Can ya be in love with ya memories? That’s the question swirling around me head, ever since last June’s bust-up with Bruce.
He reckons we have ta move closer to town! Can you imagine? Three bedrooms on a quarter acre, lawn mowing, neighbours, traffic and kids hooning around. I betcha the Holden will be stolen to do burnouts down the street. “Bruce, we’ll be up to our necks in humbug. Jees, we’ll have to get one of those phones to talk on, as you walk around. And we don’t even know anyone’s number!”
We come from different sides of the ‘tracks’: him, the posh side. I live with Dad, forty miles up a dirt track, in the hills behind town. Dad builds our shack when he gets Mum up the duff. I come along, and with the dogs, me bi-cycle and the horses, we’re as happy as Larry.
Mum eventually pisses off, and that suits me and Dad fine. No more empty flagons smashed at the bottom of the hill! She takes off with the petrol station bloke. Never hear from ‘er again.
I go to school, sometimes: when Dad needs to buy stuff in town. The dogs ride in the back, tails an tongues flyin’, thirsty as buggery when Dad leaves them in the Ute while he has a few frothies. He’s pissed when he picks me up, but outta town, I take over the driving!
I meet Bruce at school. At lunchtimes, we sneak down behind the dunnies for a ciggie. Over time it becomes a bit of a grope-session, but it gets us outta class. Everyone reckons we’re sweethearts. I suppose we are, and it’s no surprise when he eventually moves in.
Dad gets lung cancer. I take him to the doctor. Sargeant Whatsit pulls me over at the edge of town but when he sees Dad, we get a right-royal express trip, sirens and all, straight to the hospital.
There is an old hayshed near town. I sleep here for a few weeks, seeing Dad every day. I go into the shop and buy him some grapes. It’s a bit of a joke, but he laughs and laughs, in between coughing.
Three weeks and he tells me to take him home. I argue, but he’s a stubborn old bastard. He’s got nothing to wear because the nurses chucked his clobber out. I drop into the clothes shop – The Leisure Wear Emporium – and get him some new stuff.
Back home he lasts a few months. The Doc comes out with some pills. Dad prefers my huge, home-rolled joints. God, I miss him!
The shack is my own temple now. A ginormous photo of Dad hangs on my bedroom wall.
Bruce moves in after the funeral. It lasts a couple of years before he pisses off. I hear he takes up with the sheila at the pub: the blond floozy! They’re living in a townhouse, garden, lawns, the whole shebang!
Bugger ‘em. Me, and my dad, are happy!