Calling home

November 5, 2010
By , belmont, NY
“Yea sure’’ the boy states as he rolls his eyes. His father has been pestering him for the last week to grow up go to college and be a man. Not that his father has ever murmured so many words in a day. People would describe his father as the short, quiet, balding type. “You could try over at what do you call it the junior college” his pop says sorting thru bills and writing out checks. “You could ...” his father doesn’t finish what he wants to say just continues to write. “Pop I thought we already talked about this I don’t want to go to school” he stands up his chair bumps in to the counter behind him. He slowly looks at the kitchen at the tiny cupboards at the greasy stove at the nonexistent sink. He knows why his father wants him to go to school so he can get out of here. But he had intended to get what people around here call a job then save for a bit then take the bus as far as it would take him. He knew his dad knew what he was going to do he already had a few hundred saved up. What he didn’t know was that is exactly what his father had planed at his age, and then he met a pretty girl and thought I’ll just stick around for awhile. Six months later he was married and that money he had saved plus the money she had saved made a down payment on a little house, they wanted to stay by family with a baby on the way.” Pop are you listening? “”What no you say something” his father looked at him with dead eyes. “Yea I’m gonna get a pizza you want any thing on it?” he didn’t wait for an answer the door slammed behind him.

He stood shivering at the bus stop the next morning, couldn’t take this filthy town filled with people who couldn’t see beyond the next day. The bus pulled up and without looking back he climbed on. He ended up in a bitterly cold place that looked worse then wear he was from and that was saying quite a bit. He ended up in a cruddy little motel. He called home the call lasted five minutes.

Spent three weeks looking for a job that was better than the one he had back home. Didn’t find one. One night walking to the motel he turned the corner and saw his house or something that looked just like it. Wasn’t the same color, wasn’t even the same shape but was packed in with all the others had a look like it had seen everything and just wanted a long needed nap.

He called home talked for almost two hours.

Went home.

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ajkstarr said...
Nov. 13, 2010 at 12:20 pm

I really like the premise, and how it was told from a different point of view than most stories I read. There were some problems though.

First of all, grammar. Commas are a writers friend. Some  of your sentances were long and confusing. You need to break your thoughts up more. The sentance that starts with "SIx months later..." needs to be broken up.

"The greasy stove at the non-existant sink" description didn;t make sense for me. Is there, or isn't there a sink? That... (more »)

red-head replied...
Nov. 14, 2010 at 8:27 pm
all right  so grammar yes I suck I know. and I thought I was doing so well (sigh). yea there where a few or a lot of mistakes.  What I had hoped to say about the father was that the son didn't really know him at all and was making assumtions about him.(I'm sorry you didn't get that feeling,  I know first reads stick no matter what else you hear about it, so again, sorry) and yea I may have lost steam in description I had hoped to give impression ... (more »)
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