Imaginary Foe Read online

  When it comes to Christianity, I’ve never understood why people fail to ask themselves some pretty fundamental questions. Evolution and the Big Bang theory lead a thinking person to question a book such as the Bible. Christians, on the other hand, actively use the ambiguities in the book to create loopholes and evade the truth.

  For instance, a couple of months ago, I asked Mum, ‘Do you honestly believe that God created the earth in one week?’ To which she replied, ‘A week in the Bible is not a week as we know it today, sweetheart. A week in the Bible could actually represent many, many years.’ I looked at Mum, who, as baffling as it may seem, is an intelligent woman, and then I looked at her some more. How could I possibly respond to such a preposterous loophole?

  I used to think that an atheist was a weak and evil person, who wanted to bring harm to those around him or her, especially believers. But now I can see through that Christian propaganda and I’m warming to the term. I like the sound of the word. It has a strength to it that announces, ‘You can’t screw with my brain. I can think for myself!’

  I look across at Mum, who is still nodding her head at Father Ryan, captivated by his every word. I sigh and adjust myself on the hard polished pew. I uncross my legs and cross them over again so that I can shift my weight to my right side. Besides the anxiety I feel from simply being in church, my butt cheek has become numb and my left leg has fallen asleep. Now my right cheek will battle the cold wooden pew and slowly succumb to numbness too. I’m not looking forward to kneeling down – there’s no padding on the kneelers. This minor hint at the physical pain that Jesus endured (for our sake!) has the kneeling person feeling guilty for even thinking about their sore knees (and for those of you who don’t know, guilt is something Catholics can’t get enough of). No one would dare complain about the discomfort of the kneelers, either. If someone did actually have the balls to complain, they’d be made an example of. ‘Oh, look at so and so who can’t even endure five minutes of kneeling on a hard wooden beam. Luckily Jesus wasn’t that pathetic, otherwise our sins would never have been forgiven.’

  Going to church makes me feel like I’m trapped in a tiny room with no hope of getting out, even though the church itself is quite grand. Although I know instinctively what is right and what is wrong – and what is truth and constructed truth – I still struggle with overcoming guilt. It ambles along with me, everywhere I go. This guilt that I’ve been clobbered over the head with from an early age demands that I avoid any form of temptation or risk burning in hell for eternity. That’s a tall order for a teenager! And there’s no denying that eternity is a very long time indeed. Life on earth, as my eloquent father often reminds me, is just a piss in the ocean.

  Temptation can involve big things (having sex), small things (checking out a girl’s tits) and even imagined things (imagining that you’re fondling those tits). You must not think an impure thought; that’s just as bad as acting out the thought. When you’re my age, it takes vigorous work to try to suppress impure thoughts and you’re left feeling like a prisoner of your own mind. You are your own thought police. If you looked at the statistics for people with multiple personality disorder, I’m sure that Christians would be the predominant demographic.

  The church is dark today; the sunlight that does manage to penetrate the textured glass windows reveals the incense smoke, which hovers over the heads of the congregation like a cloud of oppression. The familiar soundtrack of Father Ryan’s voice drills into my brain, always with the same underlying refrain: fear, fear, fear, fear, fear.

  Strangely enough, for some people, Sunday is the day to indulge in freedom before returning to the rigid structure of the working week. But, unfortunately for me, I’m obliged to join my family for an hour of torment instead. Being in church is like doing time for something you haven’t yet done, but inevitably will do. The old people in the back rows, who sit and stand and kneel like puppets, are a constant reminder of a lifelong sentence.

  I look up at Father Ryan at the lectern. His eyes bear down on me under thick, sinister eyebrows and I have the most disagreeable sensation that he can read my mind. It’s like he’s speaking to me telepathically, saying, ‘You’re a bad boy, Stan. A very, very bad boy. I know what you were thinking about last night in bed.’ My sweaty legs stick to the pew; they hurt as I rip them off and sit up straight. This church is not going to let me slip away. If I did manage to get away, I’m sure it would lift itself up on its stilts and come running after me.

  To make matters even worse, we’re currently immersed in a long drawn-out summer that isn’t allowing our usual transition to autumnal weather and I’m painfully aware of the additional challenging temptations that come with hot weather. For a moment, I forget I’m in church and fall into a blissful daydream of girls spinning in their summer dresses. I can practically smell their hypnotising aroma – a hint of female body odour mixed with cheap deodorant spray. Absolute heaven! The prolonged hot weather has been an endurance test in exercising control.

  On top of that, I’m worried that my nervous twitch is getting worse. I first noticed the twitch about three months ago. When it comes over me, my head shudders involuntary for up to three seconds at a time. Three seconds is an embarrassingly long time when you stop to think about it. Try it. Try shaking your head for three seconds. See what I mean?

  Just the other day, I was talking to Rhonda Parker. I was standing about a foot away from her and she seemed hyper-real, like she was in some foreign film where they get the light just right. Her eyes were startling. I could see all these little splinters of green in them. I could even see the pores on her nose. As I watched her mouth move as she spoke, I could sense my twitch approaching like a runaway train. The situation called for a desperate fabrication.

  ‘Oh, shit, Rhonda, I’ve gotta run – footy practice!’ And with that, I was off, tearing across the school quadrangle, angry with myself because my stupid twitch had caused me to flee from such a beautiful creature. See? Life isn’t fair!

  When I come to from my daydream, the service has progressed and Father Ryan is standing right in front of me with his arm extended ominously toward me, offering me his hand to shake.

  ‘Peace be with you,’ he says. Only, it doesn’t sound sincere. Instead, I hear what he would really like to be saying: ‘I’m watching you very closely, you vile, immoral boy.’

  I shudder as I raise my hand, which he swiftly yanks and rigorously shakes.

  ‘Peace, Father.’ My voice sounds like an orchestration of glitches. As he turns away, his tunic is swept outward from the momentum of his movement; and I can’t help likening him to Darth Vader.

  Once the service is over, everyone slowly files out. I’m at breaking point by this stage. The people are not moving fast enough. They’re all edging themselves out, inch by inch, down the aisles. Meanwhile, the air in the church seems to be getting thinner and thinner, and I have to force myself to turn and smile at the old ladies who’re waiting at the end of their pews for a break in the human traffic. I politely indicate to them that I’m giving way and they can step in. When I finally reach the front of the church and feel the first blast of fresh air coming in through the open doors, I feel immense relief. But it’s customary to stand around for another fifteen minutes out the front of the church to exchange pleasantries with others. Father Ryan comes out too. Sometimes he tells jokes. It just doesn’t seem right to me, all the holier-than-thou bullshit that goes on inside, with everyone saying ‘Amen’ and ‘Blessed be to God’ and ‘Pray for our sins’ and then, whammo! You step outside and the same guy who was up at the lectern drilling the fear of God into you is taking delight in telling a joke about a stupid Irishman. That’s the thing that always gets me about Catholics. For one hour a week, they’re the most perfect, God-fearing purists in the whole of the Milky Way. For the rest of the week, they could fill the shoes of the most detestable human beings imaginable.

  3

  ‘Stanley?’

  ‘Yeah, Dad?’

  �
��Get out here. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’ I have to leave the safe confines of my bedroom to deal with my impossible father, who will no doubt be itching to lecture me about something completely trivial. Hopefully I won’t bump into any other members of my family and have to engage in further monotonous conversation. What have I done to deserve this? Some of my friends actually have normal families. They don’t have to go to church; they don’t have to kneel around their parents’ bed to say the rosary; and their dads don’t shoot the family pet in front of them when he’s had enough of its whining.

  Actually, I think Dad was looking for any old excuse to shoot the cat. He grew up on a farm and had violence towards certain species instilled in him from a very early age. He views animals as vermin if they don’t exist to service humans in some way. And cats certainly don’t service humans. That said, shooting a cat with a .22 rifle in your backyard in a sleepy country town is pretty extreme. I guess it just goes to show that the not-so-favourable values and behaviours passed on to us from our parents can be difficult to unlearn. They can lay dormant for years and pop up when least expected, slapping you in the face. ‘You know what we do to useless animals, don’t you, son? What are you waiting for? Go get the gun!’

  Dad isn’t that bad, though. I don’t want to give the impression that he’s a real hard-arse all the time. He just has a very low tolerance for things that don’t sit well with him, which can be amusing at times. For example, Uncle Tom came round the other day. He wanted to get Dad involved in a pyramid selling scheme. He was going on and on about how easy it would be to own a Ferrari or a Corvette in a couple of years’ time and he had laminated pictures of both cars. He also had a cardboard diagram of the pyramid and he used a wooden pointer to highlight the different levels of the foolproof scheme. Dad watched, impatiently, as Uncle Tom delivered his spiel and then said, ‘You’re a dickhead, Tom.’ Then he turned and casually left the room. Uncle Tom looked at me, completely mortified by his brother’s statement. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, feigning incredulity, while trying my damnedest not to burst out laughing. Uncle Tom packed up the diagram and pictures into his tattered brown briefcase and left without saying another word.

  I enter the kitchen. Dad is seated at the table, reading the daily newspaper, happily absorbing all of its biased opinions.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Sit down, Stan.’

  I choose not to sit across from Dad so that he can’t recreate the dynamic of a formal meeting in an ‘old school’ environment, where, say, a superior might intimidate a subordinate across a meticulously ordered desk. While continuing to read the paper, Dad starts speaking, his expression hidden.

  ‘Tell me about this dance that’s on tonight.’

  ‘The school social?’

  ‘Yes, the school social. Who’s going to be there?’

  Dad knows very well who’s going to be there. He’s obviously prepped to give one of those routine lectures that he dishes out every now and then to reinforce his authority. I look down at the kitchen table and notice the perfect placement of the salt and pepper shakers, the Royal Albert teacup and saucer, and the knife and fork that lie face down together across Dad’s fastidiously clean breakfast plate. I panic at the meticulous order of everything. He is my superior. I am the subordinate.

  Dad is waiting for an answer. He prompts me, his face still hidden behind his precious newspaper. ‘Hmmm?’

  His nonchalant authority infuriates me. I’ve got to turn the situation around. I’ve got to squash his authoritarian game into the ground. I do it with the most reliable weapons available to me – indifference and humour! ‘Well, Mike said that he’s definitely going and Jeremy wouldn’t miss it for anything because he loves to boogie.’

  Dad finally lowers his newspaper slightly, raises his head and looks at me like I’m some sort of moron. ‘I’m not interested in your crackpot friends! Will the teachers be there? That’s what I’m asking!’

  ‘Why? Are you interested in one of my teachers?’

  ‘Stanley!’ Dad swiftly raises a forearm as if he’s going to give me a backhand, but he stops himself from following through and places his arm back down on the table. ‘Don’t get smart with me, Stanley.’ He pauses, having lost his footing in this game of intimidation. He puts the paper down and then continues to expel the usual words of encouragement that a loving father offers a son. ‘Your mother and I have decided to let you go tonight. But if I hear there’s been any funny business whatsoever, I won’t hesitate to pull out the strap again. You hear me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. Well, then, with that in mind, try and enjoy yourself tonight.’ He picks up the paper again and snaps it into place in front of him. He resumes reading, bringing our conversation to an impressive close.

  I leave the kitchen feeling pissed off and deflated. Gee, thanks a lot, Dad. So, he has decided to let me go. What a crock of shit! If my parents had decided that I couldn’t go, I would’ve found a way to go anyway. I would have snuck out of my bedroom window.

  For a while, I entertain unrestrained thoughts about what I’d do to my father if he ever did strap me again, but I soon tire of inventing gruesome weaponry. The first time he ever strapped me, I was so shocked. Just seeing the belt in his hand terrified me. I was about ten years’ old, and I’d been playing down near the railway line with some older kids. They’d been placing a dead cat on the railway line, which was now in four pieces. We waited for the afternoon train to come through so that we could see the four pieces of cat become eight. An older kid, Travis, decided that it would be a good idea to hold me over the track when the train was in sight. I screamed so loudly, that it brought my father out to our front yard. He roared for me to come home, and Travis released me straight away. I ran home and Dad dragged me inside. I didn’t even have a chance to explain what had happened. He disappeared for a minute and reappeared with the strap in his hand looking as angry as hell. I didn’t think it was fair that I got strapped for being bullied. Mum said that Dad had done the right thing by strapping me, because it meant that I wouldn’t play dangerous games with older kids ever again. I know I’ll always retain an image of Dad standing in front of me holding his belt, loosening and tightening it in a rapid motion so as to produce a loud snap, his mouth fixed in a manic grin, barely concealing the generous amount of saliva bubbling away behind his teeth. It’s not a particularly endearing image to retain of a person, but what can you do?

  I return to my bedroom and start sorting through my vinyl collection. Over the years, I’ve managed to acquire a superb collection of music, which is no small feat when you live in a small country town on a long, lonely highway. Around here, you can’t just waltz into your local deli/video/music shop and expect to pick up a record that isn’t in the Top 40. I mean, who could imagine that people aren’t into shit music? Certainly not anyone who owns a shop in this town. So I’ve become an expert at ordering albums from dedicated music stores and having them delivered by post. I own every single album by The Smiths, I have the entire Cure collection and I even have rare Prince releases. The latter I keep to myself, because some people just don’t get Prince and I can never be bothered explaining.

  When I play music through my headphones and lie back in bed, I’m able to completely escape from the present. I forget that I’m fifteen, I forget about pimples, I forget about my nervous twitch, I forget that my family is crazy and I even forget about feeling guilty about nothing.

  ‘So, what’s it gonna be? What do you want to hear, buddy?’

  I turn and look at Bruce. Since Bruce appeared in my life, I’ve been able to drift along with relative ease. When there are hard situations to tackle, Bruce takes the wheel and I relax in the passenger seat. I’ve been able to do things with Bruce that I’d never have had the guts to do on my own. I owe Bruce a lot and I don’t know what I’d do without him. But, lately, he’s been showing up more and more, at times when I least expect it, and I find this unset
tling. He’s demanding more of me these days too – more, perhaps, than I’m willing to give.

  Bruce made his first appearance in 1977. I was four years old. Mum had dropped me off outside my grandmother’s house so that she could go and do the shopping in peace.

  ‘Just go in, Stan. That’s a good boy. Find Nanna and tell her about your new kitten.’

  I entered a very quiet house. I remember it being very orange: a peculiar, saturated orange. It was as if my eyes were a pair of camera lenses and a photographer had placed an orange filter on them. To this day, I don’t understand why the house was so orange. I called out for Nanna, but there was no answer. I walked hesitantly into the kitchen, but she wasn’t there. She wasn’t in the dining room either.

  ‘Nanna? Nanna, where are you?’ My tiny voice was swallowed up by the orange house. I trod cautiously over the carpeted floor, careful not to make the floorboards underneath creak, and entered the lounge room. Nanna was seated on the couch. I knew straight away that she was dead.

  I knew all about death. Our dog Spot had died about a month before. I’d been spellbound by his lifeless body. He looked just the same, except he wasn’t jumping around and yapping and snapping at my ankles. Mum said that his soul had left his body and gone to Heaven. I imagined Spot’s soul to be a translucent grey mass floating around in that infinite white place they call Heaven. The grey mass housed Spot’s personality, which would live on endlessly in the white world. I pictured Nanna’s grey mass floating around, which I was sure would be larger than Spot’s. I imagined it merrily humming away, as she always did when she was working in her kitchen.