Digital Ischemia

01/02/2019

Father Episodes

Filed under: Shorts — Tags: , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 15:00

The perils of parental cohabitation: vignettes of eccentricity

Ten years ago, my father arrived for a few months. He stayed five years. He found the place comfortable? Oh no, it was “tolerable”.

——

My concern was always aroused on returning home to find my father sitting in the hall. More so if both front and back doors were fully open allowing a

30mph wind to flow unimpeded through the house, and windows ditto. He was inevitably monitoring some disaster recovery operation / resting during a more active course of same / awaiting my return to explain some destruction / awaiting same to register his dissatisfaction with my substandard domestic furnishings or appliances.

If he was sitting in the hall with the doors closed, he was awaiting the postman.

As soon as I reached the threshold, he would pronounce a well rehearsed summary.

“A blue smoke episode!” This coinage described the regular occurrence where he had commenced frying a slab of meat, become bored with waiting, wandered off, and returned to heavy smog and charcoal. This was attributed to my hob being “peculiar”.

A frequent alternate was: “your washing machine has added a tissue to my laundry, shredded it and deposited it evenly throughout the load. Consequently, in carrying the finished load through to my room, I have scattered a fine layer of bits of tissue along the full length of the hall. I have been picking them up for twenty minutes now. I’m exhausted.”

——

One time I had spent a good hour shovelling snow to clear the drive. I found kneeling more comfortable for my back as it meant less bending and lifting. When I re-entered the house after this practical but style-unconscious exercise, Father was in position in the hall, having well mulled his commentary in anticipation.

“Bad genes. … Your mother’s.” Chuckle. Exit.

Notwithstanding that pragmatism coupled with utter disregard for appearance was closer to his mode and the antithesis of other parent, the highlight was the midway pivot as he realised that the mulling had failed to anticipate the elephant trap.

——

On my return from work I was greeted by the old boy standing in the doorway with the bottom half of his trousers sopping wet.

“The showerhead got away from me.”

What he was doing in the cubicle fully clothed was never explained. (It wasn’t cleaning; such meniality was outwith his purview. In any case, his shower wasn’t dirty. The “black bits” arrived in the water, just as the layer of grey dust that rapidly accumulated on his piles of everything derived from lorries and came in through the windows. The fact that these symptoms were not expressed anywhere else in the house was ignored. More of windows anon.)

——

Early one summer morning I noticed a shimmering on the kitchen counter at Father’s end. My kitchen had been combined with a utility room by replacing the dividing wall with a ‘breakfast bar’. This allowed dual use and served as a convenient demarcation between zones: mine being relatively clean and organised; his being a total clutter of packets and jars and spills. The most frequently used were at the front ranging back to those entirely forgotten, pressed against the wall. The cupboards were already stuffed full of unused crockery and groceries he had brought with him and also forgotten about. I usually avoided looking at that end because I felt like the walls were coming in at me.

On this occasion the counter surface was moving. Among the sticky jam jars, stained cutlery, spilled sugar, splashed juice, biscuit crumbs and residual chocolate powder were ants. I peered in.

The ants were fascinating. They were actively surveying and collecting crumbs and sugar granules. Once loaded, each set off along the counter over the cupboards, around the wall, in front of the sink, under Father’s fridge, diagonally down the bin cupboard door and into the skirting by the back door. This was a well established highway in both directions, connecting somewhere beyond the door to some hidden metropolis under the slabs.

ants on kitchen counter

I felt a curious mixture of concern and elation. I was fascinated and revolted. I carefully checked my end and with relief found it all clear. Amusement recommenced. Before leaving for work I wrote Father a short warning note. I imagined him stumbling in for breakfast, his bleary eyes failing to detect small legs and antennae until they were well up his spoon arm.

Sadly there followed a chemical genocide as we were past the point of tools of dissuasion. The pied piper himself became weary of crushing them individually with a paper towel as they encroached, following their irresistible urge to climb the sugar vapour gradient. Plus I had spotted one or two intrepid explorers in the vicinity of my cupboards. Unacceptable. Still, I’m impressed by their foraging capability.

——

“The bathroom light shade has disintegrated.”

This seemed unlikely. It had been recently installed by an electrician to replace two spotlight fittings which were restricted to 60 watts each, and thus apparently insufficient for Father’s shaving activity.

The electrician had been introduced because the fusebox had blown, and continued to blow despite being reset. The fuse culprit was traced to … the lights circuit. Father had ignored the warning sticker and pushed in two 100 watt bulbs. Being incandescent, the fittings had quickly overheated, the wires in the ceiling had melted into each other, and we were lucky the loft hadn’t caught ‘light’.

I think he was after a theatre dressing room style mirror, framed by two dozen 40 watt bulbs. He made similar demands of his adjustable reading lamp and became incensed when the weight of the galactic strength bulb caused it to constantly droop.

You can understand, then, his disappointment when this new bathroom installation provided only one diffuse 60 watt equivalent CFL bulb, further obscured by a clear glass cover. He decided to ‘upgrade forthwith’ to a 100 watt equivalent bulb. Frustratingly this new bulb was larger and prevented the glass dome from reaching its holder clips. He had carefully wrestled and shoved until it shattered over the bathroom floor. Ideal place for broken glass.

——

Things became a little less humorous with the heating. This was required to be on 24 hours per day just in case the temperature should dip below 22°C. I had turned off the radiators in my rooms as the infrared radiation from his quarters was plenty. Simultaneously, and counter-intuitively, windows fore and aft were required to be ajar to allow a gentle, fresh breeze to flow through at all times. This arrangement came to my attention early on when a repeatedly creaking door kept me awake. He was unmoved by my ‘hyperbolae’ about heating the entire neighbourhood and the remarkable 80% increase in oil consumption.

In the height of summer, during a rare heatwave, from the garden I was astonished to hear the boiler fire up. I swiftly came indoors to query with himself.

“Yes. As I usually do before my shower.” And he would not budge despite persistent argument around the fact that it was actually very warm and he would be complaining about it later, a portable heater could heat just the bathroom if that was necessary, towels could be warmed elsewhere, etc. It was a habit and not to be interfered with.

——

Father was sitting at the kitchen counter scrabbling with a plastic bag of bananas. I wondered if he was having trouble opening it. But no, he liked to keep his bananas in the bag, so they could sweat for several days in the bowl. He would then notice they were brown, complain with disgust about their lack of longevity, and throw them neatly away, still in the bag.

On this occasion it was the bag itself that was cause for concern. He looked up.

“Where do your bananas come from?”

I’m interested in the provenance of my produce, and anticipated a new nugget of ethical consideration. My bananas were loose and helpfully stickered, so I reported back immediately.

“Costa Rica.”

Still scrabbling, with increasing frustration, he explained, “avoid Colombian bananas. Laced with cocaine.”

——

As usual I reversed at full tilt into the drive, stopping just short of crushing a gutter down-pipe. This cathartically expunged my last vestiges of my office tension. I noticed with alarm that Father’s parked car was occupied and its engine running. A few seconds later and our similar reckless reversing habits could have collided. Moving swiftly on, I waved to the coated and hatted phizog in the wing mirror but zero response. He seemed to be concentrating.

After about 25 minutes I noticed his car was again sitting in the drive, chugging away. Shortly thereafter himself entered the hall, removed coat and hat, and expressed surprise that I had snuck past him.

“Entertaining trip?” I enquired, imaging perhaps he’d whistled along to the post box or other local destination that took longer by car than on foot.

“I was tuning the radio.”

——

Unfortunately the entertainment value of the episodes increasingly soured. First there were several occasions when I found the freezer door had been open all night. The compressor had been powering away to no avail. The fridge was tepid. The freezer contents were soft and damp. Father had been the last to visit the kitchen for his statutory sugar-laden ‘supper’. J’accuse!

Having found the fridge at his end of the kitchen insufficient, he had commandeered the top half of mine too, and a reasonable two-thirds of the freezer. Sometimes, when lifting things out, he fumbled the fridge door and slammed it with his elbow en pirouette. This created enough air pressure within the fridge compartment to reverse the flow of chilled air from the freezer below, and, on particularly vigorous occasions, force the freezer door open. When I pointed this out, he naturally countered with “poor design”.

There were also several instances which conclusively revealed his freezer drawer jutting out and preventing the door closing. He denied any awareness. Mind on higher things.

I became tired of trying to consume all my carefully baked and frozen cakes, assorted produce and leftovers in one day. I installed a temperature alarm. The problem didn’t recur, but Father frequently swore at the continual beeping while he stood for 20 minutes with the door wide open, restocking his provisions.

——

He perpetuated an irrational war on insect invaders. He was usually more successful with stealth tactics, picking them off individually, as with the ants. Yet they had their revenge. Swatting flies often resulted in disorder and destruction around the battlefield, and many distant expletives.

The crushing of large spiders was the greatest folly, however. He would leap out of bed late at night and fall into a crouch, poised over the skirting with a carefully funnelled paper towel to absorb the blood—rather like gravy actually—and collect the carcass.

This sudden rush of activity and change of attitude from the horizontal unfortunately upset his balance. With the spider looking on, Father slowly somersaulted backward across the carpet and came to rest against the bed, woefully disoriented. Defeat was admitted pro tem until his blood pressure and proprioception returned to operational levels.

——

One morning I was surprised to find him at breakfast before me. He was already chuckling at his prepared report.

“Upon waking, I looked at the clock, which said 8AM, so I leapt out of bed. Having been through my bathroom routine, I returned to collect my supper plate, and saw that it was in fact 6AM. I shall be ahead of myself all day!”

——

Meanwhile Father’s stock control methodology became extreme ‘just-in-case’. This was ironic at the same time that mine became conversely extreme ‘just-in-time’ to reduce wastage during Father episodes or power-cuts. As my space requirement diminished, he filled any additional available fridge space. However, like the counter tops, unused packets inevitably migrated backward and coalesced like a layer of sediment beginning its geological phase.

Sometimes prompted by my complaints of noxious drippage, sometimes just from an eery sense of losing storage capacity, Father would investigate the deeper recesses of the fridge. He would find cucumbers liquified in their plastic bags, potatoes having valiantly sprouted, withered and returned to primeval slime, cheese that was no longer hospitable to mould and had desiccated to pumice. He found these discoveries hilarious.

——

If I was not present to be regaled, and he grew tired at his post in the hall, he would pen a memo. Another of his habits, retained for its perceived professional prestige, was illegible script, even in capitals. “HALL LIGHT BUSTICATED.” Appended to this was either a small alien emoticon, his self-identified caricature, or his initials, if his timeframe had lapsed and he found himself joyously revisiting the 1950s, dictating to his secretary.

Sometimes the original message would be overlaid with a different colour of scribble to the triumphant effect that he had resolved the problem. When the second colour was the grey of one of my handy pencils, this would involve considerable scratching and scoring of the paper, culminating in a barely visible complaint about the quality of my writing instruments.

——

When snow was swirling but the lights were still on, I would work from home. This included telephone conversations with colleagues. Often, in the middle of a desperately dull discussion of business process revision to ensure the capture of… by which point my forehead was resting on the keyboard with demotivation, we would be interrupted: a click, a series of beeps, and a pause with heavy breathing as the expected dialling noises failed to sound.

Once the departure from standard operating procedure had registered—the ongoing conversation not having registered—I would loudly insert my request.

“Could you possibly wait until I’ve finished?”

“Ah. Forgot you were here. Apologies.” Click.

Luckily this never happened while I was speaking to my manager, or it would have precipitated yet another discussion on business process revision to ensure that my home working environment was conducive to…

——

How he eventually came to depart is another tale of eccentric bafflement. He continues in much the same fashion elsewhere.

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25/09/2018

Oddbodanov 17: The Town Hall, Brno

Mr Oddbodanov: The Wandering of a Little Soul begins at postcard 1
An inert protagonist modelled on Goncharov’s Oblomov sends surreal intimate postcards of unrequited attention from the Brno landmarks of Janáček’s Sinfonietta

September 25, 13:00
Most dear Ryksa-Euphorbia,
I cannot go on. I am sure you suspect by now. I never did travel to Brno. Never quite got started. We meant to go together. I suppose I hoped we might yet, even in our imaginations. Fitness in mind as well as body! You see, I too hear the festival, the same one you hear, year after year after our year, although I try to drown it out with old records. I have always been close to you, especially since old elephant-ears RIP packed his celestial trunk. Would you like to have tea? Ginger biscuits are on offer.
Yours in ever hopeful anticipation, Strachan a.k.a. Bert, No.4 Flat 2 (by the funfair)

END

24/09/2018

Oddbodanov 16: The Town Hall, Brno

Mr Oddbodanov: The Wandering of a Little Soul begins at postcard 1
An inert protagonist modelled on Goncharov’s Oblomov sends surreal intimate postcards of unrequited attention from the Brno landmarks of Janáček’s Sinfonietta

September 24
Dear Mr Oddbodanov—Dear Strachan,
How peculiar! When I read your evocative (I cannot define your ‘erocative’ but I feel we’re on firm ground with evocative) description the merest hint of a memory flashed before my eyes… Have we indeed met before or is this merely your flattery and flash deceit? The husband RIP warned about your type. Sign, phone or letter… Those words play tricks in my head.
Yours, quite possibly, if I may take the liberty, Euphoryksa(!)

…concludes at postcard 17

23/09/2018

Oddbodanov 15: The Town Hall, Brno

Mr Oddbodanov: The Wandering of a Little Soul begins at postcard 1
An inert protagonist modelled on Goncharov’s Oblomov sends surreal intimate postcards of unrequited attention from the Brno landmarks of Janáček’s Sinfonietta

September 23, 16:00
Ryksa, my inspiration, my muse,
At this town hall a concert is to be held next Thursday evening. I wonder, may I be so bold as to invite you to join me? Vividly I remember the love of Czech music we shared. But I confess my motivation is sheer selfishness: to have you with me would increase my enjoyment of such a performance twelvefold. And think what envy I should excite—gosh it’s hot in here—in my fellow audience members to have you on my arm. Do you still prefer a gin and hot chocolate with sprinkles?
Yours, always entirely yours, even while you were with another, Strachan

…continues at postcard 16

Oddbodanov 14: The Town Hall, Brno

Mr Oddbodanov: The Wandering of a Little Soul begins at postcard 1
An inert protagonist modelled on Goncharov’s Oblomov sends surreal intimate postcards of unrequited attention from the Brno landmarks of Janáček’s Sinfonietta

Rubbish pencil sketch of Stará radnice (Town Hall), Brno

September 23, 11:45
My dearest Ryksa,
At last I find cultural solace: a gallery of most arresting art works – I find particularly engaging some semi-abstract historical impressions of the city. Very evocative (EVOCATIVE – in case my scrawl appears like erocative and suggests suggestiveness) personal postcards. Which brings us to vacations! Surely you remember? The sun, the sand, the sea, the sickness and diarrhoea we shared after the unpleasant iced cream? At the last farewell you begged me, “keep in touch – sign, phone or letter!” And after all, here I am, only fifty years later!
Yours, ever constant in my adoration, Strachan

…continues at postcard 15

Oddbodanov 13: The Street Leading to the Castle

Mr Oddbodanov: The Wandering of a Little Soul begins at postcard 1
An inert protagonist modelled on Goncharov’s Oblomov sends surreal intimate postcards of unrequited attention from the Brno landmarks of Janáček’s Sinfonietta

September 23
Dear Mr Oddbodanov,
What a relief to hear you have escaped the clutches of the ‘other’ Ryksa! I did not sleep last night for the most horrid visions of you entering the crypt with no intention of exiting. I shudder yet. I imagined you prone among the bones, ossifying. There is so much to live for! I am convinced. Even though I know nothing about you. Meanwhile I have unearthed my Brno A-Z (I don’t know why I have it) and stuck pins in you! I shall track your exploits if you continue to honour me with such scintillating instalments.
Yours in curious delight, Ephy

…continues at postcard 14

22/09/2018

Oddbodanov 12: The Street Leading to the Castle

Mr Oddbodanov: The Wandering of a Little Soul begins at postcard 1
An inert protagonist modelled on Goncharov’s Oblomov sends surreal intimate postcards of unrequited attention from the Brno landmarks of Janáček’s Sinfonietta

September 22 P.M.
Dear Mr Oddbodanov,
Thank you for your latest postcards. On reflection, I see you were not in any real peril, but such drama! I admit I find these revelations increasingly captivating and eagerly anticipate your next cultural episode. I maintain that I have never made your acquaintance, but that’s no reason to be ungracious. I am however somewhat disturbed by your gravitation toward religiositiness. Any such inclinations are a non-starter as far as my esteem is concerned. However I am fond of a toffee and find myself lightly amused by your jape. It reminds me—but I have not space here for idle nostalgia.
Yours otherwise favourably, Euphorbia etc.

…continues at postcard 13

Oddbodanov 11: The Street Leading to the Castle

Mr Oddbodanov: The Wandering of a Little Soul begins at postcard 1
An inert protagonist modelled on Goncharov’s Oblomov sends surreal intimate postcards of unrequited attention from the Brno landmarks of Janáček’s Sinfonietta

Rubbish pencil sketch of Gorazdova Street, Brno

September 22, 09:30
Dearest Ryksa-Euphorbia,
Heartfelt gratitude for all your notes which have caught up with me at my lodgings in the cabbage cellar. I savour one with every meal – a word with every exquisite leaf (or vice versa)!
Between meals I bravely venture out. I loathe the busy streets. I have no chance to admire the architectural grooves and ledges or the characteristic orange roof tiles. I am bustled and birled and so often carried along contrary to my will and intended direction! How I wish you were at my side, dearest Ryksa. I should be delighted to go wherever you propelled me.
Yours lovingly from unexpected places, Strachan Scrachich

…continues at postcard 12

Oddbodanov 10: The Queen’s Monastery, Brno

Mr Oddbodanov: The Wandering of a Little Soul begins at postcard 1
An inert protagonist modelled on Goncharov’s Oblomov sends surreal intimate postcards of unrequited attention from the Brno landmarks of Janáček’s Sinfonietta

September 22
Dear S. S. Oddbodanov Esq.,
Dear man, are you all right? What a fright I had from your monastic messages!
In haste and concern, Ephy

…continues at postcard 11

21/09/2018

Oddbodanov 9: The Queen’s Monastery, Brno

Mr Oddbodanov: The Wandering of a Little Soul begins at postcard 1
An inert protagonist modelled on Goncharov’s Oblomov sends surreal intimate postcards of unrequited attention from the Brno landmarks of Janáček’s Sinfonietta

September 21, 17:20
My dearest Ryksa,
I fear I may have been mildly possessed in that place! Since I emerged, I have been walking a circle: down the path to Husova Street, along to Úvoz Street and back up Gorazdova Street. Every time I make the ascent past these custard yellow, sage green, and powder pink tenements I hear the most fearful warning rasps. Even the wind blasts against me. I must retire and rest and hopefully restore myself.
With no less affection despite my wearily abbreviated message, your Strachan

…continues at postcard 10

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