In the background the sound of a few plates smashing on the floor could, along with almost endless cursing, be heard. Tim couldn't really hear what was being said but then again, he didn't want to. He just didn't care anymore. When another plate smashed, seemingly harder this time round, the deafening noise reminded him that, as far as he was concerned, people never changed. Everything his father now tried to be was false. He was still a cold and temperamental man. However, he covered himself as well as the veneer like exterior that hid the appalling place that Tim now had to call his home.
When Timmy, who was amidst his deep thoughts, finally reached the balcony he occupied the closest bedroom. 'It'll have to do,' he assured himself before slamming the door shut and locking it. Ironically, his father had lit up in the garden at the same time, but Tim knew him all too well to know that not even that little white stick could calm the beast in an instant. Nevertheless, he just shut his eyes and the next thing he knew it was morning.
The distorted doorbell stung Tim's ears as he woke up feeling rather groggy. A slither of strong sunlight had somehow sneaked past the curtains, inadvertently blurring his vision. Thus what emerged from the bed was not far from a zombie like figure, which lurked towards the bathroom. Its journey was halted when it spotted two figures at an open front door. The mysterious monster that the bright morning had fashioned slowly came into a reality check and headed downstairs.
'Who's this young man then?' inquired a rather tall, bearded man with a large, protruding belly.
'Oh, that would be my son,' replied his new friend.
'Hello there! I work with your Dad now. The name's Roy by the way.' Roy held out a huge sweaty hand but to no avail.
'Hey,' said Tim inaudibly, moving his right arm in the opposite direction of Roy's. He was still recovering from his odd state of mind and the last thing he wanted was to shake hands with a fat stranger.
'Doing a touch of redecorating are we?'
'You could say that.' Tim laughed softly to himself and turned his head to observe the state of the room. It was painfully evident that his father had taken the time to find anything that wasn't broken, just so that he could break it. Thus the room was in an even worse state than before. Tim became a little anxious when he remembered the basketball stuff in the corner. Fortunately, his father hadn’t touched any of it.
'I'll get Tim to do some painting for me.' his father stated, smiling in an almost malevolent manner.
'Like hell you will! Why don't you just go earn us some money David, with your obese partner here?' Tim blurted out sarcastically, without thinking.
Roy's jolly face transformed into an irate one and he turned for his truck, almost knocking over a plant with his oversized stomach. Tim was about to make yet another snide comment but wisely chose not to. It was certainly too early for that he thought. David frowned at him before pacing out of the house, presumably attempting to make an apology on Tim's behalf. Tim didn't really care; he spoke his mind and hated pretentious people like his father, whom he wasn’t very close to as could be seen by how he addressed him.
After a hearty bowl of lucky charms cereal which involved a stupidly long quest to locate a spoon, Tim decided he might set up the hoop outside. Once changed, he went on another quest for a ladder which seemed to be ending in failure until he introduced himself to their new neighbour. He was a retired but active man, probably in his fifties. Though slightly preoccupied, he was kind enough to help Tim out and within half an hour or so Tim was indulging himself in 'shooting hoops'. The only problem was that on the side of the house, there was only a small concrete path and so the ball didn't bounce particularly well. He played for a few hours with remarkable dedication. In fact, it all came naturally to him as he begun to throw in three, four balls in a row. It pleased him, especially the sound of the jingling metal rings every time the ball passed through. Then, after a typical scavenger’s lunch, Tim played some more. It was as though the ball had hypnotised him after its first spin. Indeed, the whole afternoon had passed. The now grubby Tim didn’t realise this. The strong stench of sweat emanated from his drenched T-shirt. A long shower followed by well earned nap got him through the rest of the day until David returned at around eight. The two of them didn't make any form of contact throughout the evening; it was a bizarre scene when the two sat at the dinner table, made up of a large cardboard box covering one of the junk piles. Nevertheless this similar routine was to take place for a number of days.
At first it seemed as though father and son had reached a compromising situation, but it wasn't long before the routine was disrupted. David was the first to attempt a conversation, funnily enough about sports, but he was simply shut out cold-heartedly by Tim. As time progressed however, his father lost patience with him. One evening the alluring smells of spaghetti bolognaise drew the eager Tim to the dinner table, which had now been upgraded to a basic two seated one. It was true that he hadn’t eaten a proper meal for days and, though he realised his distrust of his father, the smell of properly cooked food was too good to resist. Once David had eyed him at the table he approached Tim with a wry smile.
Tim sniffed with elation, ‘Smells good, Dave. What have I done to deserve this?’
‘Nothing...’ his father responded severely, before lifting Tim’s plate with his left hand and powerfully tossing it at the wall. The sound of the plate breaking was a familiar one, but this time round Tim sat in utter disbelief, his mouth wide open as though he had just seen a ghost.
David, almost hyperventilating in his authoritative anger, stood with blazing bloodshot eyes solely fixated at Tim, and bawled, ‘There’s your dinner, son! Enjoy, you ungrateful son-of-a bitch! Why don’t you let me in?’ Tim couldn’t believe his Dad had just called his mother that. He glanced behind his shoulder hesitantly, only to witness his basketball splattered with bolognaise sauce. It dripped across its spherical surface in a slow but unhindered motion, which made Tim feel slightly nauseous. Still in somewhat incredulity he left the table morosely. His unfortunate basketball was left alone, for he felt it wise to leave it there for the time being.
* * *
When Roy and David were returning from work one night they passed a half-lit court, on which several energetic black youths were playing. Roy unashamedly expressed his view that the kids were probably dangerous thugs involved with drugs and that they had vandalised the court lights. David, who prided himself on his liberal views, found this comment to be rather stereotypical, and hence ignored it entirely. A laissez-faire approach to life was more appealing to Tim’s dad, apart from the times when his temper got the better of him.
* * *
After a period of a few weeks, during which time David had calmed down, conversation between father and son was resumed. Not for the first time, David was the first to speak as he felt ashamed of past events. One Saturday, whilst delicately carving his piece of bread in order to occupy himself at lunch, he pondered on his opening line.
‘How are you enjoying your last few days off school then, Tim?’
Tim was rather surprised but answered nonetheless, ‘Umm, yeah, it’s pretty cool…’
‘That’s good. So I see that you like to play basketball. I can take you down to one of the nearby courts this afternoon, if you want.’
Tim was yet more astounded by this seemingly generous gesture, but acknowledged it with enthusiasm. ‘Yeah, that’d be cool, Dad.’
David felt a great pride resound within him. Tim hadn’t called him Dad in so long and it felt so fulfilling. He knew that most ordinary children addressed their fathers as ‘Dad’ and whatnot, but this was no ordinary father and son relationship.
The time was around three thirty when the two exuberant individuals set off in the rickety Ford. They reached their destination at a quarter to. ‘Take my cell phone, Tim. Call me when you’re done.’ David held out his ancient giant of a phone. Tim grabbed it in a flash, before racing to the court like a headless chicken on steroids. This was his opportunity to play with others and he appeared to relish that fact. As David witnessed his son disappear into the crowd of players on the court he smiled to himself. For the first time he felt as though he could put things right once and for all in their relationship.
When David returned to number 62 on Oakland Hill Grove he was surprised to find Roy lying down under the tree, beneath a pile of several leaves which had presumably fallen on him. The oversized man struggled to get up. It was a pretty sight. David was about to inquire as to what Roy was doing, but he got his answer. Roy explained that he’d broken down a few blocks down and that he needed to use a phone in order to call a breakdown service.
‘You should get yourself a cell phone Roy.’ uttered David, who was about to reach for his pocket, but then remembered that he’d given his to Tim. ‘Anyway, you’d better stay for a bit and keep me company.’
‘Oh, where’s the young rascal then?’ inquired Roy, whilst he dabbed off some sweat from his forehead with a filthy tissue.
‘He’s playing basketball,’ David replied.
The two men stepped inside and lounged in front of the television.
A ‘bit ‘soon became a few hours and Roy seemed to have forgotten to make a call. However, as time passed, David grew more and more worried. It was now five past eight and there was still no word from Tim. He sat on the front porch, hanging his head in anxiety whilst he waited for Tim to call. His optimism dulled with every golden leaf that fell from the tree in front of the house. Roy was still sitting in front of the television, his eyes now glued to the local news channel.
News of a shooting in the nearby area forced him to finally relinquish his seat, which had now been moulded by his enormous body. He waddled towards the front door and informed David, who himself hadn’t moved from his position.
‘Well what are you waiting for, you blundering idiot! Let’s get a move on!’ David was half excited and half concerned at this point. Roy acknowledged him, but their only means to get there was by the rusty and old faithful Ford.
Dark and ominous clouds drew up in the evening sky whilst David swiftly drove them toward the court. Time passed slowly, a sensation exacerbated by the fact that there was dead silence, both inside and outside of the car. The silence lasted.
‘Where on earth is everyone?’ muttered David, finally disturbing the peace. He had a valid question; the streets were completely deserted, with the only movement coming from brown leaves blowing in the increasingly powerful wind. He watched as a group were blown around in a majestic manner before being laid to rest in the dark shadow of an isolated bush.
‘They said on the news that wind conditions would be fierce tonight; some people have even moved away temporarily just in case. I don’t blame them really. Those scientists are calling this occurrence ‘The Odd Potato,’ Roy bellowed in his usual gruff but cheerful voice.
‘Well, first I’ve heard of it and I don’t care. I’ve got to find my son…’ replied an increasingly alarmed David.
The ramshackle Ford pulled up near the basketball court. Like the rest of the surrounding area, the place was like a ghost town. The men could feel the wind’s strength truly increasing now. Some dirt swiftly flew into Roy’s eye and he lost his balance trying to remove it, almost knocking his partner over in the process. There were no apparent figures playing on the half-lit court. There was more reason for David to fret now.
After surveying the area around the court for about half an hour, with the help of a torch David had found in the trunk of his car, it suddenly occurred to him that this was the exact same court that he and Roy had seen the black kids play on a few weeks back. His heart began to pump harder. Several beads of sweat were blown off his forehead by the gusty wind, which now whistled wildly in the woeful wilderness of downtown. Roy could see he was hot under the collar, but didn’t say a word. David found it hard to breathe. He bit his tongue hard; hard enough to taste the bitterness of his own blood. It couldn’t compare with the icy wind that was shooting at him from every angle.
Suddenly, the metal grated gate giving entrance to the court opened with great force. The two of them locked eyes for a few seconds before automatically entering. There was an eerie sensation as the wind howled and attacked them both. It was difficult to keep on their feet. Their clothes flapped violently. An ice cold chill travelled down David’s spine as a single basketball rolled over from the dark side of the court and halted at his feet. His stomach churned as he inspected it; the visibility of a horrendously bloody handprint making his heart sink even lower than the Grand Canyon. He hesitated to shine his torch in the direction from which the ball had come from. Roy gestured for the torch but he firmly denied with a shake of his head. David’s hand became strangely spasmodic. Nevertheless, he gripped the torch with both hands and forced it toward the darkness.
The powerful beam penetrated it like a knife through butter. David took a huge gulp as he slowly but surely searched around. Roy was shaken by a massive gust of wind that almost knocked the mighty guy clean off his feet; he recaptured his balance uneasily before hearing the torch drop hard onto the court floor. He turned in disgust at the illuminated sight. ‘I’m so sorry David. I’m sorry that I was right about those kids.’ Roy spoke sympathetically, but wasn’t heard.
The wind wailed as though it were a banshee. David simply stood without any palpitation, rock solid and pale. His head was burning with guilt as he gazed at his son, who lay dead on the dark side of the court.
