everything in the sky

Me: “So he’s taking her to this cabin up in the mountains for his birthday.”
Dad: “Geeeez. Tell him to take lots of red wine and drugs with him.”
Me: “I think that’s the plan, yeah. But listen, K - she’s a vegetarian.”
Dad: “Oh man.”
Me: “Yeah.”
Dad: “Tell him it’s all going to be yoghurt and beans from now on.”
Me: “Yeah.”
Dad: “Just yoghurt and beans. How’s she going to cook for him when they’re at the cabin with the red wine and drugs?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Dad: “Geez. But hey, listen, Ryan.”
Me: “Yeah, K?”
Dad: “Tell me: is she white?”

Dad: “So you have a girlfriend now?”
Brother: “Yes.”
D: “Listen, Daniel: have you kissed her?”
B: “Yes, K, I’ve kissed her.”
D: “You must kiss them. Hey? That’s the point.”
B: “Yes, K.”
D: “I don’t think they can say no if you’re their boyfriend.”
B: “Yes, K.”
D: “And she’s American?”
B: “Yeah.”
D: “Oh geez, it’s all over.” 

More than anything, I think, my dad likes telling stories. He loves sitting around a fire and expounding on some tale that he found funny or some story he found to be agree with his philosophy. His most recent story was about a group of people he’d led on an off-road motor-bike tour of part of South Africa. Specifically, this story was about a young Scotsman who was one of the participants in this tour. “You see,” my dad says, pausing to eye up his audience (my brothers and I) and take a pull from his beer. “This young Scot was a good guy, hey. He was a good rider. And he was a helluva nice guy to talk to. But while he was out riding with us on this trip he ended up bruising his testicles on his bike.” At this point he makes a bit of a face and gestures vaguely in a way that would suggest a groin injury. He grins. He has a good grin, my dad. “But he’d also had it off with some boeremeisie <farm girl> along on the way, so when his testes hurt he thought he’d better go see a Doctor, just to be safe.” “So he goes to see this Doctor - a guy named Hennie. A good guy, Hennie: clean, Dutch Reformed Christian, old guy. Nice guy, but very strict. Devout. He might have a glass of the finest red wine with dinner, but that was about it.” My dad pauses here to theatrically check his empty beer, forcing the youngest of us to scramble away to get him a new one. He waits until he’s taken a pull from the new can before he continues. “So the young Scot goes to see the Doctor, and, geez, Hennie isn’t very happy about having to see a man’s balls - he’s old and he doesn’t see much of that stuff out in his rural practice - but he has to, hey, so has a look at them and listens to the young man’s tale of this young girl, but he comes to the conclusion that this man has just bruised his testicles riding his motorbike and he tells him as much.” “So the young Scot thanks him and is pulling up his pants, and Hennie still can’t quite believe this tale of motorbikes and debauchery, when the Scot stops and says to him, ‘Hey Doc - could you have a look at my cock quick?’” “So Hennie is still a bit aghast but turns back and says okay. The young Scot pulls out his penis and Hennie has a look. Everything seems fine, so he looks up and says to the Scot: ‘So… what’s the problem here?’” “And the young Scot grins at old Hennie and says to him: ‘Oh, nothing’s wrong, Doc - but it’s a beauty, ain’t it?’” And my dad laughs long and loud.

His newest game is to hide pornography where he knows I’ll find it.
It started, I think, when I accidentally unearthed one of his hidden caches. My surprise and indignation were foolishly vocalised, I realise in retrospect. I should have known he’d simply smile, his eyes twinkling, and formulate some new game to play.
So now I find unexpected pornography wherever I turn - in my clothing drawers, under my pillow, under the toilet lid.
“What?” he says when I protest. “Don’t you like naked girls?”
He laughs.
Now, like a man living in snake country, I check my boots before I put them on.
Unexploded nudity waits in every nook and cranny.
Nests of vaginas, a trap for the unwary.
Front Toward Enemy.

My dad has never been a fan of Michael Jackson. He is, was and always will be a Stones / Dylan man.
But when the first of my younger brothers was born and my mom chose the first name ‘Michael’, my father fought tooth and nail to have him named Michael Jackson Bateman.
He didn’t succeed fully - my younger brother escaped with simply Michael Jack Bateman.
Thank you for that and thank you for the music, MJ.