Junior awoke to one knock, two knock, three knock, four.
It was a clear spring morning, not a bird in the sky.
Not like the day before. The day before it snowed.
The neighborhood kids got an unexpected day off from school.
Junior included.
But what was all that commotion about?
He could hear both of his parents’ voices growing louder and louder.
They were standing outside his door, talking to each other.
What were they saying? He couldn’t say.
He took out the garbage the night before. The recycling, too.
He did the dishes.
He cleaned his room.
So what could this be about?
There was another voice, a third one downstairs, commenting on the quality of the drip coffee.
Junior sprinted to the window and peered out.
A black car was parked in front of the house, in front of a hydrant, no less.
Fire hazards bothered Junior since his Uncle Frank was a fireman.
He loved seeing tickets piled high on someone's front windshield.
He really loved when cars were towed.
He really really loved seeing drivers rage at the sight of their car at a 45 degree angle, reeled onto a truck, powerless in the face of municipal might.
Then a fifth knock, followed by a, “wake up, Junior, someone downstairs wants to talk to you.”
“Coming,” he said, grabbing a robe from the closet.
Junior opened the door and looked up at both of his parents.
They said nothing and led him to the living room.
An old man in a long trench coat was standing up.
He held his coffee in one hand, and a framed family photo in the other.
The photo was of Junior playing with a set of toy cars.
When he noticed Junior, he put the picture back on the mantle.
“Good morning, Junior, I just had a few questions for you. Sit down, please.”
It’s weird when strangers ask you to sit down in your own home.
Even at Junior’s non-advanced age, he knew it was an odd request.
“Thanks,” he said, and sat down on the couch furthest from the man.
“Mind if call you Richard?”
“Richard? Why would you call me Richard?”
Why would he call him Richard?
“Your father’s name is Richard, so I assumed you were Richard, Jr.”
“You assumed wrong. My legal name is Junior. At 65, I may decide to change it to “Senior” though. There’s always that possibility."
With that cleared up, the man dove into the interrogation.
“I see you like cars.”
Junior nodded.
“I also like cars. The problem, Junior, is that you’re not legally permitted to drive.”
“I know that.”
“The principal’s car was stolen from the school parking lot yesterday, driven out to the beach and filled with chalk. That smell is never coming out. The janitors are still hosing it down as we speak.”
Junior tried to fight back a smirk.
“Is something funny young man?”
Junior shook his head.
“I’m willing to cut a deal with you, son. All you have to do is apologize and then tell me who put you up to this. None of it has to go on your permanent record.”
“Are you a cop?”
“Retired. I’m a private investigator hired by your school to look in matters such as this.”
Junior knew that if this guy had anything more than a hunch, he’d be in the principal’s office right now.
He had nothing though.
“I came down to your house as a courtesy.”
“Answer the man, Junior,” said his mother.
“Listen to her,” said his father.
“Yesterday was a snow day and we’re having trouble ascertaining the whereabouts of all our students.”
Matilda entered the room. She was the family dog walker, constantly misplacing the various leashes of the various pooches.
“He was with me all day, I can vouch for his whereabouts,” said Matilda.
Junior said nothing.
The parents said nothing.
Matilda said nothing more.
The man rolled his eyes.
Because A isn’t for Apology, it’s for Alibi.
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