The Diver Academy

It seemed as if the sun always had a special hatred for the small town of Bodunk, Kentucky. The hot, bright rays of the sun beat down upon the local houses as if it was trying to burn them down to the ground. Even the trees stood no chance as their leaves began to wilt, crying for a rain which never came. The love the locals had for the town was shrinking with every summer in which temperatures seemed to grow even hotter than the last. Not many residents made their way outside anymore. They were choosing the comfort of their air conditioners saving them from the sweat-inducing heat. The only time one would get out is if they had to run an errand. This is precisely why George Banks found himself driving into town. He scoffed as he passed the town's sign which read "Bodunk, the town of smiles." The local drunk once said 'The only people smiling in this town are the ones buried six feet below the ground. Cause they're finally free.' George agreed with that sentiment. Nobody ever escaped this place. Sure, they talked about it, but it was never a reality. This place and its people had a way of sinking its claws into you and never letting go.

The town itself had one paved main street, with a few buildings on either side. Back in the day, it was a thriving place from what George had heard his mother say. Now most of the buildings were shut down. Evidence of what once was etched on the windows and signs above the doors. Nothing else was there. Just long dirt roads filled with flying insects that could crack a windshield, laced with failing farms, and homes three months past due on their mortgage. George's truck groaned as he rounded a corner into the parking lot of the town's only gas station called Mini Mart. If the town ever had a tourist, they would never know that's what it is called, as the I's in the sign fell long ago. None of the locals even called it by its name. It had been nicknamed BJC, which stood for booze, jerky, and condoms, for what seemed like decades. Only the owner, Mark Gable, seemed to be the only one oblivious to the nickname the town anointed on his store. 

George's light blue flannel shirt floated gently in the wind as he pushed open the gas station's door. Mark sat behind the counter on a wooden stool with a newspaper in his hand and looked up as George entered.

Mark's eyes crinkled as his lips formed into a smirk that showcased the last tooth left in his mouth as he said "George! What brings you in today boy?" He croaked, his voice harsh due to all the year's spent chain smoking cigarettes.

"Oh, you know the usual. Ma needs her Camels." George replied. Setting down a twenty dollar bill with a few crumbled fives on the beat up wooden counter in between him and Mark. Mark's oil stained hands slid a carton of Camel cigarettes across the counter and grabbed the money. "Careful boy, sunny days like this are always the ones where the world decides to give you the middle finger." Mark muttered, his lips pulling back once again as he handed George back his change.

"With customer service like this, you better thank your lucky stars that you're the only gas station in this shit hole." George said as his hands reached for the carton he just paid for. "Seriously Mark, your smile could murder a blind man." Rough laughter which led to a fit of coughing infused the tiny shack. Both men said their goodbyes as George once again stepped out into the hot summer heat. 

He walked across the vacant parking lot towards his 1975 Ford pickup truck, which sat parked under the concrete canopy shielding the gas pumps. His family called the truck "The Family Heirloom," which wasn't wrong. The old beat up truck had been passed down from his grandfather, to his father, and now to him. The orange paint was peeling off the side of the truck by the time it was handed down to him, and he just didn't care enough to fix it. Like father, like son. His lightly tanned hand gripped the truck's door handle as his thumb pressed hard against the scratched silver button. He slid into the truck's weathered brown seat, his key slotted into the ignition.

"Come on baby," he muttered as his hand turned the key. The Family Heirloom groaned in protest as if saying 'please just let me die.' "Come on, you can do it," the young man muttered louder this time, his free hand tapping against the partly duck taped steering wheel. With one last groan, the truck's engine roared to life. "That's my girl!" he cheered, his back sinking into the seat, his hand shifting the truck into drive as he put BJC in his rearview mirror. The truck's engine rattled loudly, drowning out the old country song playing from the local radio station. The wheels turned as it made a hard right turn onto a gravely dirt road as it slowly crawled back to its resting place.

George's dark worn down shoes crunched against the gravel as he hopped out of the parked truck. He wove through the other barely functioning vehicles scattered along the same driveway as he made his way into the only house still occupied on this street. Anyone would be hard pressed to find a difference between this house and the other unoccupied houses. Just like his truck, the house had seen better days. Once the home was probably considered beautiful, the farmhouse now was slowly rotting away. The white wooden paneling was unsuccessfully clinging to the house for dear life. Paint was peeling off, littering the ground of the dried out lawn beneath it, along with the cigarette butts his mother threw on the ground. It may not have been much, but to the Banks, it was home. He stepped through the wooden screen door into the family's kitchen. He let the door bang shut behind him as he reached to close the interior door he had forgotten to shut when he left earlier.

"I got your smokes ma," he yelled. Waiting to hear a response to indicate where he could find his mother. "Jesus boy, you went to all the way to China to get em, didn't ya?" Her high voice boomed back from the living room over the sound of the television. "Dammit ma, that's not how you treat someone that just did you a favor." He hollered back through the house in response as he hung his key up on its peg. He walked across the kitchen's grimy, black and white checkered tiles to get to the family's living room. 

His mother reclined in the lazy boy. Her pudgy hand stretched out as far as it could go, as she reached out for the carton, her eyes never leaving the TV screen. His mother was once a sprightly lady. Now most days, she sat fixed in her recliner watching TV all day. Her hair had mostly grayed, but a few strands of blonde still ran through it. George handed off the carton to his mother. Stephanie, George's younger sister, sat on the floor at the base of the couch with her legs stretched out underneath the tan coffee table in front of her.

"You're such a sensitive baby George. This is why Steve always picks on you." His younger sister announced as she tucked her long sandy blonde hair behind one ear. She looked as if she was trying to be older than she actually was, sporting a Ramone's tee shirt over her denim shorts.

"Piss off Steph, and fuck your crush. He's the biggest asshole in town." George replied. Her pink lips pulled back into a sneer, as she shifted her hazel eyes to him. Steph opened her mouth to say something snarky, but he was spared her reply when his mother said, "Shush, the both of you before you make me miss my show. They're about to make an offer on some old Hollywood props from The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly." George brushed the long strand of mousey brown hair out of his face as he scooted in between the coffee table to take his place at the couch. He rolled his eyes to his ma's answer as he fell back onto the indented ivory couch, shifting his body until he found the sweet spot.

"Think we got anything worth selling?" Steph asked, her head tilted in contemplation as she stared at the TV screen. Her hair swayed against her back at the movement. "Maybe, your dad was always collecting shit before he passed, bless his heart." Her mother answered, pulling out the bronze cross chained around her neck as she held it in comfort like she always did when talking about her husband as she continued to watch the ending credits of the show. "Please, we couldn't never afford anything worth collecting," George replied, his eyes rolling at the stupidity of the conversation taking place. "Don't talk about Daddy like -" Steph voice was cut off, as a well dressed News Anchor appeared on the screen. "Breaking news from Los Angeles, a four mile wide sinkhole has hit the downtown area." The news anchor spoke, as his blue eyes starred through the TV screen, the logo for NBC flashing below him.