‘What the fuck are you here for?!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about???’
‘Bullshit!’
And then he punched me again, this time breaking my nose.
Samantha and I tipped the taxi driver for getting us to our motel in a relative short amount of time. He amused us with his blatantly racist remarks towards his fellow taxi driver comrades. He thought we were laughing with him. It was a nice way to forget about what we had to attend to later in the afternoon.
‘PLEASE STOP. I don’t know anything!’
‘Where is the fucking money!’
‘What?!’
This time his punch opened a cut to the top of my eyebrow, my face now a palette of bright red under a black and blue canvas.
We put our bags down next to the bed and lay down. We set the alarm clock to wake us in a couple of hours. It was siesta time for Samantha and I. It was what we liked to do when we were together in the mid afternoon. You might call it boring. We called it nice.
‘So are you going to tell us where the money is you filthy fucking cunt.’
I had lost the ability to speak by this stage. His last hit was with the blunt end of his revolver breaking most of my teeth on the left side of my mouth.
When the alarm went off we woke up face to face, only centremetres apart. We gazed into each other’s eyes for a long, long time.
They had tied me back up onto the chair. How many of them were there? Three, maybe four. No, there was a fifth person to the side watching but not moving. I couldn’t make him or anyone out. Only silhouettes to my eyes.
We had an hour before we had to attend the evening funeral. The will stated that his funeral was to be held just as the sun had set. It was approaching five pm so we still had another hour before we had to head off. I kissed Samantha as I started to cry.
What could I hear? A radio? Stevie Nicks? I’m going to die whilst listening to Stevie Nicks? Where the fuck am I?!
Samantha told me that it was going to be OK. I told her that I wasn’t crying because of my friend. Something had changed in me during my nap. Is there such a thing as The One? Your perfect soulmate after all? Is this the feeling that they always talk about? I lost my friend. I couldn’t lose Samantha. Never. Knowing this brought meaning back into my life. I smiled and told her that I loved her. She started crying. She didn’t have to say anything back. She didn’t have to.
I started spitting blood from my mouth. That blood wasn’t from my mouth. Internal?? Oh fuck!
We made love. It was the first time it meant anything. It was the first time it meant everything.
The last thing I heard before blacking out was a female voice telling the statue figure in the corner that I was unquestionably the guy with my friend at the bar that night.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
A death in the family
Samantha had booked a taxi to take us to our motel. She commented on how good I looked in the suit and that I should consider wearing it more then three times in my life.
The second time I had worn a suit was at my cousin’s wedding two years ago. I remember getting delightfully drunk and dancing all night to bad music.
The first time I wore one was at my father’s funeral when I was fifteen. He was diagnosed with hepatocellular liver cancer, which in almost all cases is terminal within a year of diagnosis. When the specialist first told Dad what the blue blobs were on the MRI scans I was told to leave the room and wait outside. I may have been young but I knew that this meant bad news according to the movies on television.
Mum and my older brother Sam used to pick me up early from school so we could meet Dad at the hospital just before his weekly chemotherapy sessions would begin. He wanted his family around during that process. I didn’t understand why at the time.
We would then take him home and he would seem relatively healthy throughout the remainder of the week.
Life went on like this for about six months. He was always sick but never worse then he was the week before. It seemed like the therapy for the time being was a success. The cancer was not aggressively developing at all.
On the seventh month he became very unwell. The cancer had metastasised to his bones causing him excruciating pain throughout his legs and at times he was unable to walk. The specialist gave us a wheelchair for him to get around on when walking was too hard. The pain in his legs would come and go in waves. He would be relatively painless for two days and then incapable of moving the next. On these days it didn’t seem like the morphine tablets were helping at all.
On one particular week when he was doing well, I decided to take the wheelchair for a spin in the house whilst Dad was sleeping. Mum was working and my brother was at university so I was home by myself with Dad. This was fine since I knew which tablets Dad had to take when the pain would become stronger.
I tilted the wheelchair back so that it’s back would be almost touching the ground and I was balancing the chair with all my strength with my arms. You do these things when your fifteen and bored. Dad had just woken up to go to the toilet and I tried to hold the position of the wheelchair hoping that he was gong to be impressed with my physical aptitude.
When he opened the door and saw what I was doing in the lounge room, something broke inside of him. He fell to the floor in a heap crying and screaming about a new pain that he had not felt before on the right side of his hip. I ran up to him to help but all he kept on yelling was, ‘Why did you that!? Why? Why do you have to be such a silly boy? Why? Why?’ At fifteen you don’t realise what your terminal father, who only has months to live, would feel when he sees his youngest son playing on what will be his last form of transportation.
The next appointment with the specialist revealed that the cancer had also rapidly spread to his brain and that there wasn’t much time left. He was in the hospice within the week. I was always filtered away so that I wouldn’t see much, to make it easier on the young one in the family. I was normally never allowed to be in Dad’s room by myself except on one occasion. Mum and Sam needed to go outside for a smoke and they let me stay in Dad’s room by myself for the first time. I stood up from my chair once they had left and slowly started walking towards my father. He was always in and out of consciousness. A cd was in the corner of the room playing sound effects of ocean waves breaking. As I walked up to him I looked into his eyes and knew that he could see mine. He tried to sit up for a brief moment but it was too hard so he laid straight back down. He started to speak.
‘Ioju… could you… no… the car has the ignition… the birds…
‘Dad, what do you want? What do you want me to do for you?
‘The birds… it’s the car… the red one.. Ioju… don’t forget to get me the birds… In the car…’
‘I don’t understand you Dad. What birds? What do you want me to get?
He was getting terribly frustrated with himself. He began to cry as he was speaking.
‘The birds…. Where are the birds… In the car… Ioju… birds… Ioju…’
I ran out of the room to find a quite place to cry. I now understood that there wasn’t much time left.
A week later when I woke up to find most of my relatives at home, I knew that he had died.
Sam took me for a bike ride at the BMX track to get us away from home. We rode those bikes as hard as we possibly could, taking on all the little hills and gullies with absolutely no sign of fear. We then rode up to the famed viewing spot of our town and sat there for a good hour. All my brother said to me was that if I ever needed a cigarette all I had to do was ask. At that stage I was still a non-smoker.
The funeral occurred three days later. I didn’t feel anything. It seemed too much like a movie to me. Not real. All of these people who I had never seen before had come out of the woodwork to attend. Complete strangers were crying over my father. It was surreal. My auntie came over to me and said that it was ok to cry, to let it all out. I stared back, numb and emotionless.
That night when we got home my mother made us all chicken soup. We watched the television for a little while and then we all went to sleep.
And for some reason, that night, it hit me… hard. I thought about the fishing trips that Dad and I used to go on. The way his hands smelled of oil when he got home from work. The silly way he used to run. His amazing lasagne. His very liberal use of the word ‘bullshit’ when he was watching the evening news. His strength. His smile. His forgiveness.
I was never going to see him again. It was the longest and most painful night of my life.
I gripped Samantha’s hand tighter once we entered the taxi and looked at her. She looked back at me with unadulterated love and compassion. I couldn’t reciprocate that look Samantha. I wish I could. I really do but my mind goes back to that long and lonely night in my room that funeral night. Love is a wonderful thing but I can’t loose someone that I love again. I can’t. I just can’t.
The second time I had worn a suit was at my cousin’s wedding two years ago. I remember getting delightfully drunk and dancing all night to bad music.
The first time I wore one was at my father’s funeral when I was fifteen. He was diagnosed with hepatocellular liver cancer, which in almost all cases is terminal within a year of diagnosis. When the specialist first told Dad what the blue blobs were on the MRI scans I was told to leave the room and wait outside. I may have been young but I knew that this meant bad news according to the movies on television.
Mum and my older brother Sam used to pick me up early from school so we could meet Dad at the hospital just before his weekly chemotherapy sessions would begin. He wanted his family around during that process. I didn’t understand why at the time.
We would then take him home and he would seem relatively healthy throughout the remainder of the week.
Life went on like this for about six months. He was always sick but never worse then he was the week before. It seemed like the therapy for the time being was a success. The cancer was not aggressively developing at all.
On the seventh month he became very unwell. The cancer had metastasised to his bones causing him excruciating pain throughout his legs and at times he was unable to walk. The specialist gave us a wheelchair for him to get around on when walking was too hard. The pain in his legs would come and go in waves. He would be relatively painless for two days and then incapable of moving the next. On these days it didn’t seem like the morphine tablets were helping at all.
On one particular week when he was doing well, I decided to take the wheelchair for a spin in the house whilst Dad was sleeping. Mum was working and my brother was at university so I was home by myself with Dad. This was fine since I knew which tablets Dad had to take when the pain would become stronger.
I tilted the wheelchair back so that it’s back would be almost touching the ground and I was balancing the chair with all my strength with my arms. You do these things when your fifteen and bored. Dad had just woken up to go to the toilet and I tried to hold the position of the wheelchair hoping that he was gong to be impressed with my physical aptitude.
When he opened the door and saw what I was doing in the lounge room, something broke inside of him. He fell to the floor in a heap crying and screaming about a new pain that he had not felt before on the right side of his hip. I ran up to him to help but all he kept on yelling was, ‘Why did you that!? Why? Why do you have to be such a silly boy? Why? Why?’ At fifteen you don’t realise what your terminal father, who only has months to live, would feel when he sees his youngest son playing on what will be his last form of transportation.
The next appointment with the specialist revealed that the cancer had also rapidly spread to his brain and that there wasn’t much time left. He was in the hospice within the week. I was always filtered away so that I wouldn’t see much, to make it easier on the young one in the family. I was normally never allowed to be in Dad’s room by myself except on one occasion. Mum and Sam needed to go outside for a smoke and they let me stay in Dad’s room by myself for the first time. I stood up from my chair once they had left and slowly started walking towards my father. He was always in and out of consciousness. A cd was in the corner of the room playing sound effects of ocean waves breaking. As I walked up to him I looked into his eyes and knew that he could see mine. He tried to sit up for a brief moment but it was too hard so he laid straight back down. He started to speak.
‘Ioju… could you… no… the car has the ignition… the birds…
‘Dad, what do you want? What do you want me to do for you?
‘The birds… it’s the car… the red one.. Ioju… don’t forget to get me the birds… In the car…’
‘I don’t understand you Dad. What birds? What do you want me to get?
He was getting terribly frustrated with himself. He began to cry as he was speaking.
‘The birds…. Where are the birds… In the car… Ioju… birds… Ioju…’
I ran out of the room to find a quite place to cry. I now understood that there wasn’t much time left.
A week later when I woke up to find most of my relatives at home, I knew that he had died.
Sam took me for a bike ride at the BMX track to get us away from home. We rode those bikes as hard as we possibly could, taking on all the little hills and gullies with absolutely no sign of fear. We then rode up to the famed viewing spot of our town and sat there for a good hour. All my brother said to me was that if I ever needed a cigarette all I had to do was ask. At that stage I was still a non-smoker.
The funeral occurred three days later. I didn’t feel anything. It seemed too much like a movie to me. Not real. All of these people who I had never seen before had come out of the woodwork to attend. Complete strangers were crying over my father. It was surreal. My auntie came over to me and said that it was ok to cry, to let it all out. I stared back, numb and emotionless.
That night when we got home my mother made us all chicken soup. We watched the television for a little while and then we all went to sleep.
And for some reason, that night, it hit me… hard. I thought about the fishing trips that Dad and I used to go on. The way his hands smelled of oil when he got home from work. The silly way he used to run. His amazing lasagne. His very liberal use of the word ‘bullshit’ when he was watching the evening news. His strength. His smile. His forgiveness.
I was never going to see him again. It was the longest and most painful night of my life.
I gripped Samantha’s hand tighter once we entered the taxi and looked at her. She looked back at me with unadulterated love and compassion. I couldn’t reciprocate that look Samantha. I wish I could. I really do but my mind goes back to that long and lonely night in my room that funeral night. Love is a wonderful thing but I can’t loose someone that I love again. I can’t. I just can’t.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Jet
The flight was only going to take forty minutes. We got there an hour before take off, checked in and waited patiently for boarding to commence. I was sitting next to a family of three children and hoped with all my might that they weren’t going to be sitting next to us. The children’s relentlessly grating laughter might have just driven me off the edge.
The newspaper had a story about the abnormally freakish weather we have had been having of late. As always, global warming was the devastator according to the journalist, yet another aspect of humanity that we should all be proud of.
I looked at Samantha sitting next to me. The only spec of colour she was flaunting were her much favoured gold rimmed sun glasses. She had a long dark dress on covered by a long black overcoat. Her shoes happened to be the new ones she bought a couple of weekends ago but I’m sure that she didn’t suppose, at the time of purchasing, that this was going to be the first type of outing that she was going to be wearing them. She bought the shoes because they were on special and knew that she didn’t have any shoes to go with that black dress of hers she was wearing now. She looked effortlessly elegant for such a solemn occasion. I was glad she was with me.
I was wearing my one and only cheap suit I own. I bought it when I was travelling in South America from a tailer who made it for me for the price of a walnut. For a cheap suit it oozed style and class, something that I generally don’t have the time for. I’m normally a person who dresses very simply. Ioju doesn’t go out of his way for he feels like he doesn’t need to. I look at pity at all the suits that walk around town these days. I’m sure they look at me when I walk past in my tired cross trainers, jeans and t-shirt with the elitist mindset of the queen bee in a hive of millions. They will understand how wrong they were someday but it might take a good while. Feeling important by wearing a suit is something that you could get quite used to I’m sure. Ioju on the other hand knows that the suit should only be worn at weddings and funerals. This was the third time in my life that I was wearing one.
The children next to me screamed in delight when they heard the announcement that boarding was about to begin and ran towards the terminal entrance with the vigour and excitement that only children know and understand. Samantha and I walked towards the terminal, hand in hand. She smiled at me with the reassurance that everything was going to be OK and I was happy that she could convey that message with just a smile.
We boarded our tiny aircraft, threw our overnight bags in the storage compartments and made ourselves somewhat comfortable in the somewhat uncomfortable seats. The children were in danger of being treacherously ear-splitting but the parents deserved a medal for being able to contain the children before take off.
We took off and half an hour later we landed at our destination.
The newspaper had a story about the abnormally freakish weather we have had been having of late. As always, global warming was the devastator according to the journalist, yet another aspect of humanity that we should all be proud of.
I looked at Samantha sitting next to me. The only spec of colour she was flaunting were her much favoured gold rimmed sun glasses. She had a long dark dress on covered by a long black overcoat. Her shoes happened to be the new ones she bought a couple of weekends ago but I’m sure that she didn’t suppose, at the time of purchasing, that this was going to be the first type of outing that she was going to be wearing them. She bought the shoes because they were on special and knew that she didn’t have any shoes to go with that black dress of hers she was wearing now. She looked effortlessly elegant for such a solemn occasion. I was glad she was with me.
I was wearing my one and only cheap suit I own. I bought it when I was travelling in South America from a tailer who made it for me for the price of a walnut. For a cheap suit it oozed style and class, something that I generally don’t have the time for. I’m normally a person who dresses very simply. Ioju doesn’t go out of his way for he feels like he doesn’t need to. I look at pity at all the suits that walk around town these days. I’m sure they look at me when I walk past in my tired cross trainers, jeans and t-shirt with the elitist mindset of the queen bee in a hive of millions. They will understand how wrong they were someday but it might take a good while. Feeling important by wearing a suit is something that you could get quite used to I’m sure. Ioju on the other hand knows that the suit should only be worn at weddings and funerals. This was the third time in my life that I was wearing one.
The children next to me screamed in delight when they heard the announcement that boarding was about to begin and ran towards the terminal entrance with the vigour and excitement that only children know and understand. Samantha and I walked towards the terminal, hand in hand. She smiled at me with the reassurance that everything was going to be OK and I was happy that she could convey that message with just a smile.
We boarded our tiny aircraft, threw our overnight bags in the storage compartments and made ourselves somewhat comfortable in the somewhat uncomfortable seats. The children were in danger of being treacherously ear-splitting but the parents deserved a medal for being able to contain the children before take off.
We took off and half an hour later we landed at our destination.
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