He Use To Be A Son Of Anarchy

Chapter Seven: Muse

It was a Wednesday when it all suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. I had been so distracted by my own little tantrum over seeing my mother again that I completely forgot all about it. But how could I forget something like this? I bet other people would have constantly been thinking about their neighbour being a wanted man.

That morning was when I decided that I would keep myself preoccupied with this. If my brain was kept busy with thoughts of a wanted criminal there would be no time to think about my addict mother and my dying father. Okay, granted, it isn't the best coping mechanism, but I had to find some way to keep myself distracted.

So when I marched into work that day I was hell bent on getting some information on who exactly Jackson claimed he was. Anyone who actually took the time to know me could quite clearly see the façade I was putting on. But lucky for me, Miss Wayforth didn't know the full extent of who I was.

"Good morning," I said cheerfully as I plopped my bag down behind the information desk and smiled brightly at the doom and gloom that was a greying Miss Wayforth.

"Morning," she mumbled, obviously quite taken aback by my suddenly friendliness.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?" I asked gesturing towards the small office behind me.

"No thank you," Miss Wayforth simply said with a suspicious expression.

I walked off to the office to make myself a cup of coffee and before I left the room had to recompose my super friendly face. I made my way back to where Miss Wayforth was now scanning books.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" I asked holding my mug and looking out the window.

"I suppose," she said and didn't look up from the books.

"Georgeville is such a tiny place; everyone knows everyone. How long have you been living here?" I asked and took a sip of my coffee.

Miss Wayforth blinked at me and closed the book she was busy with. "Ten years now," she said and eyed me, "Why?"

"Oh, just curious," I said with a sweet smile, "I've just been wondering about the townspeople I guess."

There was a moment of silence. It was obvious the old hag was not willing to make small talk with me, but I still tried. "I think it's nice how every business is family owned. Very cosy. Al is the one that owns the garage down the road right?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, "And his brother Bennie Hudson owns the gas station across from it." Progress.

"Do they get along?" I asked.

"They used to until Bennie started developing a gambling problem. Started stealing from anyone and everyone. Al tried helping him, but Bennie didn't want to listen. They hardly speak to each other anymore."

This was it. Miss Wayforth was a big blabbermouth and I could tell that gossiping intrigued and delighted her.

"Is it only Al and that Jackson guy that work at the garage?" I asked.

"No," she answered and started piling up the scanned books, "Al's two sons work there too, but they are big old good for nothings. That's why Al hired Jackson in the first place, I suppose. He needed someone to actually do the work. It also might have been that Jackson has such a knack for motorcycles. I think Al figured he'd be good with cars too."

This was honestly way too easy. This woman, the one who didn't look at me twice the whole time I have worked with her, was telling me everything I wanted to know. I guess gossiping makes her forget that she actually hates my guts.