BOOTLICKER

Might've been in the paper, maybe on TV.

2008-12-24

There he is again. He always balances himself on top of two chairs while trying to reach the top of it all, I’ve given up trying to hold a ladder for him - he says the way the chairs rock allows him to reach the unsoldered wires better inside.

He’s utterly, utterly insane. From the corner of the backyard blares Split Enz on Friday Party Mix, he’ll sing along absent mindedly for an hour or so, sometimes erupting into fits of swearing and jumping around the yard - first his hands, burnt, then his feet, speared by prickles. I think I’ve only ever seen him wear shoes for that job interview. Where was that again? All I remember is him leaving the house, actually wearing shoes.

This is my Friday night entertainment and perhaps the only exercise I really get.

“Spanner.”

“Which one?”

“Don’t care.”

“What?”

“Using it to prop something up inside here.”

“Oh, okay - here’s -”

“No wait. Wait. No - don’t.. don’t worry..”

The grass has all died in the shadow it leaves, its been here for maybe half a year now - I remember the masses of paper he consumed in the months preceeding his purchase of the beast, the reams of scribbles. I remember this one page that had been scrunched and left in my bin. I’m not sure what he’d been doing in my room, and when I looked up from the unintelligible note on my desk, through my window, with my blinds and curtains drawn, I saw he had drawn all over back fence with my felt-tip marker. In fact I remember it lying there in the dirt, completely worn down to the stub.

He’s stepping down now. This means he’s done for now.

The copper tracks running down his face stretch when he smiles to himself. I can’t look at his face when he changes on these Friday afternoons, its like I’m living with the devil, those glowing red eyes.