They Called Me FIVE

LANCE

Dad pull off to a hardware store and bought five pails of paint, two paint roller,s and paint trays. At first, I have no idea what he'll use these things for. I busied myself eating the fiesta tacos I bought from the cart of white guy with shaggy hair beside the hardware.

Dad parked in a remote alleyway where dump trash and cats in heat are our only audience. He forced me to get my ass off the passenger seat and help him cover the logo and 'Your best pizza in town' sign on the side truck with paint.

"And exactly why are we doing this?" I plunge the paint roller on the tray and began smudging the ugly cartoon man on a chef hat. His two big eyeballs gone missing, wiped clean.

"So we won't get caught. The owner must have reported his missing truck. So we better cover our tracks before they fine us.".

"Find or fine?"

"Fine."

Oh, he meant paying with money. I shut up and get back to work. It took almost one hour before we're done painting the sides. One hour to lounge in the shaggy white dude's cart to eat tacos with five different flavors.

When the paint dries we get back on the truck and I fetch two boxes of pizza from the back.

"Still hungry?" Dad asked.

"Meals can't be meals without pizza." I said and gave him the other box. He chuckled. "I could never understand your pizza fetish."

"Don't try."

After eating, I throw the box at the heads of two cats who's busy whose banging who before drowning my throat with soda.

"Dad, where is this place by the way?" I asked, looking around at the quiet neighborhood. The plastics that swirl in the wind, the piling dumps behind graffiti buildings, the shaggy dude's cart is on the other intersection. And there's no water to wash ourselves from the paint caking our hands.

Dad visits the hardware again and brought back two gallons of water. It was by chance we still have some spare clothes to wear.

"Don't worry, we're in Fairfield Avenue, Fort Wayne I think. Not sure. We're almost in Chicago, just another three hours drive and we'll be there." Dad assured me.

I didn't notice I fell asleep between drives. Last time I glance at the clock in dashboard it says 8:45am, now it's 5:58pm. We must have got here around 3. When he turned the ignition on, my eyes immediately blackout.

But I didn't get a good sleep unlike earlier.

The honking of cars and bustling noises of the city interrupts my dreamy moment to drift off. The street sign reads South Bell Avenue, peaceful houses lit ahead and I couldn't care less. Dad is ignoring the continuous blaring honks of cars behind us.

"Dad don't you think the truck's too big for this place?" I asked, staring at narrow space of the road below me. I doubt cars can overtake us.

"Ignore them." And he stepped on the accelerator.

It could have been my imagination but my Dad's acting a little weird. He kept glancing at the rearview mirror. Then at the sky, as if an alien saucer will swoosh down and demand all the pizza boxes I stash at the back. He's sweating too much its getting in the way of his driving.

"Dad, you okay?"

"Huh?" He darted his wild eyes on me. Then at the front. Without warning, he pulled off to the intersecting highway street. In front of a rundown two storey brick building. He got out and kicked on the chains locking the fence at the side. Which probably led down to the basement.

"Dad?"

"Just stay there son!"

After two attempts he finally took the chain lock down.

"Come on!" Feeling unsure of myself I got out and followed him. He skidded the rubble fence to the side. I was right. There's a trap door on our left and Dad pulled out a key from his pocket. The lock came off and the rusty bar tinge Dad's hand in dark red when he pulled it open.

I lend him a hand lifting the old mahogany wood trap door. Accumulated dust and molds swept over my nose. Dad fetch his flashlight from his waistband and shed light on what's downstairs. I see nothing but flimsy planks hammered to become stairs leading us down.

"Dad, what's this place?"

He smiles, his forehead beaded with sweat.

"Paradeisos," he said, his voice thick with foreign accent I don't recognize.

"Huh?"

"Nothing, it's an old place. Memorable to Dan – " I shot him a look. We had this conversation back at the truck. After he confess he's not really my Dad, that he's not really 'Dan' he begins to refer himself as 'other Dan'. I'm not liking the sound of it. Not even one bit. And he knows it. He cleared his throat and correct himself.

"I mean, me. This is where I kept my most prized possessions. When old Barnacle Dad is alive he kept some of his inconspicuous inventions here. This is where he trained me. Where the fetish for fight for the justice is born."

I chuckled. "Seriously? Fight for the justice? What are you, Superman?" He laughed with me.

"Yeah, that. You're not the only one with Superman syndrome son. Come on. Nights in here is a bit different in Opra. You maybe won't get used to the atmosphere." He's the first to drop down and the planks creak at the weight of his feet.

I raised my eyebrow, incredulous at what he just said. We've spent years hopping from one place to another and he's saying I won't adjust to the atmosphere? Did he stop to think he plunged me one time to gray icy lake because I stink? Or he made a mistake of not putting enough cold water to shower and I dipped my skin in scalding hot water?

I followed him down and the place was definitely decorated with cobwebs and white sheets strangely shaping human figures.