Poles Apart Read Online Free Page B
Author: Terry Fallis
transfer. I opened my online banking and accepted the transfer from my mother, moving it into my chequing account. Beforehand, there had been a grand total of $632.88 in the account. I wasn’t exactly flush. When I shut down my soon-to-be-replaced laptop a few minutes later, the bottom line in the account was $10,632.88, and I’d ordered my new MacBook Pro. Why thank you, Mom.
CHAPTER 2
My flight arrived in Orlando in the early evening. Visiting hours at the rehab hospital were flexible enough that I probably could have visited my dad right then. But it was too late in my mind. Or perhaps it was too soon, for I didn’t quite feel ready to see him yet. The concierge at Dad’s condo was expecting me and handed over a key. Dad’s unit was on the fifth floor overlooking a somewhat weedy golf course. The fairway was brown in spots, waterlogged in others, and cut too long. You can often judge an entire golf course by the condition of a single fairway.
I turned on the lights and surveyed my father’s rather confining unit. It could not have been more than six hundred square feet. I’m not sure how to describe the decor. Early American Frat House might be a start. Yes, it definitely had a kind of Tappa Kegga Beera vibe to it. I can’t say I was surprised. In fact, it was just about what I expected. Dad had been freed from the burden of Mom’s housekeeping eighteen years earlier, and hiscondo was, well, not in great shape. There were dust bunnies auditioning for tumbleweeds, and enough clutter to sustain several garage sales and a shot at an episode of
Hoarders
. Without Mom, Dad had regressed, which is saying something, given his starting point.
On the walls, I found a mix of golfing prints and Ford product publicity posters, with a clear bias toward the Mustang. I discovered an alarming number of empty beer cans and Doritos bags scattered about the place. A stack of porn mags sat on the floor beside a mucous-coloured recliner. My dad was kind of old school. I tapped the touchpad of the laptop on the kitchen counter, and a porn site awoke on the screen. Okay, perhaps my dad wasn’t completely old school. I was impressed that he had a laptop, porn site or not. I shut it down.
He had made some effort to put his own personal stamp on his home, I mean beyond the Coors empties and skin mags. On the living room wall was a flat-screen TV the size of a freeway billboard, with an array of speakers and subwoofers powerful enough to rattle windows all the way to Miami. Dad loved his TV sports. The kitchen was quite nice, though I was unable to picture my father turning on the front burner, let alone preparing a meal. The dishwasher was filled with plates and glasses. Some of them were even clean. As I suspected, I could find no trace of dishwasher detergent anywhere on the premises. As for the fridge, I cannot accurately describe what I found resting on a paper plate on the top shelf, but it seemed to be moving all on its own.(I was unable to determine if the movement was an attempt at locomotion or just respiration.)
The bedroom was in a similar state. The king-size bed was unmade, although “unmade” was a serious understatement. The chaos of the sheets, blankets, and pillows suggested the bed had never been made. Not once. There was another colossal television mounted on the bedroom wall to allow viewers the convenience of retinal damage in two different rooms.
I did find a high-end vacuum cleaner in the front hall closet. It might be that my father actually pushed it around the wall-to-wall broadloom on a regular basis. I made a mental note to remind him to try plugging it in next time. You know, just to change things up a bit. After slipping out to buy some dish soap, I spent a solid hour vacuuming, dusting, washing dishes, wiping counters, and generally tidying. With much of the clutter and garbage gone, it was easier to see just how badly Dad had decorated his home. Nothing, and I mean nothing, matched. The whole look,
CHAPTER 2
My flight arrived in Orlando in the early evening. Visiting hours at the rehab hospital were flexible enough that I probably could have visited my dad right then. But it was too late in my mind. Or perhaps it was too soon, for I didn’t quite feel ready to see him yet. The concierge at Dad’s condo was expecting me and handed over a key. Dad’s unit was on the fifth floor overlooking a somewhat weedy golf course. The fairway was brown in spots, waterlogged in others, and cut too long. You can often judge an entire golf course by the condition of a single fairway.
I turned on the lights and surveyed my father’s rather confining unit. It could not have been more than six hundred square feet. I’m not sure how to describe the decor. Early American Frat House might be a start. Yes, it definitely had a kind of Tappa Kegga Beera vibe to it. I can’t say I was surprised. In fact, it was just about what I expected. Dad had been freed from the burden of Mom’s housekeeping eighteen years earlier, and hiscondo was, well, not in great shape. There were dust bunnies auditioning for tumbleweeds, and enough clutter to sustain several garage sales and a shot at an episode of
Hoarders
. Without Mom, Dad had regressed, which is saying something, given his starting point.
On the walls, I found a mix of golfing prints and Ford product publicity posters, with a clear bias toward the Mustang. I discovered an alarming number of empty beer cans and Doritos bags scattered about the place. A stack of porn mags sat on the floor beside a mucous-coloured recliner. My dad was kind of old school. I tapped the touchpad of the laptop on the kitchen counter, and a porn site awoke on the screen. Okay, perhaps my dad wasn’t completely old school. I was impressed that he had a laptop, porn site or not. I shut it down.
He had made some effort to put his own personal stamp on his home, I mean beyond the Coors empties and skin mags. On the living room wall was a flat-screen TV the size of a freeway billboard, with an array of speakers and subwoofers powerful enough to rattle windows all the way to Miami. Dad loved his TV sports. The kitchen was quite nice, though I was unable to picture my father turning on the front burner, let alone preparing a meal. The dishwasher was filled with plates and glasses. Some of them were even clean. As I suspected, I could find no trace of dishwasher detergent anywhere on the premises. As for the fridge, I cannot accurately describe what I found resting on a paper plate on the top shelf, but it seemed to be moving all on its own.(I was unable to determine if the movement was an attempt at locomotion or just respiration.)
The bedroom was in a similar state. The king-size bed was unmade, although “unmade” was a serious understatement. The chaos of the sheets, blankets, and pillows suggested the bed had never been made. Not once. There was another colossal television mounted on the bedroom wall to allow viewers the convenience of retinal damage in two different rooms.
I did find a high-end vacuum cleaner in the front hall closet. It might be that my father actually pushed it around the wall-to-wall broadloom on a regular basis. I made a mental note to remind him to try plugging it in next time. You know, just to change things up a bit. After slipping out to buy some dish soap, I spent a solid hour vacuuming, dusting, washing dishes, wiping counters, and generally tidying. With much of the clutter and garbage gone, it was easier to see just how badly Dad had decorated his home. Nothing, and I mean nothing, matched. The whole look,
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