Chapter 6 - My father becomes spiritual, sort of
Neither me nor my father spoke of that incident at the hospital ever. He never asked me if I was ok or anything. I guess he was pretending it never happened. After a couple of weeks I found I could start walking again. I didn't go to school. The school sent out the work to me by mail. I didn't do it till late in the day. My father would come home every day after work and cook dinner. I never knew he could actually cook. It quite surprised me at first, until I realized by the third day he could only cook two things: bacon and eggs; and chicken and chips. I grew slightly overweight before heading back to school. It was term four, the final race to the finish. This meant exams. Oh the joy!
Needless to say I failed all my exams. I didn't really care until I found out that I was being dropped down a class for the next year. My year advisor was this guy in his twenties and I must admit he was kind of hot. His name was Mr. Bosanko. After our first year he told the year that he was leaving. What he neglected to tell us was that he was going out with another teacher who was married and that they were running away to start a new life. But we all found out. Our new advisor was a hippy vegetarian lady from the art block. I personally hated her.
The school year finished on a low (like usual) with us all dispersing to do out things for Christmas. I despised Christmas. It is a waste of time if you ask me. As well as Jesus was born in late spring or so, not summer (in Australia). My father always celebrated Christmas at his parent's house with my aunty and cousins. I disliked my cousins, they all seemed to be pretty happy people and they could joke about each other and they would never get offended. I never realized until my cousin Chris pointed it out but I "bob" when I walk. So after that I was officially dubbed "Bob" and not Jeffrey. I grew angry whenever they called me Bob. I once hit Chris and tackled him when he was on the chair. The chair toppled and I got yelled at by my father.
My father was a Christian, even though he swore, drunk and abused others around him. That hypocrisy would always make me smile. I never heard my father say "Merry Christmas" to me, so I never said it to him. He was too solitary for such non-sense as he would say. I've always wondered whether he had some kind of mental disability or something, but I never asked him for he would most likely hit me. If you're reading this you're most likely thinking what a cunt my father is. But truly his isn't. I guess it was just how he was brought up that made him the man the he is today. I don't really know if you want the truth. I've always wondered what it would be like to be in his shoes, looking through the distasteful world as he sees it. It would be weird yes, but an experience I would like to have just to feel closer to him.
On Boxing day, my father woke me up at the crack of dawn and said to me "Get in your good clothes". To this day I don't know what he meant by that because all my clothes were in a bad state. So I just chose the clothes that had the least stains and holes in them. He drove the two of us to our local church. I looked at him quizzically when he stopped the engine. He got out of the car and said "Are you gonna get out or what dickhead?" I unbuckled myself and got out of the car. He slammed his door shut and started walking towards the church. Just before the church doors there is an alcove. My father steered me toward the alcove and sat me down on the bench. He sat down next to me and said "Son this is the closest I ever want you to get to a church besides when you get married. They are full of stupid people who believe in a fantasy world where an almighty bloke is controlling everyone's decisions". I had to hold myself from laughing. This was coming from someone who was catholic. The irony of that sentence was off the charts. My father grabbed my shoulder and brought his face down to my level (if that is really possible with us sitting down, but my father always seems to be able to do the impossible if it suites him) "Promise me son. Promise me or I will break your jaw" he said. I obviously agreed to his promise. He stood up and started to walk back to the car. He turned around. "Hurry the fuck up son!" he yelled.
Irony sometimes pop's up the most strangest of places. Like the work place for example. For the past few years, the shop next to my dad's was empty. On the 28th of December a man moved into the shop next to his and turned it into a hair salon. He was obviously gay, but for some reason I never did like him. His name was Wilson, or just Will for short. I could see the hatred in my father's eyes when he first laid eyes on Will. A gay man working next to a homophobe.
Life is sometimes upfront and abrasive, but other times it can be sublime, beautiful in such a way. Life it seems to be upfront and abrasive at most times for me. I don't know what I did to deserve such a thing. For Christmas time, it doesn't seem to very joyful this year.