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Dad's Secret Stash

Sometimes things aren't what they seem

By Michael C. Lafferty-ShockencyPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
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Photo by Jonathan Farber on Unsplash

He stood as a pillar of the house and community. A saintly essence overseeing the neighborhood. “To Serve and Protect” Etched into the door of his squad car. By day, a beat cop on the stroll. By night, a loving family man, and caring neighbor. One cold autumn night, a lighting storm struck the tall cherry across the street. Awoken by the roar of thunder shaking the house, the snapping of branches, and the crackles and crashes that follow.

Dad breaks through the door just as a burst of lightning illuminates the room. “Wake up kid, we gotta get over there!” Sitting up to look out the window, I see the million foot tall tree, snapped in half, with one of its long, crooked branches, penetrating the roof. Grabbing his chain saw and tow chains, we march over to start cutting it back. Six or seven other neighbors pull up on the lawn, high beams pointed at the tree. Rain pounding like bullets off our backs. Together, we all work to chop, drag, and cut, the old hardwood away from the house. Once we had removed the massive timber from the living room, my father and I ran up to patch the hole.

Growing up, he always reinforced the importance of a moral compass. Acting as the living example, he would say things like “A man is only as good as his word, and nobody who breaks that word is any man at all.” “There’s nothing in this world you can’t have kid. With a little hard work and determination, this whole world can be yours.”

He took time to teach me every chance he could. “C’mon kiddo, we gotta clean the carbs on the Buick. You gotta know how to do this shit in case I’m not around.” Anytime something needed repair, he would tell me what tools to grab, and coach me through the process. Always working to make sure I had basic knowledge for survival.

The garage belonged to him. His sacred place. Like a personal shrine where buddies from work, or neighbors, would stop in for a beer and smoke; palling around, laughing, joking, and drinking. Not being allowed in when he had company, I would listen from the other side of the door. Hearing the clanks and voices coming from inside, I would close my eyes to imagine being a part of it. Sitting with them, in a folding chair, right behind that classic, fifty-seven, Chevy pickup. He finished the restoration the year I was born, and years later that metal flake, candy apple blue, still looks clean enough to eat off.

I remember one weekend afternoon. Dad had gone to the bar with some pals to watch the game. For whatever reason, I found myself snooping around the garage. The cold steel against my fingers, as my hands graze the tools hanging on the wall. Opening and closing the drawers of the toolbox, just looking around, curious. Lifting the lid of that red, Snap-On toolbox, I try to look inside, but lack the height. Remembering the stool we used when I was helping; I grabbed it and climbed up to peer inside. Looking over the top edge, a grey metal box sits in the center of the compartment. Like the cash boxes you see at carnivals. Reaching to grab the handle on top, I pick it up and shake it. Hearing a deep thud, I press the button to find it locked. Inspecting the underside, my curiosity runs wild. What in the world could he have in here? Is it a gun? Not really sounding metallic, I shook it a little more, still unable to grasp its contents.

Suddenly, the garage door rolls up, directly exposing my face to the sunlight, and my father’s rage. Seeing me, he Slams the Buick door. The hair on my neck standing at attention, frozen in fear, watching the chunks of rust fall from the car. “What the fuck are you doin?” Marching over to me. “You know goddamned well you’re not supposed to be in here without permission.” Slapping the box out of my hands, he grabs my ear and begins to walk me inside. The stabbing pain penetrating the side of my head, as he drags me upstairs like a bad dog. At the top, he kicks my bedroom door open, and using his considerable strength, he tosses me onto the bed. “What do you think you’re doin out there? Goin through my shit like that?” Pausing for a response, I move to sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my shoes. “Next time I find you out there, puttin those dirty dick beaters all over my shit, I’ll beat your ass so bad you won’t sit for a week. You understand me boy?”

“Yes Sir,” I uttered respectfully.

But still, I couldn’t shake the image from my mind. It was like one of the mysteries in my Hardy Boys books. I had to find out what was inside. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to find a way In, but it wouldn’t be easy. The doors to the garage are almost always closed, and mom keeps a pretty good eye on things, after what happened. Even if I tried to go out there, they would tell me its no place for kids, and shoo me away.

The next day I rode my bike to the library to take out a book on lock picking, and rummaged the junk drawers for a lock to practice on. I knew he was gonna whoop my ass for this, but the mystery outweighed the consequence. I could handle a little pain. What I couldn’t handle was the adamant curiosity. As if the secret to my father’s saintly knowledge and determination were hidden inside. Like I would find the secret of Jimmy Hoffa, or the fountain of youth, inside.

The next couple days were spent hidden away, reading and practicing. I had taken one of mom’s bobby pins, and a couple of dad’s paper clips, to make tools. Considering mom ran a tight ship when dad wasn’t home, my only chance would be that afternoon when she went to her bridge game.

The back yard was a plush green, slowly steeping hill, with a creek running below. During the summer, this is the only place find me. Catchin crawdads, swimming, or fishing the wide open creek bed.

Sitting on a rock by the water, drawing pictures in the mud with a dead crooked twig, I waited for mom to take off. Feeling like an eternity had passed, I finally started up the hill.

Inside the garage, standing on my stool, I lift the box out and set it on top of the toolbox. Taking the tools I’d created, I slid the bent end of the paper clip, and the squiggly side of the bobby pin, inside the lock. Feeling one of the tumblers, I struggle for the second. Moving the bobby pin back and forth against the tumblers, trying to turn the bent end of the paper clip, I finally hear: “Click.” The top springs open. On my tippy toes, I peer inside. Seeing two baseball sized chunks of powder in sandwich bags, my heart skips. Sliding the plastic out of the way, thinking please don’t let that be what It looks like. I see stacks and stacks of clean crisp hundred dollar bills, and a black Smith & Wesson revolver, with something ground off on the muzzle. Grabbing one of the stacks of hundreds to flip through, I count twenty bills. That’s two grand, in one stack! Returning the wad of cash, I count the bands. Ten stacks, at least twenty grand! Holy shit, Im thinking, what the hell is dad doing in here? Moving the gun out of the way, I glance a black, leather bound, hardcover notebook underneath. Picking it up, I slide the elastic band off and thumb the pages. Page after page of numbers, names, and dates. Flipping through, some have PAID stamped across, others are just crossed out. The reality hits me like a bullet to the head. My fathers a drug dealer? This doesn’t make any sense. A criminal? A cop? A crooked cop?

Carefully arranging everything exactly as it was, I close the lid. Returning it to the toolbox, and replacing the stool, I walk out, silently.

Down the hill, I knew I’d never look at him the same again. Wondering to myself if anything... really is what it seems…

fiction
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About the Creator

Michael C. Lafferty-Shockency

The only thing I've done throughout my entire life is write, so thats what I'm doing!

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