THE MERCEDES
The Mercedes by Phil Jones At ten years old I could sniff out a mystery. I was forever creeping around, listening in, sifting conversations from hiding spots. Couldn't help myself. The good stuff only leaked out when you weren't around. Or when they thought you weren't around. This is what I was doing the day my father bought the Mercedes. He kept circling the thing, running his hand up the wheel wells and peering in at the engine. The owner was an old guy. He stood back smoking a pipe grinning around the stem as my father did his inspection. Neither of them noticed me behind our garden shed. My father slept late as a rule on Saturdays. He'd roll out of bed around ten and vanish into the throne room with the Globe & Mail. By that time mum was shopping downtown and us kids had scattered like bomb fragments to all corners of the neighbourhood. This morning was differe...