I is a sneak. Not the only sneak, but the only one hereabouts. This is my patch, see, and we allus keeps to us patches. And I creeps about in the dark of near night, listenin at the locks and lookin in at windows. And I knows things. Secrets I knows, things that was best kept secret. And I searches through the stuff what they throws away, and there’s secrets there, too, everywhere.
I know that Mr Tripp sleeps with his hand wrapped round his cock and I reckon he’s dreamin of a girl called Irene and she lets Mr Tripp touch her under her dress for ten dollars at a time and she’s saving for a ticket away from everythin, and away from Mr Tripp, only he don’t know that. And Mrs Tripp don’t know it neither, not any of it, and I ain’t gonna be the one to tell.
And she’s got secrets, too, Mrs Tripp. She’s been peein in Mr Storey’s back yard. Creepin almost as good as any sneak, and under cover of dark, and she pees on his candytuft cos she don’t like the smell of it; and she don’t like Mr Storey none, too, on account of he swears at her across the fence and calls her cunt and whore. And even tho he can’t help what he does, bein as how he has somethin called tourettes, still it makes her mad as a shook bag of wasps when he does it.
And Ted Brewer, 14 on his next birthday, and he’s been takin money out of his mam’s purse for to buy Lucky Strike smokes and there’s that Lucy girl from across the road and they smoke together and pretend like they is older than their years. And not just smokin by the sounds they make up in his bedroom in the middle of the day when he should be at school and his mam thinks he is. And I do believe Lucy’s a little thicker about the middle, if you get my meanin, and that secret will be out soon enough.
And Carrie Watts don’t wear no knickers, and nobody knows that ‘cept Mrs Butters and she’s always sniffin her fingers to remind her of what Carrie smells of. And Delia Banks hates her husband cos he’s got hair growing out of his nose and he leaves the toilet seat up, which he never did before. And Carter May has got an illness that he don’t dare admit, not even to himself, and he pretends each day is cheery and bright, when the truth is there’s something dark growin inside him.
But then there’s the Fancie family and I likes them best of all. I see ‘em sittin in the one room some evenins, cosy and close, and lit up yellow like the sun was there with ’em, and they’s a real family, you know. They speak soft and gentle to one another, and touchin gentle, too, and the tv not so loud as to stop talk, and Mr Fancie tells ‘em wonder-full stories of how things was before, and the Fancie girls laugh and Mrs Fancie says Mr Fancie don’t tell it all like it really was.
And there’s a empty chair in that front room, and no one sits there, but that ain’t no secret. That’s Bobbie’s chair and he died when he was six and they don’t never forget him, not though that was years back. I hear ‘em sayin ‘Bobbie’d like that,’ or ‘I wonder what Bobbie would think,’ or ‘tell about the time Bobbie sang in church,’ talkin like he’ still there with ‘em and he’s just popped out.
And sometimes, when the family is sleepin, I sneaks inside the Fancie home, climbin quick and easy through a open window, and I sits in Bobbie’s chair, quiet as if Bobbie had come back from the grave, and I imagine then what it would be like to be wrapped up in a Fancie story and I smiles to myself and that’s about as good as it can get for a sneak.
May 1, 2014: I wanted to be part of this.
Patricia Ann McNair 
Hey Patricia – That brings back memories l didn’t know l had – isn’t nostalgia a wonderful thing.
Regards
Dan
Thanks, Dan. Thanks for reading, and for the comment. Glad it sparked something.
I is a sneak. Not the only sneak, but the only one hereabouts. This is my patch, see, and we allus keeps to us patches. And I creeps about in the dark of near night, listenin at the locks and lookin in at windows. And I knows things. Secrets I knows, things that was best kept secret. And I searches through the stuff what they throws away, and there’s secrets there, too, everywhere.
I know that Mr Tripp sleeps with his hand wrapped round his cock and I reckon he’s dreamin of a girl called Irene and she lets Mr Tripp touch her under her dress for ten dollars at a time and she’s saving for a ticket away from everythin, and away from Mr Tripp, only he don’t know that. And Mrs Tripp don’t know it neither, not any of it, and I ain’t gonna be the one to tell.
And she’s got secrets, too, Mrs Tripp. She’s been peein in Mr Storey’s back yard. Creepin almost as good as any sneak, and under cover of dark, and she pees on his candytuft cos she don’t like the smell of it; and she don’t like Mr Storey none, too, on account of he swears at her across the fence and calls her cunt and whore. And even tho he can’t help what he does, bein as how he has somethin called tourettes, still it makes her mad as a shook bag of wasps when he does it.
And Ted Brewer, 14 on his next birthday, and he’s been takin money out of his mam’s purse for to buy Lucky Strike smokes and there’s that Lucy girl from across the road and they smoke together and pretend like they is older than their years. And not just smokin by the sounds they make up in his bedroom in the middle of the day when he should be at school and his mam thinks he is. And I do believe Lucy’s a little thicker about the middle, if you get my meanin, and that secret will be out soon enough.
And Carrie Watts don’t wear no knickers, and nobody knows that ‘cept Mrs Butters and she’s always sniffin her fingers to remind her of what Carrie smells of. And Delia Banks hates her husband cos he’s got hair growing out of his nose and he leaves the toilet seat up, which he never did before. And Carter May has got an illness that he don’t dare admit, not even to himself, and he pretends each day is cheery and bright, when the truth is there’s something dark growin inside him.
But then there’s the Fancie family and I likes them best of all. I see ‘em sittin in the one room some evenins, cosy and close, and lit up yellow like the sun was there with ’em, and they’s a real family, you know. They speak soft and gentle to one another, and touchin gentle, too, and the tv not so loud as to stop talk, and Mr Fancie tells ‘em wonder-full stories of how things was before, and the Fancie girls laugh and Mrs Fancie says Mr Fancie don’t tell it all like it really was.
And there’s a empty chair in that front room, and no one sits there, but that ain’t no secret. That’s Bobbie’s chair and he died when he was six and they don’t never forget him, not though that was years back. I hear ‘em sayin ‘Bobbie’d like that,’ or ‘I wonder what Bobbie would think,’ or ‘tell about the time Bobbie sang in church,’ talkin like he’ still there with ‘em and he’s just popped out.
And sometimes, when the family is sleepin, I sneaks inside the Fancie home, climbin quick and easy through a open window, and I sits in Bobbie’s chair, quiet as if Bobbie had come back from the grave, and I imagine then what it would be like to be wrapped up in a Fancie story and I smiles to myself and that’s about as good as it can get for a sneak.