Welcome To My World, Stranger
Jack
I unlatch my door and quietly step out into the hallway; downstairs I can hear the TV blaring out footy scores.
So far, Brisbane Lions are winning against Port Adelaide, Fremantle are thrashing Carlton, and Sydney Swans are drawn with the Kangeroos.
I creep downstairs into the kitchen and open the pantry door; there’s the Cornflake box, sitting there silently.
I have to say, Chas is really good at hiding. And keeping quiet.
But I’m not.
I open the box, grope around, and grasp a fist-full of air, which is of course: poor Chas.
I must’ve looked pretty darn stupid, what with my torso half in the pantry, one of my arms in a half-empty Cornflake box, and my right leg raised ballerina-like in the air.
Just as I’m pulling Chas out of the box, I feel someone prod me in the back; in my surprise, I jump and hit my head on the shelf above me, causing a ripped bag of flour to spill all over my back.
“You ‘k Chris?” A gruff voice asks.
I back out of the pantry, place Chas on the kitchen table and brush myself off, watching the flour as it falls onto the lino floor.
“Um… Yeah.” I say, looking up at Jack breifly.
He is still in his work uniform.
Jack is a security guard who works irregular shifts during the night.
I’m not exactly sure where he works, but I think it’s at a club or something. He must be having a night off…
Jack scratches his thinning mop of ginger hair and puts his bottle of booze onto the table. I gasp; he nearly squished Chas!
“Um, Christopher, I’ve been a bit… Well, I haven’t really been a good father.”
I narrow my eyes and replay that sentence in my head over.
‘I haven’t been a good father, I haven’t been a good father, I haven’t –’
“Christopher?”
I shake my head and refocus my vision on to Jack. He’s standing next to the fridge, now, his mouth slightly agape and his head cocked to the side.
This seriously can’t be real; I pinch myself, just incase.
He looks at me with a puzzled expression on his face.
Great, he too probably thinks I’m crazy, now.
Jack clears his throat and shuffles his feet, “Um, let’s say, Chris… D’you want to er… come with me to the movies or somewhere tomorrow?”
I consider this. And come up with these possibilities:
1. Jack is just wanting to get me into his car so he can take me away someplace nasty and kill me off, or
2. He wants to take me to a horror film so I’m mentally scarred for life, or
3. He’s gone completely crazy, or
4. I’ve gone completely crazy and I’ve run away with my imagination, or
5. He means it.
I must’ve been out of my mind when I did this:
I walk up to Jack, peer into his face and poke him, hard.
“Ow!” He says, colliding with the fridge door, “What’cha do that for?”
“Are you… on drugs?”
So far, Brisbane Lions are winning against Port Adelaide, Fremantle are thrashing Carlton, and Sydney Swans are drawn with the Kangeroos.
I creep downstairs into the kitchen and open the pantry door; there’s the Cornflake box, sitting there silently.
I have to say, Chas is really good at hiding. And keeping quiet.
But I’m not.
I open the box, grope around, and grasp a fist-full of air, which is of course: poor Chas.
I must’ve looked pretty darn stupid, what with my torso half in the pantry, one of my arms in a half-empty Cornflake box, and my right leg raised ballerina-like in the air.
Just as I’m pulling Chas out of the box, I feel someone prod me in the back; in my surprise, I jump and hit my head on the shelf above me, causing a ripped bag of flour to spill all over my back.
“You ‘k Chris?” A gruff voice asks.
I back out of the pantry, place Chas on the kitchen table and brush myself off, watching the flour as it falls onto the lino floor.
“Um… Yeah.” I say, looking up at Jack breifly.
He is still in his work uniform.
Jack is a security guard who works irregular shifts during the night.
I’m not exactly sure where he works, but I think it’s at a club or something. He must be having a night off…
Jack scratches his thinning mop of ginger hair and puts his bottle of booze onto the table. I gasp; he nearly squished Chas!
“Um, Christopher, I’ve been a bit… Well, I haven’t really been a good father.”
I narrow my eyes and replay that sentence in my head over.
‘I haven’t been a good father, I haven’t been a good father, I haven’t –’
“Christopher?”
I shake my head and refocus my vision on to Jack. He’s standing next to the fridge, now, his mouth slightly agape and his head cocked to the side.
This seriously can’t be real; I pinch myself, just incase.
He looks at me with a puzzled expression on his face.
Great, he too probably thinks I’m crazy, now.
Jack clears his throat and shuffles his feet, “Um, let’s say, Chris… D’you want to er… come with me to the movies or somewhere tomorrow?”
I consider this. And come up with these possibilities:
1. Jack is just wanting to get me into his car so he can take me away someplace nasty and kill me off, or
2. He wants to take me to a horror film so I’m mentally scarred for life, or
3. He’s gone completely crazy, or
4. I’ve gone completely crazy and I’ve run away with my imagination, or
5. He means it.
I must’ve been out of my mind when I did this:
I walk up to Jack, peer into his face and poke him, hard.
“Ow!” He says, colliding with the fridge door, “What’cha do that for?”
“Are you… on drugs?”