ISSN 1758-6488
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White Hitachi Fiction |
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Of course the buck in the kiosk at the clampers had a face on him like a dose of cancer.
“Bout a white Hitachi,” said Patrick.
“I’d say tis.”
“Twas taken in illegal.”
“I’d say twas.”
“I was only gone into the doctor’s with my daughter. She has spina bifida. I have the handicapped sticker alright but it’s lost. I had to carry her home in my arms.”
“Three hundred even.”
“The van isn’t worth that.”
“Not my problem, son.”
“I don’t have three hundred.”
“Not my problem. Your problem.”
“If the wind changes that face will stick on you.”
“If you’re going to be abusive you can leave the way you came.”
“I want to speak to the manager.”
“Hello good evening and welcome. Three hundred and you’re on the road.”
“Ye’re licensed by the council, ye are? Council know this the way ye’re treating fathers of spina bifada children?”
“Much have you on you?”
So it was that when he was hauling into the juvenile detention unit he didn’t even have the price of a bottle of coke for Tee-J. The better news was that there was three quarters of a tank of petrol and the DVDs were still under the boards. Imagine, he thought, if you did have a child with spina bifida? He was sobbing uncontrollably by the time he parked the Hitachi in the visitors car park.
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