I was thinking today would be the day to write fiction. No Shane home recovering from whatever drug he did on the weekend and no Sam sick.
First up I was out of coffee, so I headed to the supermarket.
I read 9msn and then about Doc B’s pictorial history of the AIDS epidemic and all the famous people who had died of AIDS, from Ricky Wilson the guitarist from the B52s to the barmaid from Gunsmoke Amanda Blake. I read about the gay kid who got bullied into committing suicide in the states recently, Jamey Rodemeyer and actor Zachary Quinto coming out as gay because of the effect it had on him.
I listened to Chopin’s piano concertos on YouTube.
I decide I need to do something, I can’t just sit around on my arse thinking everything will be alright. I cleaned up the top room. I threw out all of David’s stuff. The next door neighbours up the lane yet again left their bins out, yet again. And I had rubbish. What is a boy to do? So, I filled them with David’s crap. Pay it forward, I thought.
I cleaned up the garden. Weeded, swept, tried to make it look tidy, like Mark so effortlessly seems to be able to do.
I put all the rest of the rubbish in the car ready for a midnight dump at The Brotherhood.
I chatted to Sam, during the day, as I do. We chat all day by various means of communication; phone, email, instant messaging, Facebook.
I sat back and drank tea, at the end of my physical work for the day.
I can’t wait to tell Shane that the top room is going to be Mark and Luke’s after Aby has used it. It will freak him out. I know I’m a bitch, I guess, you should too. But, Shane has no qualms/inkling thought beyond himself when he denigrates Mark and Luke. What does he really think I’m going to think when he does that? Is it stupidity or myopathy?
It is probably a sign that we shouldn’t be living together any longer.
I thought I should try to be nice when he got home, you know, be newsy, tell him what is going on in the world, so I told him about Doc B dying.
“Oh really, he wasn’t that old. How did he die?”
“An AIDS related illness.”
“What? People don’t die of that any more.”
“Oh, I think they do.”
“I’ve been reading Doc B’s writing, he said that the second generation antivirals haven’t lived up to expectations and he was pessimistic about a cure.
“Oh, I don’t think anybody is talking about a cure,” said Shane. “It’s funny, maybe ignorance increases your chances of survival?”
He went to lie down, after that. “I’m tired, I need to lie down, before I work out what I’m doing with the rest of the day.” And I felt that maybe I’d been a little insensitive. Maybe that was a little harsh, considering Shane’s HIV status.
Sure, I could go to Bunnings tomorrow, but I might as well go tonight, when I’d only be lounging in front of the TV, then maybe I’d have a clear go at doing something tomorrow. Maybe?
So, I went to Bunnings in Coburg and bought a whole lot of things that I needed; weed poison, creeper poison, hoses, pruning saws, silicon for the leaking windows. I dropped into see Sam, but he hadn’t had dinner yet and his house mate was busy behind the cooker preparing it, so I didn’t stay long. Kiss kiss, bye bye.
I’m going to fix all the things that need to be done. I’m going to replace the cord in the blinds in the spare room, how hard can it be? I’m going to finally silicone up the leaking roof. And I’m going to poison the bloody creeper that is continually growing over from next door. I’ve told my neighbour that she needs to get rid of it twice, both times she has ignored me. So, now I’m going to fix it. I’m going to poison the blood oxalis. I’m thinking I’m going to replace the broken tiles in the kitchen as well. How hard can that be?
I dropped off the rubbish at The Brotherhood on the way home. There was another woman there, who’d pulled up in a VW Transporter, at the same time as me, who carried armfuls of stuff from her car to the dumping spot, just as I did.
“It’s good to get rid of your junk, isn’t it,” she said.
When I got home, Shane was still in his room. The house was quiet. One lamp light was on in the lounge. I made myself tea and it was 8.30 and The Slap was about to start. It was lovely, having the house to myself. I lay on the couch in the minimal lamp light and enjoyed the show.
Halfway through I heard Shane’s footsteps on the stairs and then he was in the kitchen with some guy named Scott, or Tony, or whoever. A desperate attempt at a boyfriend, no doubt. He’ll settle for anyone, I think. Is this the guy from the weekend? His substitute for loneliness. Is this the dinner date from last night? Then they sat on the other couch and started to chit chat.
Really? I thought. Go to your room if you want to talk. But, lets’ face it, Shane has never been that self aware.
Then they started asking questions. To fill in the gaps from the beginning which they missed.
“Who is it about this week?” asks Shane.
“Um, Harry.” Don’t start with the questions, please.
“Who it that?”
“Harry’s girlfriend.” I’m trying to listen to this.
“But he has a wife.”
“Yes, he has a wife.” Will this ever stop?
“So, that’s not her?”
“No.” I wanted to scream it. I’m sorry if you missed the first half.
“What’s his wife’s name.”
“Oh… um… I can’t remember.” Do you ever think about anybody else!
“It’s Aisha, isn’t it?” chimes in Scott/Tony/Whoever.”
“No, Aisha is Hector’s wife.” OMG!
“Hector is the one who slapped the kid?”
“No, that is Harry.”
“Hector is Harry’s cousin.”
SHUT UP! SHUT UP! You fuckers! Stop talking. Go away. And yes, Doc B died of AIDS!
Finally, the questions stopped. I stopped answering.
“So how did you get to be in it?” asks Scott.
That is the self focussed factor here. He’s not watching the show for the entertainment value, he is watching it because it is all about him, because he happened to be in it for a microsecond one episode. As an extra, blink and you missed it.
Oh! Sheesh!
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