own world of heterosexual desires. â Those faggots and dykes, theyâ re asking for it. Theyâ re always gonna wind these people up,â thought Jim, totally incapable of thinking deeply enough about the issue to understand the importance of demonstrating for the inalienable rights of these people, just because their sexual preferences were different than his own.
By the time the news bulletin had reached the weather forecast, Jim had already devoured his breakfast. It looked like being more of a summerâs day, and that put him in a good mood.
He got up and took his plate over to the sink. Ever since he had been widowed, he had learned that it was better to wash everything up immediately, rather than be left with a pile of dirty, smelly dishes.
The kitchen clock told him it was twenty past seven, and it would soon be time to wake Henry and take him to school.
He grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge and his sonâs favorite cereal from the sideboard.
He set the table, trying to make it look as nice as Bet, his wife, had always done when she was still around.
It was tough for Jim raising a child on his own, but he hadnât been interested in a long-term relationship since Bet died. He was happy enough with the occasional one-night stand heâd pick up from those long Saturday nights at the Road to Hell. Jim always got free drinks there after heâd restored the ownerâs old Harley-Davidson 883, which had been crushed against a wall by a drunk truck driver reversing blind out of the parking lot.
Most people would have written it off and waited for the insurance money to buy a new one, but for Steve Collins that bike was the only thing he had to remind him of his dad, who had given it to him when it he was still too young to ride it as an incentive to work harder at college.
On Saturdays, Jim would leave Henry at his older sister Jasmineâs house. In spite of her ongoing health problems, Jasmine had always tried to be a mother figure to the young boy.
Before going in to wake his son, Jim entered the bathroom and looked in the mirror, stroking the two daysâ worth of stubble that had made him look older and more grizzled. He unclasped his suspenders, pulled his overalls down over his knees and sat on the toilet. Before offloading, his mind turned to Shelley, the latest twenty-something broad heâd brought home from the Road to Hell.
He masturbated furiously. He had become kind of an expert at fitting in all the household chores, but there was one thing heâd always find time for: his morning jerk-off.
â Shelley, Shelley⦠we really need to hook up again,â thought Jim as he pulled some toilet paper off the roll to clean himself up.
âHey, buddy! Rise and shine!â shouted Jim as he returned to the kitchen.
âYour breakfastâs on the table!â
Henry appeared a few minutes later, looking sleepy but, as always, with a smile on his face.
âYouâll catch cold going round the house topless!â warned Jim, mixing the cereal into the milk so it got soggy just the way Henry liked it.
âBut Iâm not cold, Dad, itâs warm again today.â
âYouâre right, bud! The forecast says itâs gonna be around seventy-five today. If it stays like this, next Sunday we can take a trip to the lake or maybe head straight for the beach. Which would you prefer?â
âBeach!â cried Henry as he took his first spoonful of mushy cereal.
âDid you remember you need to go to Aunt Jasmineâs after school?â Jim asked, adopting a more serious tone.
âSure, Dad, I packed my bag last night. Everythingâs in there, Iâm all set.â
âGood. Look, Iâm sorry I canât pick you up and Iâm leaving you with that heavy backpack to carry round, but the Howards need their car by lunchtime and I need to work on Tedâs Jeep first,â Jim said, attempting to justify himself to his son.
âIâm grown up enough to look after myself,â replied Henry proudly.
âYou havenât even taken your elementary school exams yet, thereâs plenty of time to grow up!â
âThe exams are less than a month away, so you canât go on thinking Iâm just a kid!â
âOK, Henry, weâll resume this conversation when youâve done the exams. Enjoy being ten, because Iâm telling you things get a lot tougher...â Jim said, unable to disguise a certain level of bitterness.
âIt canât get any tougher than the math test Iâve got today. I hate Miss Anderson. She looks like a fish!â replied Henry, giggling to himself.
âKid, math was never my strong suit, but youâd do well to learn....at least until you can afford a calculator! Come on, eat up!â Jim said with a chuckle, before turning back to the TV.
Chapter 2
P unctual as always, Jim dropped his son off outside the school and paused briefly to watch as the hordes of five-to-eleven-year-olds entered the main building, their chatter and squeals of laughter creating a familiar schoolyard buzz. It was a sound he liked. It reminded him of his childhood and brightened his mood. Jim stood trance-like among the other parents, watching the moms chatting to one another and daydreaming that his wife was among them, imagining how great it would feel to be there with Bet alongside him, catching up with the other moms and dads before going to work.
It was just one of the many experiences in life that he had been denied the minute his wife had been snatched away from him by the cruel hands of fate. A fate which, even all after all these years, Jim had still refused to accept.
Chapter 3
I t was nine thirty, and the sun filtering through the gaps in the auto repair shop shutters was already a problem for Jim, a guy who could sweat for America.
The Howardsâ Mercedes was a genuine antique: a 1954 300 SL with gull-wing doors. It had taken Jim weeks to find an original replacement muffler, and on top of that heâd had to make several secondary repairs. The car parked in his repair shop was worth more than four million dollars, and the job was set to earn him a cool ten thousand. The Howards were filthy rich and Jim had been lucky enough to befriend Ronald Howard at college, long before he married Carol Spencer, a woman who somehow managed to be even uglier than she was rich. Carol was probably one of the ugliest women in the entire United States, her looks irredeemable even with the most advanced plastic surgery, but for Ronald it was always about the money: â There ainâ t no piece of ass can compete with a private jet!â heâd always say when one of his friends asked how on earth he managed to sleep with that woman.
At Ronaldâs request and expense, Jim had taken his business to â Frankieâ s Luxury Car Partsâ, whose owner could get his hands on anything and charged accordingly. Frankie had friends and collectors of all ages as clients, and he counted many of the countryâs car thieves and junkyard workers among his loyal associates. Frankie actually was the nickname of his great-grandfather Franco, the son of Italian immigrants who came to the United States in 1882. Franco built up his business alone, using methods that were effective if not always legal and ensuring that luxury car parts would provide a life of luxury for all his descendants, including Tommy, who now ran the company and was known to everyone as Frankie, after his great-grandfather.
â I donâ t know how much you paid for this muffler, Ronald, but itâs been a real bitch to fit,â thought Jim, dripping with sweat as he lay under the car.
He