Some Short Story I wrote and I Don't Remember What It Was About

The first time was in jail. I was 14 but I would only walk out the back door and into my mom's car. I was visiting Dad. Larry, dad's buddy, who had a truck tattooed on his upper left arm saw me.

"Did ya ever steal fruit?," gruffed Larry.

"Only kiwi," I yelled back through the gate.

"Well, don't do it again."

Then I watched Larry drop his head and scuffle back in the door next to the guard. My dad came out quietly and waved. I waited for him alone because my mom was not on speaking terms with him at the moment. As he got closer and his shadow engulfed me, the gate opened and he stepped out.

"How ya?"

"I'm fine," I said.

"It's a sad day when ya not."

"I know. How are you?"

"Feel like shit. Larry's my only friend here."

The sun shifted over his shoulder and he barked a cough. "I made something for ya." He handed me a wrapped gift that fit in the palm of his hand. "Butchya can't open it until I go back inside." I took the package and looked back up at him.

"I made it last week."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Ya might be able to take it to school."

"OK."

He started to tear up a bit.

"I'll be out in three years.

"Three years and one day," I said.

"Fuck you," he laughed, patted me on the shoulder, and hugged me. "I gotta go."

He limped around and walked back toward the jail door, the guard pushing him in. I sat down on the ground holding the package. The paper was torn in places, like he had rewrapped it several times. I lifted up the one piece of tape holding it all together and found a macaroni frame containing a drawing of our family, the way it was when I was five, when we were smiling and life was good.


Ok, so now I look back. Was I inside or outside? I think this could be a Lifetime movie starring David Hasselhoff.