It’s been the same my whole life, seems like. Whenever I see the stacks of unpaid bills start to pile up, I know that pretty soon Dad’s going to say it’s time to pack up and leave. He always calls it a “fresh start.”
“Time to try our old tricks on some new dogs, Mikey.”
I’ve heard it all a million times.
Then we run to the next place, and somehow Dad opens up another one of his pubs. It’s always the same: waitresses with cut-off jean shorts who call me “honey” and Dad joking with all the drunks at the bar. Me and Dad living in some dump of a motel nearby.
Pub life was fun when I was a kid. I ate deep-fried everything and ice cream whenever I wanted. I beat guys four times my age at pool. Dad and I had a whole system worked out in case the cops showed up. A twelve-year-old kid wiping tables and selling smokes in a pub isn’t cool with everyone, especially law-enforcement types. Anytime someone suspicious came in, one of Dad’s regulars would make a hand signal. Then I’d hide in the closet or run out the back door. I used to find those moments pretty exciting. But they aren’t so fun anymore.
Sometimes Dad has one of his waitresses over for a “visit.” When he does, it’s pretty obvious that I’m not welcome.
“Hey, Mikey, Katie and I need some alone time.”
“Hey, Mikey, Roxy and I are having a special visit. Just the two of us.”
This is usually followed by Katie or Roxy giggling like crazy. During those times, I usually go running. I just run, run, run until I can’t run anymore. I don’t have special running shoes or clothes or anything. I just head out the door in whatever I’m wearing, even if it’s pajama pants and bare feet. I don’t feel anything while I’m running. My legs just take over, and I can sail. Once, when we lived in Maple Ridge, I ran all the way from our motel to the town dump. The next week when my dad and I drove there to try and scrounge up some furniture, I realized that I’d run fifteen miles there and back.
Our last big move had been really bad. Dad got beat up, and we left that night with just a few things we could load into his truck. Dad didn’t even have time for the “fresh start” speech, just a gruff “We’re going. Now.”
And here we are in Oliver. Dad works at a pub. He doesn’t own it. A good idea. I don’t have to wash dishes and bus tables anymore. The whole thing is okay with me, considering that I messed up pretty bad in the last town.
I don’t really remember when I started “participating in illegal activities,” as Lardface would say. It seems like one day I was playing with my toy trucks, and then the next thing I knew, I was in Stan’s Market, stuffing comic books and dirty magazines under my shirt. The older kids at Jackson Park paid big cash for those. That was my big break into the world of thievery. But it’s not like I got a rush out of doing it, like some of the other guys did. I just didn’t have anything else to do.
The whole thing had been Cam’s idea. He said he needed money. We were sitting on the curb outside the 7-Eleven with Ty and Derek, drinking Slurpees.
Before I knew it, we were standing at the back of a house around the corner.
“Mike, you’re good at climbing stuff,” said Cam. “You go first. Jam the window open.”
Everyone always did whatever Cam said. I looked up. The window wasn’t that far. Using the drainpipe and the wood siding for grips, I scaled the side of the house and jammed the window open with my pocket knife. I can’t say my dad never gave me anything useful.
As soon as I let the other guys in, everyone scattered to different rooms. Derek shouted when he found a box of jewelry. Probably rhinestones, I thought. Ty and Cam unplugged the TV and the stereo. Derek loaded up with CDs and more jewelry.
I just stood there in the kitchen. School photos of little kids framed the kitchen sink. A sign that said Fran’s Kitchen hung above the stove. I figured we were in someone’s grandma’s house.
I’ve never seen four guys move faster than when we heard the car in the driveway. Ty threw open the kitchen window, taking the stereo with him. As I jumped out I accidentally knocked over a pot of yellow flowers. It smashed onto the clean white floor. I’m still not sure why I did it, but I climbed back inside to clean up the mess.
I heard “What is he doing?” coming from outside as I frantically wiped up the dirt. My buddies took off. I got caught, dishcloth in hand. I never ratted the other guys out. It’s just not an honorable thing to do.
The authorities—aka Officer Lardface— found me almost as soon as Dad and I moved to Oliver. She got my file from my old liaison officer when Dad registered me for school. That was how I started having the weekly meetings with Officer Lardface, and that was how I ended up at Explore.