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Timmy's Story

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Timmy’s full name is Timothy Anderson, but his mom called him Timmy. When Timmy was 4, his mom died and his father, Thomas, didn’t smile much after that. It was a car crash.

He’s kind of accident-prone, but his brain doctor says that may be purposeful, whatever that means. Silly segway rider.

He has lost both hands and his right lower leg. His uncle, Norman “Nova” Anderson, got him prosthetics. He uses a pogo stick.

His mom wasn’t really his mom, but his mother didn’t want him, so she left him with Dad and the woman that would become his mom.

His mom’s name was Beatrice LeClaire. She loved to ride her blue bike. A lot of people called her “Bike” because of that, even Dad, and it made her smile.

Dad yells a lot, but he loves his son; don’t worry.

Timmy was sitting in the living room, reading with his mom. They were reading from some of his comic books - Iron Man. He was such a player.

Timmy liked boys, though, and his mom didn’t mind, even when she wanted grandkids.

Dad came in, smiling. He drove the car to and from work.

“Why must you drive, Thom?” Beatrice asked. She had grown up in Brooklyn and had riden her bicycle everywhere. They lived in Elgin, IL, and they didn’t live too far away from anything. The library, the Wal*Mart, Timmy’s future schools, Beatrice’s workplace; it was all close by, except for Thomas’s work place. He was paid more if he commuted, so he did so.

“You know why, Bike.” He picked Timmy up and went to get him ready for dinner. He was such a responsible dad. Timmy loved him.

Beatrice had to admit; riding in the car was fun. The wind felt nice in her hair, stronger than on her bike. She was 26. Thom was 28. Timmy was 4 and dancing in his car seat.

The other car came suddenly, and the entire world was stopping.

Thomas was knocked out, head hitting the window and making him wish, of all things, that he had worn a helmet.

Beatrice died on impact. She didn’t suffer. They were going to buy Timmy’s new bike seat because he still wasn’t big enough for the bike that they had for him.

Timmy was silent in the backseat, and then he started saying all the bad words that he had heard Dad say to the tune of “Baby” by Justin Beiber because Mom didn’t like Dad cussing, and they would wake up to start fighting soon.

Timmy was 4. It was a quiet 30 minutes.

Dad didn’t drive anymore. He rode Mom’s bike, and he called it “Bike” in the same tone of voice that he had used with Beatrice.

Timmy had fake hands and a lower leg. They had to be “amputated,” whatever that means, so Uncle Nova paid for new ones.

Thomas and Timmy have to go see another doctor, too. In his spare time, he rides around on his segway. It has a screen that lets him talk with his wife at home. Her name is Vanessa “Vespa” Stanford. His name is Stuart Standford. Timmy thought he smelled funny.

At the age of 5, Timmy got his permanent prosthetics. He would go to the hospital to get them adjusted once in a while, with Nova paying for everything.

Dad started drinking, even though Timmy didn’t know what that meant.

Timmy met his mother in Wal*Mart, as he came back from the cereal aisle with Froot Loops. His fake hands held the box.

She was a fat woman in one of the motorized chairs that the store provided. Thomas and she appeared to be arguing softly (as softly as adults can in public situations). As Timmy came up to his dad, they stopped.


“Yes. Oh.” Thom glared at her and then led his son away. Timmy blinked.

“Dad, who was that?”

“… That tub of lard and shit is you mother.” Timmy didn’t get it.

“But… Bike was Mom.”

With more tenderness than he had ever shown, Thom knelt and hugged his boy.

He was “hammered” that night, whatever that means.

At the age of 6, Timmy was still too small for the bicycle that Thomas and Beatrice had gotten for him, so he still rode in a back seat.

A car met up with them at an intersection. Timmy couldn’t scream.

Thom was glad he had gotten the helmet.

The Bike was broken upon impact.

Timmy knew Bike meant more to Dad than anything.

But of all things, Timmy thought about how his asshole of a father was leaving the bike of his mom and carrying him to the hospital, where they would tell him he was in shock and that rest would fix everything, beside the stitches that he and Thom both needed.

Ruined, broken, Bike was left, and Timmy looked over his father’s shoulder at the blue vehicle. Thom’s gentle, hard words went unheard.

What an Irresponsible Dad.