Home Life
As the days last sunlight slowly faded and a distinctly autumn crispness took to the air, Sam huffed his way through the front door of his home. His breathing was heavy and his forehead damp. Whenever people asked him about his lack of a drivers licence he would try to squash the embarrassment that rose in him by staunchly insisting that he was doing his bit for the environment. His heaving lungs and aching legs, however, couldn’t care less who he was doing his bit for. After a few weeks they still hadn’t adjusted to the 25-minute bike ride that their owner had decided was a better option than the unreliable local bus service.
Heading straight for his room, he threw himself face first into the pillows, his first goal being to allow his slim enough, but junk food addled, rarely exercised body to recuperate from it’s planet-saving journey. He rolled onto his back, taking in the room that was his version of the Fortress of Solitude. The walls were green, a bold shade of it he had selected at age twelve during the mini-renovation of ’98. The desk was small, the laptop computer on it decent, the headphones plugged into this one week of a part-time job’s wages. The floor to ceiling CD tower was almost full. The large bookcase crammed but organised- magazines at the bottom, large piles collected over many years, mostly music related with a smattering of film and miscellaneous, two shelves of graphic novels bookended by a couple of guides on illustration, and two shelves of books, big on cult hits and series that became films, light on classics and sophistication.
Having recovered enough to remove the leaden feeling from his still very much unimpressed legs, Sam threw off his work pants and red Bargain Barn polo, grabbed his favourite pair of ancient jeans from the floor and pulled a Radiohead tee from a hanger in the wardrobe. Making his way to the kitchen, he was barely in sight before his mother started.
‘Sam! There you are. Where have you been? I was getting worried. You know I think that bicycle isn’t safe, the way some of these people drive. I didn’t hear you come in. Is everything all right?’
Julie was a highly energetic woman, and her three times a week treadmill and yoga sessions, glowing skin and short, spiky hairdo with purple highlights took a decade, maybe more, off her appearance. She was always happy to see her children, always overly concerned about their safety despite the fact that they were adults, and was prone to lamenting the lack of time that they spent ‘bonding’ with her.
‘Yes, everything’s fine. I went to get changed.’
‘Well’, Julie said as she gave her son an affectionate hug ‘don’t be going straight to your room now and turning on that music of yours, dinner’s nearly ready.’
‘Ok, I’ll be in the lounge.’
‘Please say hello to your brother!’
Sam made sure her back was turned before rolling his eyes. He entered the cluttered lounge room, dominated by the 50-inch plasma television that was his father’s pride and joy.
‘Corey.’
‘Hey.’
Corey didn’t raise his head off the arm of the sofa to acknowledge Sam in spite of the mumbled greeting, and did not tear his eyes away from the TV screen. On MTV, somebody with gold teeth and an oversized baseball cap was rapping about bitches or limos or guns or a combination of the three. Sam flopped into the adjacent sofa, making no attempt at any further small talk with his younger brother. Corey was nineteen and an apprentice bricklayer. He had a build befitting his physical job and the genes for handsomeness that Sam didn’t quite get. He had a large group of friends that regularly came over on Saturday nights. They were all the type of boys Sam disliked simply because they did the things most nineteen year old boys do. Sometimes when Sam was up late, having a DVD marathon or surfing the net, he would hear Corey creeping into his bedroom, trying unsuccessfully to hide the girl he had just picked up; the kind of girls who always gave themselves away by getting an attack of the alcopop induced giggles. Put simply, they were different people who were now finding it increasingly difficult to even have a conversation. Mercifully, Sam was saved from the hideous music on the television and his brother’s complete ignorance of him by their mother, who announced after a few minutes that she had dinner ready on the dining table.
The two shuffled into the adjoining room and took their seats. Their father, Peter, was already seated. His arms were crossed and he was looking at his sons expectantly, as if they had just displayed a criminal level of tardiness.
‘Hello, Sam,’ he said as he reached for the dish of mashed potatoes.
‘Hey, dad.’
‘Good day?’
‘Um, yeah. Ok, I guess.’
Peter gave his son a stiff nod before busying himself with buttering his slice of bread. Sam did not at all take offence to his father’s lack of interest in the details of his work day. It was definitely not the most exciting of subjects, especially to his father. Peter had spent most of his adult life working in the same auto parts factory, despite possessing an intelligence and even creativity that could have seen him do something much more personally rewarding. When Sam was a child, it had been Peter who had most often helped him with his homework, and Sam now sometimes passed along books he thought his father might find enjoyable. Sometimes, they would even discuss them over a beer, one of the few occasions that Sam would drink. Peter also had a smart, yet still classically Australian larrikin sense of humour, and would also spend hours on the weekend in his workshop shed. While most men his age would likely be enamoured with power tools and DIY carpentry, Peter spent his time in the shed making small, impeccably crafted glass ornaments. It was something he had taught himself and taken up as hobby many years ago, and now he would sell the unique and gorgeous creations in small batches at the local craft market as well as giving them to family members as gifts. A good-hearted family man, he did not have to intimidate his children to command respect, he had earned it with hard work and sacrifice. He knew that a man was not defined by his job, as he was an example of this, and so did not make Sam feel belittled or inferior.
‘And you, Corey, how was work?’ Julie asked she handed Sam the carrots.
‘Same as always, mum.’ With no desire to elaborate, Corey popped a large piece of meatloaf in his mouth and began chewing.
‘Well, I’m glad you boys are so eager to make conversation’, she said, though it was light and teasing. The family then focussed on their dinner, with occasional updates from Julie about her fairly new job working part-time at the beauty salon, gossip she had received from friends at the gym, and her and Peter’s plans for the weekend.
‘What are you boys getting up to on the weekend?’ she asked, turning to Sam first.
‘I’m going to ring Mitch, see if he wants to do anything. If not I might go to Rachel and Luke’s for a while.’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea, she was just saying on the phone that she hasn’t seen you in a while. Either of you, you really should go too, Corey.’
Corey gave his mother a look like this was the most insane thing he’d ever heard.
‘I’ll be busy, mum.’
‘You shouldn’t be too busy to never visit your own sister.’
At twenty-five, Rachel was the oldest child and unashamedly Sam’s favourite sibling. She had moved out of the family home six months previously to live in an inner city loft flat with her fiancé Luke. He had been with Rachel since they were both 18, and had become like an older brother to Sam. He was an architect, who restored vintage guitars and played in a band. Rachel was co-owner of a boutique clothing store and also did volunteer work for the homeless. To Sam, they were like idols. They had amazing jobs, a great flat, a crowd of hip artist friends, and on top of all that were blissfully happy together and genuinely good people.
‘Well, I just said I might mum, I might be hanging out with Mitch.’
Julie was not about to give up on arranging a visit between her children so easily.
‘Don’t you think you see Mitch enough? Even though he has stopped practically living here, which is good, you still seem to spend an awful lot of time with him.’
‘Well, he’s pretty much my only friend mum, I don’t have anyone else to hang out with.’
‘I doubt that’s true.’
‘Actually, it is.’
‘Let the boy be, Julie,’ Peter interjected. ‘It’s perfectly fine if he only has one good mate, better one good one than a hundred replaceable ones, I say.’
‘Thank you, dad.’ Sam was grateful for his dad getting his mother off his case. His lack of friends was another of his insecurities.
Corey set down his cutlery noisily and got up, roughly pushing his chair aside.
‘I’m done.’ And with that he was out the patio door in a hurry, most likely to hop into his newly acquired car; a second hand but in respectable condition black Holden Commodore, and speed off to a mate’s place for pre-clubbing drinks or whatever these kids did on a Friday night. Sam shook his head.
‘Would you like any help with the dishes, mum?’
‘No, darling, I can manage, thank you.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll be in my room. Dinner was great mum.’
‘Oh, Sam!’ Julie called as he was halfway down the corridor that led to his bedroom. ‘I fed Buffy earlier, she’s probably parked herself on your bed.’
‘Thanks, mum.’
