think twice about it until you guys woke me up this morning.
I'm surprised he was able to climb down the drainpipe without it breaking. He was a bit of a chunk if you now what I'm saying.
Good luck, officer. I don't think you'll need the dogs. He's not very good at running or hiding.
His room reminded me of a magpie's hoard I stumbled across. Everything cheap and worthless and eye-catching. How could he even get through this mess?
ReplyDeleteI’d come straight from SFO and spent most of the afternoon trudging the tight, filthy streets of Chinatown looking for him. It was June and I was soggy and cold. The fog had crept in and invaded my bones. Damn San Francisco summers. The other reason I moved to LA.
I’d found him in a studio apartment above the fortune cookie “factory”; a store space snugged in an alley that housed an ancient conveyer type machine supervised by two wrinkled ladies who mindlessly poured batter in on one end and folded the discs into their final cookie shape at the other end. We’d always taken out of town visitors here. It was the last place I thought to look.
The apartment offered no comfort. It was stifling and it stunk of woody herbs. The medicinal kind used by the Chinese for healing and poultices. There were open Mason jars scattered around, on side tables and stacks of newspapers, with the dregs of gritty brown liquid covering the bottoms. I wrinkled my nose in disgust and covered my mouth before taking a breath. I felt like a scuba diver who’d ascended too fast. My head was pounding and I was disoriented.
The disheveled man standing across this room crowded with overstuffed furniture, gaudy wall hangings and Asian urns simply could not be my father.
“You found me,” he turned from the window and stared at me.
“Dad?” I was hoping this man would tell me I’d made a mistake. That he was not my father. “Sally called me. She said you’d disappeared a week ago.”
“Sally?” His eyes registered something familiar.
“Yea, Sally. Your daughter.” I took a slow step toward him. “Do you know who I am?” I didn’t want to go any closer.
“You look familiar,” he said with a nod of his head as his hand reached up to rake his gray hair.
“I’m your daughter Katie.” I backed up a bit to let him absorb the information. “Dad, are you working on a new project for the lab?”
“Oh yes,” his eyes lit up. “I found the answer.” He grinned and winked at me, just like he did when I was a kid listening to his stories.
“What answer is that, dad?” I asked carefully, turning my head at the thump of heavy footsteps in the hall outside.
My dad had just touched his finger to his lips to shush me when the door exploded open.
B., great prompt! Love your story too! LOL!!
ReplyDelete