Odd Orange #3
-Just to preface, I have no idea how this follows the prompt. I sat down to write about something magical . . . but I ended up with this instead. Oh well.
If my Mom and Dad both go to my baseball game my Dad always stomps away, and then yells at me later for not telling him that Mom was going to the game. Mom and Dad didn’t act like this when they were still married, but since they got their divorce they haven’t spoken. I don’t see my Dad much anymore. He lives in the garage behind the house, and sometimes in his office. During his weekends we go camping or stay in room 101 at the Wildcat Canyon Motel. The Motel is OK because we stay right next to the pool, but I hate camping. I especially hate camping in the morning when my dad fry’s bacon and puts it on top of our Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I hate bacon.
I like my Dad when he is nice. He used to let me sit in the old Austin-Healey convertible that he was trying to fix in our back garage when he was still married to my Mom. I would pretend like I was driving through the country, and everyone wanted to be friends with me because I had a really cool car.
Now the Austin-Healey is covered by a bunch of towels and Dad has a pad that he sleeps on next to it. I only saw the garage because I was spying from across the alley. Dad doesn’t let us see the garage anymore. He doesn’t want anyone to know that he sleeps there. He still lets us see his office, but he always hides his blankets in the cabinet.
Last week, I was on the computer in Dad’s office, and I decided to read some of the letters he wrote. My Dad is a letter person. I usually liked his letters, when they were about my future, but sometimes they were about how I misbehaved with my grandparents and was just like my Mom. I don’t like those letters very much.
The letter I looked at talked about the Bitch of Birch Street. I have lived at 1046 Birch Street for eight years. We used to live with my Dad, but now he isn’t allowed to come into the house. If we want to see him we have to go somewhere else. He usually takes us to his office.
I always like it when Dad let me use his computer. I usually got on the Internet, and look at websites. But today I had already looked at Disney and MTV and I was bored. I didn’t want to be a snoop, but the only way I find out about what is happening is by doing things I am not supposed to. The letter was to his lawyer, and it talked about how my Mom wasn’t a good person because she took all his money, so he had to get her back. In the morning, when he was throwing the newspapers for his paper route, he would stop in front of my Mom’s house. When he stopped he would slip across the lawn and dump gasoline on it. He thought it was funny that there was just a dirt patch on the lawn instead of green.
I wanted to tell my Mom, but I figured that telling someone wouldn’t be a good idea, because it would get my Dad into trouble. He is always afraid of getting into trouble. That is why I can’t see the Austin-Healey anymore, and why he hides the blankets in his office. It is much better to just let my Mom yell at me for forgetting to plant the grass seed.
I always try to make the grass grow, but I guess that gasoline isn’t like the compost heap in the backyard. No matter how many times you water it, lawn doesn’t like to grow when the soil is soaked in gas.
If my Mom and Dad both go to my baseball game my Dad always stomps away, and then yells at me later for not telling him that Mom was going to the game. Mom and Dad didn’t act like this when they were still married, but since they got their divorce they haven’t spoken. I don’t see my Dad much anymore. He lives in the garage behind the house, and sometimes in his office. During his weekends we go camping or stay in room 101 at the Wildcat Canyon Motel. The Motel is OK because we stay right next to the pool, but I hate camping. I especially hate camping in the morning when my dad fry’s bacon and puts it on top of our Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I hate bacon.
I like my Dad when he is nice. He used to let me sit in the old Austin-Healey convertible that he was trying to fix in our back garage when he was still married to my Mom. I would pretend like I was driving through the country, and everyone wanted to be friends with me because I had a really cool car.
Now the Austin-Healey is covered by a bunch of towels and Dad has a pad that he sleeps on next to it. I only saw the garage because I was spying from across the alley. Dad doesn’t let us see the garage anymore. He doesn’t want anyone to know that he sleeps there. He still lets us see his office, but he always hides his blankets in the cabinet.
Last week, I was on the computer in Dad’s office, and I decided to read some of the letters he wrote. My Dad is a letter person. I usually liked his letters, when they were about my future, but sometimes they were about how I misbehaved with my grandparents and was just like my Mom. I don’t like those letters very much.
The letter I looked at talked about the Bitch of Birch Street. I have lived at 1046 Birch Street for eight years. We used to live with my Dad, but now he isn’t allowed to come into the house. If we want to see him we have to go somewhere else. He usually takes us to his office.
I always like it when Dad let me use his computer. I usually got on the Internet, and look at websites. But today I had already looked at Disney and MTV and I was bored. I didn’t want to be a snoop, but the only way I find out about what is happening is by doing things I am not supposed to. The letter was to his lawyer, and it talked about how my Mom wasn’t a good person because she took all his money, so he had to get her back. In the morning, when he was throwing the newspapers for his paper route, he would stop in front of my Mom’s house. When he stopped he would slip across the lawn and dump gasoline on it. He thought it was funny that there was just a dirt patch on the lawn instead of green.
I wanted to tell my Mom, but I figured that telling someone wouldn’t be a good idea, because it would get my Dad into trouble. He is always afraid of getting into trouble. That is why I can’t see the Austin-Healey anymore, and why he hides the blankets in his office. It is much better to just let my Mom yell at me for forgetting to plant the grass seed.
I always try to make the grass grow, but I guess that gasoline isn’t like the compost heap in the backyard. No matter how many times you water it, lawn doesn’t like to grow when the soil is soaked in gas.
posted by kyle at 8:54 PM
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