Metal City - Hai Ina Ia Mai Ana Ka Puana

My Mum and Dad.

My Mum hurt herself at work this week - I'm not entirely sure what happened, but somehow, she slipped and banged her side on a railing. She's in terrible pain - she comes home, and has to sit down with her eyes closed and her head tilted upward, clutching at her side - and I bring her a cup of tea, and sit down to talk to her about her day. And her day seems the same - she's not happy, because the people at work don't treat her very nicely, but she doesn't know what to do. She seems very sad, and when Mum gets sad, it has a poetic, melancholy quality: she doesn't cry or scream or shout - she just sort of finds a space to sit in, and sometimes she talks, or sometimes she doesn't.

She came home from work today at lunchtime, after her x-ray, and ate a pot of yoghurt on the couch. I was microwaving a disgusting roast chicken roll that seemed like a good idea when I was wandering around Coles with a red plastic basket, but on hindsight was the gastronomic equivalent of roadkill. And she sighed and became wet-eyed, and I gave her a hug - but she had to go back to work, and so I walked her out to her car and promised that I'd cook something great for dinner, and that everything would be fine, and that things always work out. Then she drove away, and I went back inside and gave Bronnie half of my lunch.

But I felt like I wanted to cheer her up, because there seems to be so few people who are interested in cheering her up - and since I'm a pretentious, artsy, limp-wristed kind of creature, I gathered up my pens and pencils, snatched up a drawing pad, and went outside. But - what to draw?

Then, I had a good idea. I went outside, and unlocked the garage. Inside, I found a bunch of dusty old photo albums that hadn't been opened since David Bowie last put out a decent record - and I took them up to our newly-furnished chateu'/shangri-la/decking thing. I found a couple of pictures of Mum and Dad from many years ago - before things all went horribly, terribly wrong - and I sat down to render them both as silly pen-and-ink cartoons.

I thought I'd post them here, and I'd tell you a bit about my Mum and Dad.

This is my Mum, sometime in the late 1970's. She used to work at Myer's in Doncaster, in the record department. Once, she told me that the biggest selling album she ever saw was Neil Diamond's 'Hot August Night'. Apparently, they couldn't open the boxes fast enough to get them into the customer's hands. Cherry, Cherry indeed. She met my Dad at Myer - he worked in the sporting department. Somewhere, at Nonna's place, is a photo of him in a shirt and tie taken from a newspaper article - which reads 'Come and see Metal Jules for all your fishing and camping needs!'. It's a great picture. They got married when Mum was 22. In all the photos, she looks kind of like a Susan Fey-esque character. All arms and legs and overalls. There's photos of Mum and Dad camping - I've never known them to do that. And there's photos of them in the country with their friends, feeding kangaroos and pulling silly faces. You know the kind of stuff. Mum looks incredibly happy - she's smiling in every photo. So does Dad - which is odd, since Dad never smiles. But, apparently, he was once a chirpy twentysomething. He had a Torana, too - it's not the same as mine, but very similar. It's nice to look at those photos, and see them both so pleased with life. There's photos of them with their new record player - putting on albums that I used to detest and mock, but now that I'm a crotchety old man, I love with pride. You know the kind of stuff - The Carpenters, Paul Williams, Pete Seeger. Actually, The Carpenters were my Mum's favourite band at the time. I like to think that they were listening to those old records in those photos. Mum quit work to look after me when I was born - and after I was grown up and reasonably mentally stable, she decided that she wanted more out of life than playing nursemaid to her Boo Radley-esque progeny. So, she volunteered at the M.S society, and worked her way through years of the most godawful things imaginable, studying the whole time. And now, she works with disabled people full-time. I admire her deeply for that. It's taken a toll on her, though. She doesn't smile the way she used to.

But, you know something? Looking at the album was horrible, too. Because, I'm looking at those photos from 2005 - and I know what's coming around the corner. I know exactly what is about to wipe the smiles off their faces.

This is my Dad in the late 70's. Nice turtleneck, Jules. Dad had big, Man About The House sideburns - but you can't see them in this picture, because they are covered up by his boofy 70's hair. After living with the man, my Dad is still as utterly confusing and dumbfounding to me as he's ever been. He's capable of being kind and generous to the point of self-sacrifice, but at the same time - he can be the most emotionally remote, isolated creature in the world. He doesn't say - he prefers to show, which is something we've had a lot of arguments with over the years. Dad wanted to be a motor car racer - he raced cars with his brothers, and later was a very good go-kart racer. But now, he just watches the sport on T.V. You have no idea how much I hate the sound of those bloody cars - nyyyyyyrang.... nyyyyyyrang.... nyyyyyyyyrang - over and over again, every weekend of my life. But, what can I do? It's his big thing in life. I think Dad was a little bit nonplussed after he'd pat Mum's pregnant belly, and dream of a little petrol-head with a need for speed, and instead, out plopped a frumpy dork who kept nicking his E.L.O records and drawing pictures of talking ducks. I've had that out with him many, many times over the years - usually when we've been screaming at one another - and he denies it up and down, but to be honest, I wouldn't blame him. It'd be like if hell froze over and I had Metal Dave Jnr., and it turned out that all he wanted out of life was a polyester suit and a phat ride to take down Chapel Street while pumping out the doof. The curious thing about looking at those old photos of my Dad is that he smiles a lot. This wide, toothy grin that shows off the gap in his front teeth. He's acting wacky, too - pulling crazy faces, and wearing aprons, and in one particularly frightening shot, emerging from the ocean with a boogie board. Even in Summer when I was a kid and they'd take me to the pool, Dad would usually sit under a tree and read some godawful shit like... oh, I don't know. Raymond Feist or somebody. Wild horses couldn't get him in the water. Yet, here he is - grinning like a drunken seal, with his hair plastered to his scalp, and the foam of the sea rising up behind him. Dad worked at Ford for years, as a components buyer. During the recession in '92, he was retrenched. I still remember him coming home, looking terrified, and telling us that things were going to be difficult. And, they were. He got back up on his feet, though - and eventually became the purchasing manager at a company in South Melbourne. But then, he trusted the wrong people, and he found himself back at square one again. What do you say to a 51 year old man who has been betrayed by a friend, and who may never work again? I certainly had no idea, and I'll never forget answering the phone, with my Dad nearly in tears, telling me that he didn't know what he was going to do.

But, you know something? Looking at the album was horrible, too. Because, I'm looking at those photos from 2005 - and I know what's coming around the corner. I know exactly what is about to wipe the smiles off their faces.

I've been thinking about this a lot, today. I emailed Kathryn this morning and told her that I was in an incredibly odd mood - but I couldn't put my finger on why. And, I went to see her tonight - we had a drink at Ye Olde' Nancy, and I think I figured it out on the way home. I'm a touchy, snarly kind of beast - and Kathryn made a joke about me still living at home. I shouldn't have taken it as anything more than one of my best friends taking a swipe at me because it's funny, and that's what we do. But instead, it got me thinking. And here's what I thought.

I don't want to get too heavy, or to sound like some kind of cliche' - but when I was looking over those photos, I felt incredibly sad. I got a lump in my throat, and I clenched my hands into balls, and I coughed and spluttered a litle more than I should have. I wasn't sure what the problem was - but now, I think I do. I feel horribly, insufferably, burningly guilty for the impact that I had on their lives. I look back at the photos of two happy, normal, well-adjusted young people - living out some kind of dreamy suburban lifestyle - and then I realise that within the space of a few years, things were about to be turned upside down, because of me. On the last page is a photo of me, as a six year old, sitting on a carousel with my mother - and I can't help but realise that in a year or so from then, I'm going to come home with bruises. Then missing teeth. Then broken bones. Sandy and Julian's little boy is going to be sent away, and is going to be decimated by the people he encounters - and they are, for better or worse, going to have to pick up the pieces. I hate myself for having put them through that - even though, logically, it wasn't my fault - I hate myself for not being stronger. I was never a strong kid - I was weak, and I used to cry a lot, and I was absolutely terrified of leaving my house. I'd never stay with anyone - I always had to be on my own, at home. And as the years dragged on, and things became worse and worse, I needed it more and more.

There's a look that a mother gives a child which has the power to tear your soul to pieces. It's the tear-filled look she gives you, when you come home with another broken bone, or another slice, or stab, or bruise - and you have to explain to her exactly what happened, yet you can't explain why. The confusion and hurt in her eyes is something you never forget - and the guilt you feel at making her go through that is something that is incredibly hard to shake. How do you tell someone who unconditionally loves you that during the day, someone pushed you down a flight of stairs and spat on you for no conceiveable reason? You can't. There are words you string together to illustrate the situation - but there's no way you can really tell her. But, somehow, she seems to know anyway - and that's what is making her so sad.

And Dad? What father wants to think of his son as a weakling? You could write forever about the relationships between fathers and sons and never move even a millimetre closer to finding the truth - yet, I do know this: It must be impossible to see your little boy's shattered fingers, or bloody mouth - and not wish, just a little, that he was a little more male, and was able to do something. Where's the dignity in a fist to the face without any reason? There is none. And so, I feel awfully guilty that I had to put my father through that - that he had to go to work wondering if I was going to come home safe that night, and wishing just a little, even if he'd never admit it, that I was a little better at self-defense.

But, time marches on. I'm 27 years old, now - and that little boy is dead. But, a few weeks ago - I saw that look again. I was sitting on the couch and talking to my mother about how I'm scared because I don't know what I'm going to do, and I don't know how to survive, and I don't know where my life is headed, and I'm ashamed of the fact that I still live with them, and I'm just so damn scared of what I've become and where I'm going - and she gave me that look. A bloated-eye glance, heavy with tears, which says that she feels empty, and sick, and sorrowful at what is happening to her little boy.

But, I'll be okay. Because, I have to be okay. I don't have the luxury of losing my marbles anymore - and there is no psychotherapy on earth that can fix what is wrong. I just have to listen to Kathryn, and Ellen, and all the rest - and do what I have to do.

And, why? Because I don't know what's coming around the corner that will wipe the smiles from their faces. I just know that I don't want it to be me again.

Posted by David at July 8, 2005 02:41 AM | TrackBack