The Garage — By Nicholas De Marino

The Immigrant by Joseph Verrastro

            Back when I only shaved twice a month and was beginning to suspect pro wrestling was fake, Dad said no more babysitter. From then on, my younger sister and I waited in the attached garage after school until he got home from work — ninety minutes unless he stopped at the post office or store. Or got a ticket for blowing a stop sign.

            “I drive by there every day. That cop knows I teach at the school. What an asshole. Every day I drive by there. Every day.”

            The garage smelled like rotting mulch and rat poison because of the rotting mulch and rat poison. The bulb in the ceiling painted everything yellow-pink. You could see your breath from late fall to early spring.

            We couldn't have a key to the house.

            “Your mother's a vindictive bitch. She'll take the key, come in, and steal everything.”

            No garage key, either.

            “I already told you why. How many times do I have to tell you? You're not retarded. I teach retarded kids. I know. Stop pretending.”

            We got in the garage through a side door. I unlocked it when we left to catch the bus on school days. It locked automatically unless you twisted the button on the back of the knob.

            The first time I locked us out, we sat in the yard until Dad got home.

            “You can't just sit out there. The neighbors will see.”

            I practiced unlocking the door.

            “Do it again. Again.”

            Dad got in close. I'd shot up last spring, but he'd been fat forever. He reminded me to unlock the door when we left, that the neighbors would see, that our mother was a vindictive bitch.

            There wasn't a bathroom. We peed in the woods, where hunters hunted wild turkeys. Taking a dump was harder. My sister never talked about it. I used the ravine near the driveway and stashed TP behind the riding lawnmower. Dad laughed until he was out of breath when he found it, so I stashed TP in my backpack.

            My sister and I took turns sitting on the lawnmower because there weren't chairs. You had to guess how long a turn was. After a few Wiffle bat duels, we alternated days.

            There actually was a toilet and chairs. Patio chairs were buried behind Pap-pap's stuff —  boxes of polka records, folders overflowing with sheet music, and battered suitcases. There was also the kind of metal-frame toilet old people need. We couldn't reach the chairs. We could reach the toilet, but that was gross.

            The second time I locked us out, we sat under the porch behind the house. A wasp stung my sister and she screamed. I swatted down a softball-sized nest and wasps stung our hands and arms. Then we sat in the yard until Dad got home.

            “Don't pull that ADD dyslexia bullshit with me. Stop pretending. You're just lazy.”

            He pulled me by the arm to the side door.

            “Show me. Say it while you do it. 'Turn the knob. Open the door. Twist the button. Close the door.' Do it again. Again.”

            After dinner, I practiced more.

            “No, say it. Say it every time. Again.”

            One day I tried to get the patio chairs. Pap-pap's stuff spilled all over the floor. We couldn't finish cleaning it up in time. Dad stared at the piles. Then he loomed over me, sour breath, inches away. One hand held my shoulder, the other jabbed a finger.

            “Never. Ever. Touch. Pap-pap's. Stuff.”

            The third time I locked us out, my sister and I hid behind the house, peeked around the trashcans, and waited.

            I reminded her Dad never hit us. Not once. He reminded us several times a week.

            “You have no idea how easy you have it. When Pap-pap got home, he took off his belt. Like this. Here, touch it. You have no idea. I know. I never hit you guys. Not once.”

            Then Dad came home.

            The van crunched gravel and the automatic garage door opened. We held our breath as he came down the driveway. He looked over his shoulder to back into the turnaround and — NOW! — we ran in.

            He didn't notice.

            I want to say I took apart the doorknob and broke the latch after that. Or maybe my sister superglued it. But no. I unlocked the door until Mom moved closer. She gave us a key, so we went to her place after school.

            Dad picked us up there.

Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent writer of fiction, non-fiction, not fiction, un-fiction, and semi-fiction. He founded 5enses, published the first six years, and is a columnist at foofaraw. He has several writing credits, degrees, and accolades that have nothing to do with cats. Read more at nicholasdemarino.com.