A Twelve Year Old Philosophy – A Short Story

I walked into the lightly lit front room where Father usually sits and drinks his precious whisky after his meetings, with the stark sounds of him yelling at someone on the phone. Unfortunately, it was normal of my Father to act like this towards people on the phone.

My father is a businessman in town who seems to get along with everybody except the people with whom he does business. I find it interesting that my father, now far into his fifties, with his stern-looking grey haircut and sharp (military-like) appearance, can be so understanding when talking to my mother or me. But yet he can’t seem to be nice to those he works with. Maybe my age plays a factor, maybe it’s because my mother and I are his family.; I’m not sure. Nevertheless, I don’t think like a normal twelve year old boy, although I don’t think that’s a secret to him. He calls me his “little grown up” sometimes, but usually only when he’s in a good mood. I think that’s his way of hoping that I’ll grow up to be like him someday. This, however, is something I have no desire to do.

He seems to work all the time. Even when he seems to not be working, he’s thinking about work. I’m not sure that being consumed in something that much, for money, is really that important. I’d rather focus my time on things that matter, such as: going for walks, watching people, or staring at the stars at night. These things might seem simple to you, though. If this is true of you, little do you know of what really matters. But again I remind you, I don’t think like a normal twelve year old.

I hear my dad yelling into the phone, “I told you to sell at five hundred thousand and NO less! Not, one hundred thousand! What were you thinking?!” I hear some mumbling coming from the other end of the phone from a realtor staff member of his. He listens for a few moments, cutting off him or her sharply with “That is NOT a good enough answer!” he then  proceeds to slam the phone down, and notices out of the corner of his eye that I was watching his every move.

It isn’t that I disapprove of what he does as a owner of realty business, nor is it that I resent the way he treats people; I simply find him interesting.  He’s also very interesting to watch. He turns sharply to me after the violent phone call and says in a startled, yet concerned, tone “I’m sorry you had to see that. That isn’t really nice of me, huh?” I promptly replied as to reassure him by saying, “You don’t have to worry, Dad. I wasn’t here long.” After a long sigh, he confidently walks over to me and picks me up in his arms and says in a soft, half jokingly voice “You want to be just like your dear ole’ dad, don’t ya?” And I, with just as much confidence and no hesitation reply, “No, Dad, I want to be just like me!”

By: Thomas McGregor

Samantha Jean Sanders, Editor

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