Mickey - The View From Here PART TWO - Gallavich

Small World

It seemed like Franny was holding onto a lot of aggression with nowhere to place it. When Tammy suggested signing Franny up for some sort of physical activity, I had dismissed the idea. “She can just run around the house. Why pay for her to do the same damn thing, only supervised by a pervert  or some shit?”

Where I saw a waste of time and money, Ian spotted opportunity. “Tammy’s onto something. I mean, ROTC changed my life, made me the man I am.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, none of the trauma or life experience factored into that.”

In the end, my opinion on the matter was discarded and it was decided Franny would take Taekwondo classes once a week. I was the lucky bastard that had to take her and make nice with the other parents, who proved to be as annoying as I initially feared.

As I stood on the sidelines of Franny’s martial arts class, I had my arms folded over my chest, a message to the other parents to fuck off. I was here for Franny, not to socialize.

“Which one’s yours?” a woman with grey-brown, frizzy hair wondered in a hushed tone, stepping a little too close into my personal space.

I furrowed my brow with irritation. We still had twenty minutes left to go, so ignoring her wasn’t a viable option. Lazily waving in Franny’s direction, I said, “the little ginger that’s biting that other kid.”

Across the room, Franny’s teacher put a halt to the biting and was gently scolding her. “No biting. We’re here to learn other ways.”

Which I found confusing, since one of the first lessons taught was that martial arts wasn’t only about fighting, and that none of the kids should use the moves they learn in real life. All violence is bad violence.

Maybe I was biased, but I begged to fuckin’ differ. Some violence was not only a good thing, it was sometimes necessary.

Say some guy fondled Franny on the street. Would it be “bad” of me to murder the fucker? I think not.

The woman still standing too close tittered. “Oh, she’s a fierce little one, isn’t she?”

Looking the woman over, I corrected, “only if someone has it coming.” Glancing around, I wondered to fill the time. “which brat’s yours?”

“Not mine,” she chuckled, her accent wavering to expose a hint of Russian. She pointed to an older, blonde boy in the class. “His mother is too busy for these things. She is an entrepreneur.”

“Good for her,” I seethed with sarcasm.

Focusing back on Franny, she said, “is her mother at work?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know where the fuck her mom is, the flighty bitch took off over a month ago.”

My new friend smiled at me. “So, you’re a single dad?”

After a moment of thought, I recognized the hope in her eyes and realized she was hitting on me. Bluntly, I corrected her assumption of me being a single dad, “gay dad. Well, gay uncle, actually.”

“Oh,” she replied, hiding her disappointment. “Good for you.”

Staring at her, I gave her a “thanks,” and set my attention back on my niece, who was now learning a stance from the blonde boy whose mother was an entrepreneur.

The world is such a gargantuan place, yet so often, I was reminded how small my world really was, because I knew that boy. Helping Franny with her lesson wasn’t just any kid. Brother by blood, my son by name. This boy was Yevgeny.