John looked around the boozer. He felt like one of those Clint Eastwood
characters his father loved, the ones who walk into a pub with five guys
staring at them and when they leave, all ten eyes are swollen shut. He made
his way down the bar, stopping in front of his father's stool, nodding at
the bartender on the way down. "Dad?" His father's hand reflexively
tightened around his pint. "Dad. Um, I think it's time for you to come
home. It's ...it's three o'clock Dad."
"Don't tell me what to do." His father stood up and reflexively John stepped backwards on his heels, sliding so he didn't actually move anywhere but made the action to.
"C'mon, I got to take you home." His father pushed him back, John bumping into the stool, feeling the vibration as it scratched across the floor, like that tool a dentist would use to scrape clean his teeth.
"Hey-"the bartender did his own almost-a-step now, and John turned his head to look at him. "Don't hit your kid, Evan."
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do to me kid Mike. I'll do what the hell I want."
"Yeah well you try and start another fight and you're not drinking here anymore, hear me?"
"Dad, please." His father's posture changed slightly, his shoulders slumping in a little. John took his arm and tugged gently, firmly. "C'mon." Half pulling, he led his dad out of the bar and down the street.
John opened the door fumbling, his father leaning more and more heavily upon him. Twisting, John nudged the door the rest of the way open with his foot and held his father about the chest, pulling him inside to the couch. His father slumped against him and made a gagging sound. "Shit. No, no, wait, please-"His father retched. "-fuck." John pushed his father back on to the couch, and watched him lean over. He picked up his legs and laid them on the couch, his father closing his eyes, his eyebrows pulling together in a grimace and then smoothing. John looked down. As he walked to the kitchen he pulled off his shirt, balling it so the vomit was on the inside and threw it into the sink. Reaching in the cupboard under there he pulled out a small bucket and brought it back to the couch, placing it under his father's head and taking a washrag, wiped his father's mouth.
He sat on the floor, crossing his legs, and leaned against the loveseat, watching his father breathe until he too feel asleep.
John woke up when he hear his alarm go off. Six thirty. He trudged upstairs and turned it off and stared into his closet for a moment, through the closed door. His father was still passed out. He could go to school, yeah, but his father... John went back to the kitchen and ran the hot water, washing his shirt and splashing some of the water on to his chest, up his arms, trying to wash off the vomit smell. He didn't want to shower in case the pipes woke up his father but if he didn't get that smell out of his nose he knew he was going to be sick too.
He should be disgusted, John thought as he sat back down to watch his father sleep. He should be ashamed for his father, he should feel pity. Instead John curled up on the floor and let himself fall asleep. "John. John. I have to go the toilet." John opened his eyes. His father was staring at him, his mouth slightly open and his Adam's Apple making those pre-gag jumps.
John pulled him up and his father gagged against his shoulder and dropped to his knees, turning his head and vomiting again, this time on the hardwood floor, missing the off white square of carpet. "Ah- crap. Dad." John pulled at his father's arm when he had finished. "Dad, get up." His father let his arm be pulled, not moving, not resisting and letting himself be yanked up. "Dad you just vomited on yourself! I can't carry you, please! Get up!"
"I've got no worth John."
"No don't start that, just get-"
"Don't tell me what to do!" His father looked at him, looked up at him, meeting his eyes with red rimmed ones. "Tell me who I am, John. Tell me who I am." His father wasn't blinking, letting his eyes water.
"I, I can't speak Dad. I can't write. I can't, I can't tell you that."
His father pulled at his arm, like a small child. "Tell me John, tell me who I am. Tell me who you mother loved, tell me who she left. Tell me who you left John. Tell me."
"You got to get up! And I've got to clean the floor now! Please, just get up!" His father let himself be pulled up and John took his weight, as much as he could, guiding him up the stairs, pulling him into his room. He sat down on his father's bed and lifted his arm off his shoulders. He turned to guide his father to lie down and his father kissed him, leaning his weight into John's lips and when John pulled his face away, onto the red and golden yellow bedspread, curling up.
John hesitated and then got up, closing his father's door behind him and going to sit on the stairs, staring at the pool of vomit, tracing the patterns of hair on his arms with his fingertips.
"Hey John. You're here early today. You wag school or something?" Scott smiled at him. John smiled back. It was hard not to smile at Scott, and harder knowing that he was the one who controlled the payday. "Would you mind waxing those boards?" Scott pointed to the other counter, the rack of four. Three short, one long. "On the long, you got to use the liquid stuff. Got some weird paint job according to the bloke who dropped it off; it doesn't look like any I've seen before." John nodded and headed for the counter, dodging around the racks of wet suits, the skate T-Shirts.
"John."
John looked up, his hands still methodically working the wax into the long board. "Mr. McFarland."
"I think you dripped a bit on you." John stopped and looked down at his shirt, the splotch and comet's tail of wax that stained his shirt.
"Oh shit." He wiped his hands and then rubbed at his T-Shirt, hoping the wax would flake and peel off.
"Shouldn't you wash that off?"
"Yeah, I will. Why, you looking to watch?" John looked up and stopped. He knew that look. And Mr. McFarland knew he had seen it.
"I'll see you around John." He started to turn, to leave, to rush out.
"How much would you pay me?"
"What?" Mr. McFarland turned back to him.
"How much would you pay me to watch me shower?"
"Strewth, John I... are you serious?"
"Yeah." John met Mr. McFarland's eyes. This could be it. His father knew exactly how much he made, how much he put in the bank. He could never leave, not on this paycheck. It wouldn't be enough, not enough to get out of Australia, probably barely enough to get out of Victoria. Never to America. Never to New York. But this, this under-the-table income, this could be enough. And it wasn't like he was going to have sex with Mr. McFarland. As far as he knew, there weren't any laws against letting other people watch you shower but then again, his knowledge of law was mainly limited to a little research he had done on domestic violence and drug laws.
Mr. McFarland kept his voice down. "Twenty."
"Fifty."
"Forty." Mr. McFarland nodded. John stuck out his hand and they shook. "Just come over some time this week, my back door. After eight, alright?" John nodded and then stood up as Scott came close. Scott wrapped his arm around Mr. McFarland's shoulder.
"My brother giving you trouble John?" John smiled and nodded no. "You gonna come over for dinner this week? Kelly's been asking for you, the kids too. They want to see their favorite uncle to give them some piggy back rides."
"Yeah sure, maybe tomorrow?" Scott smiled and nodded.
"John, you ever heard of a writer that spends more time driving around then writing?" John shook his head no again, then turned back to the board, rubbing the wax again.
"I'll see you Scotty. John." John nodded and heard Mr. McFarland leave the shop.
"John when you're done with those, we got a new shipment of wheels and bearings. Would you mind shelving them?"
"No. Not at all."
"Thanks."
"Dad? Dad? Where you going?" His father didn't look at him or answer. He sat up from where he rested his head against the steering wheel, noticing for the first time that his bottle was dripping onto the dashboard. "Dad, you're wasting petrol." He reached over and turned the key in the ignition, turning off the car. "Dad, why don't you get out of the car? I'll make some dinner, k? I picked up some chicken and junk, I can make whatever you want." John ignored the cars that idled by the house, watching his father and him, the neighbors who were glancing out from behind curtains, slowly walking out their trash. "Dad, c'mon." Slowly John pulled his father out of the car and taking the bottle of piss out of his hand, he put his father's arm on his shoulder with the other and brought him inside.
John was doing the dishes when Ellis stuck his head inside the back door, and seeing that John's father wasn't in the kitchen, came inside. "You missed school today." He took up the rag and began to dry the dishes.
"Yeah. I wasn't feeling so great this morning."
"Saw your dad this afternoon."
"And you didn't even bring him the fuck inside? You left him there?"
"John, the last time I talked to him, I asked him if he heard from you and he slammed the door in my face. My hand was on the frame John."
"Yeah well, he's upstairs if you're interested in repeating the conversation."
"Noted." Ellis dried for a bit. "So what, you have to go pick him up last night?"
"Yeah. And he had the car keys so I couldn't even drive and do it. This morning, he was puking all over the place and I didn't want to leave him."
"He didn't waste much time then, huh?" John shot Ellis a glare that he hoped meant 'fuck you' and not 'I'm PMS-ing'. But he guessed it was his own fault, for saying anything. "You going out this weekend? Or blowing people off like last?"
"I never told Marc I was going to the club with him."
"Yeah well, you want to catch a film or something?"
"What zombie flick is playing?"
"Something involving possessed priests, down at the Forum. Midnight show. Tell your dad you're sleeping over and afterwards, I dunno. We can go to the Bronze or something." John shrugged.
"Yeah maybe."
"So is your dad..."
"He's passed out if you want to watch a movie or something."
"Ace." Ellis pulled from his pocket some Japanese horror movie, the cover a grainy black and white photograph of a girl in a straitjacket. "Let's go." John tossed the rag into the sink and followed Ellis to the living room. "What'd you do all day?"
"Cleaned. Dishes, laundry, swept. Went to work. Pretty much it. Miss anything?"
"We started a new book in English. New section, uh, 'Journeys of Discovery' or some crap. Starting "On the Road." Some Seppo novel."
"It's good."
"You read it?"
"Yeah, couple months ago. Got bored."
"Christ man. Only person I know who would run away and would read classics." Ellis paused and John concentrated on the opening credits. "Sorry. I guess I shouldn't bring that up."
"Right. Let's just watch the damn film."
"Don't tell me what to do." His father stood up and reflexively John stepped backwards on his heels, sliding so he didn't actually move anywhere but made the action to.
"C'mon, I got to take you home." His father pushed him back, John bumping into the stool, feeling the vibration as it scratched across the floor, like that tool a dentist would use to scrape clean his teeth.
"Hey-"the bartender did his own almost-a-step now, and John turned his head to look at him. "Don't hit your kid, Evan."
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do to me kid Mike. I'll do what the hell I want."
"Yeah well you try and start another fight and you're not drinking here anymore, hear me?"
"Dad, please." His father's posture changed slightly, his shoulders slumping in a little. John took his arm and tugged gently, firmly. "C'mon." Half pulling, he led his dad out of the bar and down the street.
John opened the door fumbling, his father leaning more and more heavily upon him. Twisting, John nudged the door the rest of the way open with his foot and held his father about the chest, pulling him inside to the couch. His father slumped against him and made a gagging sound. "Shit. No, no, wait, please-"His father retched. "-fuck." John pushed his father back on to the couch, and watched him lean over. He picked up his legs and laid them on the couch, his father closing his eyes, his eyebrows pulling together in a grimace and then smoothing. John looked down. As he walked to the kitchen he pulled off his shirt, balling it so the vomit was on the inside and threw it into the sink. Reaching in the cupboard under there he pulled out a small bucket and brought it back to the couch, placing it under his father's head and taking a washrag, wiped his father's mouth.
He sat on the floor, crossing his legs, and leaned against the loveseat, watching his father breathe until he too feel asleep.
John woke up when he hear his alarm go off. Six thirty. He trudged upstairs and turned it off and stared into his closet for a moment, through the closed door. His father was still passed out. He could go to school, yeah, but his father... John went back to the kitchen and ran the hot water, washing his shirt and splashing some of the water on to his chest, up his arms, trying to wash off the vomit smell. He didn't want to shower in case the pipes woke up his father but if he didn't get that smell out of his nose he knew he was going to be sick too.
He should be disgusted, John thought as he sat back down to watch his father sleep. He should be ashamed for his father, he should feel pity. Instead John curled up on the floor and let himself fall asleep. "John. John. I have to go the toilet." John opened his eyes. His father was staring at him, his mouth slightly open and his Adam's Apple making those pre-gag jumps.
John pulled him up and his father gagged against his shoulder and dropped to his knees, turning his head and vomiting again, this time on the hardwood floor, missing the off white square of carpet. "Ah- crap. Dad." John pulled at his father's arm when he had finished. "Dad, get up." His father let his arm be pulled, not moving, not resisting and letting himself be yanked up. "Dad you just vomited on yourself! I can't carry you, please! Get up!"
"I've got no worth John."
"No don't start that, just get-"
"Don't tell me what to do!" His father looked at him, looked up at him, meeting his eyes with red rimmed ones. "Tell me who I am, John. Tell me who I am." His father wasn't blinking, letting his eyes water.
"I, I can't speak Dad. I can't write. I can't, I can't tell you that."
His father pulled at his arm, like a small child. "Tell me John, tell me who I am. Tell me who you mother loved, tell me who she left. Tell me who you left John. Tell me."
"You got to get up! And I've got to clean the floor now! Please, just get up!" His father let himself be pulled up and John took his weight, as much as he could, guiding him up the stairs, pulling him into his room. He sat down on his father's bed and lifted his arm off his shoulders. He turned to guide his father to lie down and his father kissed him, leaning his weight into John's lips and when John pulled his face away, onto the red and golden yellow bedspread, curling up.
John hesitated and then got up, closing his father's door behind him and going to sit on the stairs, staring at the pool of vomit, tracing the patterns of hair on his arms with his fingertips.
"Hey John. You're here early today. You wag school or something?" Scott smiled at him. John smiled back. It was hard not to smile at Scott, and harder knowing that he was the one who controlled the payday. "Would you mind waxing those boards?" Scott pointed to the other counter, the rack of four. Three short, one long. "On the long, you got to use the liquid stuff. Got some weird paint job according to the bloke who dropped it off; it doesn't look like any I've seen before." John nodded and headed for the counter, dodging around the racks of wet suits, the skate T-Shirts.
"John."
John looked up, his hands still methodically working the wax into the long board. "Mr. McFarland."
"I think you dripped a bit on you." John stopped and looked down at his shirt, the splotch and comet's tail of wax that stained his shirt.
"Oh shit." He wiped his hands and then rubbed at his T-Shirt, hoping the wax would flake and peel off.
"Shouldn't you wash that off?"
"Yeah, I will. Why, you looking to watch?" John looked up and stopped. He knew that look. And Mr. McFarland knew he had seen it.
"I'll see you around John." He started to turn, to leave, to rush out.
"How much would you pay me?"
"What?" Mr. McFarland turned back to him.
"How much would you pay me to watch me shower?"
"Strewth, John I... are you serious?"
"Yeah." John met Mr. McFarland's eyes. This could be it. His father knew exactly how much he made, how much he put in the bank. He could never leave, not on this paycheck. It wouldn't be enough, not enough to get out of Australia, probably barely enough to get out of Victoria. Never to America. Never to New York. But this, this under-the-table income, this could be enough. And it wasn't like he was going to have sex with Mr. McFarland. As far as he knew, there weren't any laws against letting other people watch you shower but then again, his knowledge of law was mainly limited to a little research he had done on domestic violence and drug laws.
Mr. McFarland kept his voice down. "Twenty."
"Fifty."
"Forty." Mr. McFarland nodded. John stuck out his hand and they shook. "Just come over some time this week, my back door. After eight, alright?" John nodded and then stood up as Scott came close. Scott wrapped his arm around Mr. McFarland's shoulder.
"My brother giving you trouble John?" John smiled and nodded no. "You gonna come over for dinner this week? Kelly's been asking for you, the kids too. They want to see their favorite uncle to give them some piggy back rides."
"Yeah sure, maybe tomorrow?" Scott smiled and nodded.
"John, you ever heard of a writer that spends more time driving around then writing?" John shook his head no again, then turned back to the board, rubbing the wax again.
"I'll see you Scotty. John." John nodded and heard Mr. McFarland leave the shop.
"John when you're done with those, we got a new shipment of wheels and bearings. Would you mind shelving them?"
"No. Not at all."
"Thanks."
"Dad? Dad? Where you going?" His father didn't look at him or answer. He sat up from where he rested his head against the steering wheel, noticing for the first time that his bottle was dripping onto the dashboard. "Dad, you're wasting petrol." He reached over and turned the key in the ignition, turning off the car. "Dad, why don't you get out of the car? I'll make some dinner, k? I picked up some chicken and junk, I can make whatever you want." John ignored the cars that idled by the house, watching his father and him, the neighbors who were glancing out from behind curtains, slowly walking out their trash. "Dad, c'mon." Slowly John pulled his father out of the car and taking the bottle of piss out of his hand, he put his father's arm on his shoulder with the other and brought him inside.
John was doing the dishes when Ellis stuck his head inside the back door, and seeing that John's father wasn't in the kitchen, came inside. "You missed school today." He took up the rag and began to dry the dishes.
"Yeah. I wasn't feeling so great this morning."
"Saw your dad this afternoon."
"And you didn't even bring him the fuck inside? You left him there?"
"John, the last time I talked to him, I asked him if he heard from you and he slammed the door in my face. My hand was on the frame John."
"Yeah well, he's upstairs if you're interested in repeating the conversation."
"Noted." Ellis dried for a bit. "So what, you have to go pick him up last night?"
"Yeah. And he had the car keys so I couldn't even drive and do it. This morning, he was puking all over the place and I didn't want to leave him."
"He didn't waste much time then, huh?" John shot Ellis a glare that he hoped meant 'fuck you' and not 'I'm PMS-ing'. But he guessed it was his own fault, for saying anything. "You going out this weekend? Or blowing people off like last?"
"I never told Marc I was going to the club with him."
"Yeah well, you want to catch a film or something?"
"What zombie flick is playing?"
"Something involving possessed priests, down at the Forum. Midnight show. Tell your dad you're sleeping over and afterwards, I dunno. We can go to the Bronze or something." John shrugged.
"Yeah maybe."
"So is your dad..."
"He's passed out if you want to watch a movie or something."
"Ace." Ellis pulled from his pocket some Japanese horror movie, the cover a grainy black and white photograph of a girl in a straitjacket. "Let's go." John tossed the rag into the sink and followed Ellis to the living room. "What'd you do all day?"
"Cleaned. Dishes, laundry, swept. Went to work. Pretty much it. Miss anything?"
"We started a new book in English. New section, uh, 'Journeys of Discovery' or some crap. Starting "On the Road." Some Seppo novel."
"It's good."
"You read it?"
"Yeah, couple months ago. Got bored."
"Christ man. Only person I know who would run away and would read classics." Ellis paused and John concentrated on the opening credits. "Sorry. I guess I shouldn't bring that up."
"Right. Let's just watch the damn film."