Kalamazoo
March 24th 2008 19:08
Humans love making decisions. And then doing nothing about them?
Dad and mum were humans. Just. They made a decision to leave Whyalla. And finally left. Four years later.
Dad finished his electrician’s apprenticeship with Stanley at Stanley’s Electrical. Whyalla people come up with the most creative shop names.
If I hadn’t become a serial killer, I’d have made a great copy writer and graphic designer. Coming up with amazingly creative names and logos for Electrical shops. I’d have advised Stanley to call his shop Shock Treatment. And had a logo of a person getting zapped. Electrocuted to death.
Having learnt creativity from Stanley, dad called his electrical shop, Leon’s Electrical.
But I’m skipping ahead a bit. I’ll just go back.
So dad and mum finally left Whyalla. With me. Infant Kevin, 4 years, NFPA (no fixed place of abode). In dad’s precious car. The one you had to shut the doors slowly but firmly, because door rubbers wear out if you slam a car door. His 1971 Ford Falcon XY GT. Broom, broom.
So off we went. Anally-retentive dad, psychotic mum, and me. Mum’s prescription pills, dad’s perpetual frown, and my smile.
Dad decided to move to a place called Cummins. About 90 miles away from Whyalla. Far enough away for dad and mum to have an excuse not to visit their parents.
Cummins is one of those ‘blink and you miss it as you’re driving through’ towns. And that’s where dad set up Leon’s Electrical. In the main street.
Cummins is famous for it’s annual kalamazoo racing carnival. It’s more famous because I started my killing spree there. Well I’m famous, and Cummins has a certain notoriety through fame by association. With me.
Cummins has a rubbish dump. Well, it has a few, but I won’t go into how some people live. The main rubbish dump is on the north edge of town. The outskirts. You access it by getting off the main highway and taking this bumpy, lumpy, jumpy limestone and gravel and dirt side road. And it’s dusty as buggery in summer time.
If you go past the dump a bit, there’s a property on a few acres (or hectares) of land. There’s an iron dropper hammered into the ground just by the driveway and sheep ramp. It’s got a sign wired to it: Lot 312.
That’s where dad and mum decided to live for the next 13 years. That was our address: Lot 312.
The day we first arrived, dad’s precious car was splattered with insects and covered in dust. He wasn’t too impressed with God’s dirt or His insects. And told Him so. And it was as hot as buggery. He wasn’t too impressed with God’s weather either.
Mum looked like an overblown, soggy hankie that had been scrunched up into a ball by someone with a runny nose. Or a deflated blow-up doll that had fallen into a swimming pool, then dragged out and chucked on dad’s front passenger seat.
She must have forgotten to ask the doctor for a prescription for dehydration pills. Or maybe he was too tired to write another prescription out. And has RSI of the hand?
Dad looked like a sweaty bull in mating season after servicing the whole herd. A sweaty bull behind the steering wheel. Moo! Dad always looked like a bull. He was a bull of a man. A bully. And a brute of a man. He was like Tom Buchanan in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsy – “…a man with a body capable of great leverage.” He never had to hit anyone. His mere bullish presence was enough to put the fear of being buggered by a bull into you.
Imagine giving birth to a half-cow, half-human. Imagine how much it would get teased at school. More than I did?
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