Bye Son


It was late when he phoned. I don’t know, but his voice sounded kind of strange – sort of choked up. You know, like he had been crying, or was about to…. It was late, and I didn’t really feel like talking, even if he did sound as though he needed someone.
He spoke about silly things, the weather, and his old rust-bucket that somehow manages to keep him mobile. His pathetically small garden.
(Why did he want to keep me awake with this trivia)? It was difficult to stifle my yawns. I’d had a lousy day anyway! Started with a hangover. Who doesn’t these days? Dreamed I pissed the bed – and almost did – (must cut down on the superfluous liquids).
What was that he had just said? I had to apologise and say that the phone had gone a bit funny, and could he repeat it.
Something about money problems. (As usual he wasn’t being very articulate). Neither was my mind, come to think of it. I wasn’t drunk, just bloody tired; I had been working that evening, and it had been lousy, I had got of couple of orders wrong (I’m a chef), also cut my thumb pretty badly.
Naturally I told him all about my very hard time at the restaurant, had to try and get him off his trivial problems, didn’t I!
He was still droning on about something. – I couldn’t make the same excuse again. – ‘Sorry’. I told him and then he suddenly started berating me. I couldn’t believe what was being said. After all, I was doing my best to stay awake for him.

© Peter Ryan 20/11/1997

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