Little George

There came a time when little George didn't care for weekends any more.

They used to be the days when the family went up to the mountains, drove to the country house, or even visited the grannies on the farm.

Those were the happy days that little George enjoyed, when he'd run through the fields, play hide and seek with his cousins, or even talk to the fat cows he loved.
They always amused him, the cows. He could never figure out how they could have that much milk, and besides that their skin was amazingly thick.

On the way back, on Sunday nights, he was always exhausted but never sad.

Occasionally he'd get somewhat concerned over school the following morning. Third grade could be a hassle sometimes, but little George liked it.

George stopped enjoying weekends when his father became his only companion. His mother would pack his bag on Friday nights, and by Saturday mornings his father would ring the door bell as early as 9 am.

It was strange.

His father ringing the door bell.

George always wondered why his father wouldn't just open the door and call him. But then again, the stranger thing was that his father was not around during the week any more

The week days were also different, but the weekends at his father's new downtown apartment were no fun at all.

No hide and seek. No running through the fields. No talking to the cows. No more listening to Simon and Garfunkel in the car during the road trips.

Hell, no more road trips.

His father was oddly different; he'd offer to buy him any ice cream. He would let little George watch television until late at night.

The Sundays nights felt like a relief. It couldn't be good. They shouldn't feel like a relief.
Little George started resenting his father not even knowing why. They would hug affectionately at the door, his mother looking down from the bedroom window.

His father wouldn't come in, and George's backpack felt heavier than it did on Saturday morning.
Little George would go upstairs to his bedroom and his mother showed up asking all sorts of strange questions.

How was it? Did he ask about me ? Did you see women's clothes in his wardrobe ? Did he talk about the checks ?

George would take a shower before his mother tucked him in, and hardly ever answered any of the questions. They made no sense to him.

It would take him quite a while to get to sleep, certainly longer than the five seconds it took him after the old times weekends.

Yeah, little George didn't care for weekends any more. They felt funny.