Musical Inspiration

Make it Rain – Ed Sheeran

Styrofoam Plates – Death Cab for Cutie

May, 2001

The southerly breeze cooled the winter August air to a balmy twenty-five degrees Celsius.  A well-used pickup skidded to a stop on the gravel road, outside the dirt drive leading a quarter mile to a small home and barn.  The driver reached over the passenger, and pushed the door open before waking the man up, “Home, get the hell out Steve.  I gotta get home, cobber.”  The passenger snorted awake, rubbing his bleary eyes before crawling out of the truck.

As he staggered down the dirt drive, he paused finally before the short steps leading up to the screened in wraparound porch.  The new white paint of the steps glowed in the light of the full moon.  He stood there, as if something tickled at his alcohol infused memory.  Glancing at his watch, it took a few moments for his blurred vision to register that it was way past midnight.

In some sort of drunken parody of comedy, he swung his foot off the step, and slouched towards the barn, drunken reasoning assuming he could pass off the fact that he had just gotten up early in the morning and been working on fixing something instead of not having gone to bed at all.  Like all alcoholics, he didn’t realize that he was fooling no one but himself.  He was closing the barn door before he even realized that the dangling lights above the “gym” at the far end were on and the rapid shots of fists hitting one of the heavy bags filtered through.

“I’ll be back up in a few minutes, mum, just go on back to bed,” came a tired voice from around the corner.    The man froze at the door as it squeaked shut.   After a few seconds, the thuds from the boxing bag ceased, and the voice called out again, “Mum, is that you?”  Steve froze as a lithe, sandy haired teenager walked around the corner, hands wrapped in tape, and wearing sweats, but bare-chested and barefoot.

“Oh, it’s you,” sneered the teenager.  “Decided to bloody well fucking come home finally, huh? I guess it’s only been two fucking days.  Come out to pass out in the hay again, huh, Stevie?” continued the young man before turning his back and heading back around the corner.

The older man, angered, stalked, or maybe staggered after him.  “Don’t you talk that way to me,” Steve said, slurring.  The teenager ignored him, stepping up to one of the punching bags.  “Listen to me when I talk to you, Brett” he shouted as he grabbed the teenager by the shoulder to turn him around.  A moment later, the older man was laying on the mat, sucking in to gather breath into his stunned lungs, before rolling over and vomiting.

“Don’t touch me, DAD,” yelled the teenager, eyes blazing.  But then he calmed, looking at the pathetic view of his drunken, vomit stained father.  “That was one of the first moves you ever taught me,” he muttered in a much quieter voice.  “I shouldn’t be surprised though, that an obvious counter would take you by surprise.  It’s not like you have done anything but bevie yourself into oblivion in forever.  I guess I should be used to it by now.”

Brett squatted on his heels, next to the older man who had crawled up onto his hands and knees.  “Do you even know what day it is?”  Looking at the old alarm clock on a stand, “Or I should say what yesterday was?  I fucking doubt it, but you know, he waited up most of the night, hoping you’d be back.  Bridge ‘n’ I knew it was a bloody lost hope, I’m sure mum did too.  What she ever fucking saw in you….oh, who the root cares anymore.”  He swiped angrily at his eyes as he stood back up.

The teenager walked with slumped shoulders over the work bench that held a variety of martial arts implements.  “I was going to have you sign it the day before yesterday, since the papers came in the post.  But you obviously couldn’t hold a fucking pen let alone sign your name or know what the root you were signing.  I will just have Mum do it instead.”

He looked back to see his dad lying in his own vomit, and with tears in his eyes, “Don’t worry, I’ll be gone before you’re up in the morning.”  As he turned back around to go out the barn door, anger once again in his voice, he yelled back at him, “Not that you will remember this in the morning either, but it was Brantley’s birthday yesterday.”