[ WP ] You 're about to speak at your deceased father 's wake . You have n't heard from him since you left home decades ago , and you do n't recognize anybody in the audience .

The radio was on and I was giving my all to match Mr Johnny Cash in a rendition of'A Boy Called Sue'. I let go of my wrench and turned the small radio up as high as it would go. The world beneath the old Ford pick-up was awash with musical skill and tuneless yelling. 
 
 The tuneless yelling was mine, obviously. 
 
 With my singing, so called, and the tiny radio belching and crackling at full volume I could n't hear a thing from the world outside the grease and Cash. Someone gave my leg a soft kick, I turned down my radio and rolled out from under the truck. 
 
 `` I's been callin ya, Hank!'' Said Old Thomas. He was *Old* Thomas because he had a son who we all just called Thomas. I guess one day Thomas will become Old Thomas and Old Thomas will be dead. 
 
 `` I's been callin ya,'' The old man said again. `` Yous gots a phone call in d'office.'' 
 
 `` Alright, alright, I'm comin.'' I stood up, grabbed the cloth from my pocket and swapped some of the grease on my hands for the grease on the rag, then made my way to the phone. 
 
 Old Thomas followed in a slow waddle. 
 
 *** 
 
 Denise stood with the phone to her ear, a look of disinterest on her face. 
 
 `` Who's callin me?'' I said as I walked towards her. Her expression did n't brighten at all and she blew a pink golf-ball sized bubble before she responded. 
 
 `` Some fella.'' She handed me the phone without a word to whoever was on the other end. 
 
 As I brought it to my ear I could hear a male voice continue the conversation he had been having with Denise, unaware she was no longer there. 
 
 `` -a fine, pretty voice. You sure you're not an actress?'' 
 
 `` Hello?'' I Said. 
 
 `` Uh-hello?'' Said the man who had been hitting on Denise. `` Who's this? She said she did n't have a boyfriend. She came on to me fir-'' 
 
 `` This is Hank Johnson, you called for me.'' 
 
 `` Oh, Hank!'' The man seemed happy to hear me, but then fell quiet. 
 
 `` Hello?'' 
 
 `` Huh? Oh - yeah, I'm here, Hank.'' He said. `` This is William Dunkerman, I was a friend of your fath-'' 
 
 `` I remember you Uncle Bull.'' I said. My words were free of any anger, because it was n't Uncle Bull I was angry at. My hands clench to fists, my heart races, and my head throbs at the mention of my father. `` I remember.'' 
 
 `` Yeah!'' He said, happy at first. `` Old Uncle Bull. Could n't say Bill, could ya.'' 
 
 `` Can now, Bill.'' 
 
 `` Sure, sure. You're a man by now, well and truly.'' 
 
 `` What can I do for you?'' 
 
 The line went silent. 
 
 `` Bill?'' 
 
 `` Yeah yeah. I'm here. This ai n't easy to say, kid.'' The man sighed and I could here a slight quiver as he spoke `` It's about your Dad.'' 
 
 I asked, but I think I knew. Why else would Uncle Bull call. `` What about him?'' 
 
 `` He's dead Kiddo. Heart attack.'' 
 
 *** 
 
 Old Thomas was sat on a rickety wooden stool as he tinkered with the motor on his work bench. He did n't do all that much around the shop these days, even though he owned it. The old man had forgotten more about engines than I knew; and that was the problem. He had forgotten almost all of it. 
 
 `` Hey, Old Thomas'' I said. When he did n't reply I realised I had made the mistake of saying it behind him. The old man was passed going deaf and well into *almost completely* territory. I moved to his side and put a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 `` Hey,'' I said. He looked at me, squinted in concern, but then remembered my face. 
 
 `` W'can I do fur ya, Hank?'' He said with a smile. The man was a sweet old dog, give you the shirt of his back if you'd help him with the buttons. 
 
 `` I need to take this Wednesday afternoon and all of Thursday off.'' 
 
 `` Wa'for, y'sick?'' 
 
 `` Nah. That phone call...'' My words trailed off. My head went to an old memory. My fists did n't clench. 
 
 In the silence Old Thomas had gone back to fiddling with the engine, and jumped when he remembered I was there. `` Huh?'' 
 
 I shook my head, but the memory held fast. The news was getting to me more than I would have liked - which was not at all. `` That phone call. My Dad's dead.'' 
 
 Old Thomas lowered his head and shook it sadly. `` Aww shit, Hank. I'm s-'' 
 
 `` Funerals this Thursday.'' I did n't want the kindness, not when my father was associated with it. `` Got ta drive out west Wednesday afternoon end drive back Thursday night.'' 
 
 `` Y'can take more time if ya need it, Hank.'' Old Thomas said `` Visit yer family an' all that.'' 
 
 `` It was just him and me left.'' I walked away, back towards the rust bucket I had been trying to revive. I rolled under it and turned the radio back on. 
 
 More Cash played, but I did n't sing along. 
 
 I blamed the grease for the tears in my eyes. 
 
 *** 
 
 The black-top slid away - under my car and out behind, towards the horizon - and not a lot changed. Flat plains. Grass. Golden evening sky. 
 
 If it were n't for the rumble of the engine and the passing fence posts I'd be hard pressed to tell if I was moving at all. 
 
 I worried about the shop. Before I left I had made some calls, got one of the other fellas to fill in Thursday. Old Thomas gets into things he should n't when no one's there. He's forgotten that he's forgotten. 
 
 Talk is that I run the shop. And I do - unofficially. But, it will always be Old Thomas' shop.'Til he croaks. Then it'll be his sons turn. Thomas' turn. 
 
 Well, when he gets the shop I guess he'll get the title too. New owner. New Old Thomas. 
 
 Then again, Thomas - the young Thomas, the not-yet-old Thomas - ai n't a mechanic. Runs a farmers hardware shop in town. Big stuff. Big money. Does n't do any repair work, or at least he does n't himself. 
 
 Wonder what will happen when the old fella croaks, heaven forbid. 
 
 The old fella. I smile at the thought of Old Thomas. 
 
 The old fella. The smile fades. 
 
 I turn the radio up and make my ear drums ache to fight back the thoughts of my old man. My father. 
 
 *** 
 
 I'd stayed the night in a cheap hotel - the sort of cheap that they still advertise that they have colour televisions. It had a bed and a toilet that worked - for a night and ten bucks, it'd do. 
 
 The funeral was at midday so I stayed in my room until it was time to go. I did n't want any condolences from people that knew him and some how knew me. 
 
 I had n't seen or spoken to him in... Twenty? Twenty five? No, twenty *three* years - and I sure as shit did n't want any updates on his life. 
 
 Even if it was over. 
 
 The much touted colour television flickered it's two hazy channels at me, sometimes at the same time. I watched all the same. But I'd find that I was n't watching. Instead, I was thinking. 
 
 I went and took a shower and started to get ready. It was ten o'clock. 
 
 *** 
 
 The hotel door closed behind me with a thud, but I had to jiggle the handle to get the lock to click. The shirt collar was tight around my neck so I slipped in a finger and gave it a tug, but that did n't help any. 
 
 The suit jacket could n't close and I had put on my blue jeans instead of the pants that matched. The suit pants did n't fit. 
 
 `` Got ta cut back on the beer.'' I thought. 
 
 The thought of beer made me think of my father. Beer cans on the floor. Cigarette smoke in the air. Sports on the TV. 
 
 A kid who could n't sleep through the drunken snoring. 
 
 I got in the car and headed to the cemetery. 
 
 *** 
 
 * Got ta run! More to come - like the part for the prompt - but I'll be gone for a few hours. Ran out of time, sorry. I shall return! * 
 
 *Edit: Back in the chair! Workin on part deux. *
