Johnny
Everyday, at exactly 3 PM, the town’s bell tower rang; as I looked out the wooden framed window of Papa’s store. A cold breeze drifted through the window cracks, indicating the arrival of autumn; as it nipped at the tips of my toes through the holes in my socks. The soft curtain fluttered back and forth almost representing the peaceful neighbourhood we live in.
I lived right above Papa’s tailor business. Just Papa and me. Papa alters rich people’s clothes and they give him money. I’m only a little boy, but I know when the clothes are for rich people. I’ve been helping Papa ever since I was born. I know all about different fabrics but, I don’t know how to write or read. But even though rich people came, we didn’t make much money. At least, that’s what Papa told me.
A few minutes after the bell tower rang, I always saw the same blue-uniformed school boys, around my age of 9 years, laughing on their way home from school. As I wore my ragged, mismatched clothes made from excess cloth and pieced together by leftover thread, I thought about them; about how they could go to school, how they could laugh with friends, and how they came to our store to fix their uniform.
“JOHNNY! GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!”, yelled Papa.
“Yes Papa!”, I scrambled down the wooden stool and ran into the room with the old sewing machinery.
“Stop being useless. You don’t have time to look outside and daydream,” Papa scolded.
“Yes Papa.”
“Do your job. The thread got stuck in the machine. Get it out. Now.”
“Yes Papa.”
Holding my breath, I hurried to the machine and started taking it apart. Papa let out a loud, annoyed sigh, scraped the chair back against the wooden floor and stomped upstairs. Peeking to make sure he’s gone, I finally let out a breath.
“Whew, it’s only a jammed thread,” I thought, “thank goodness it’s not something as bad as usual.”
Hearing the ceiling creak from Papa’s stomps, I knew he was barging straight to the fridge for a beer. I took a sharp breath in. “Oh no...it’s happening again.” I frantically scrambled to yank out the thread; but it was really stuck. With my hands fumbling, it only seemed to get more and more tangled. My heart pounded louder and harder with every approaching stomp coming down the stairs.
