EIGHTH WEEK

It was the middle of a freezing cold night; rain was lashing down in great sheets.  The giant, un-illuminated golden arches of a McDonalds were being buffeted by the wind in the darkness, along with all the other giant signs on the highway.  All the little glowing road markers were blurred by the squelching windscreen wipers as my housemate drove me slowly but surely out to the hospital on the edge of town.  A couple of days earlier I’d strained my neck somehow and by now the entire right side of my head was an agonising wreck, and as I sat - unable to lie down - in my bed I began to wonder whether it wasn’t something worse (those of you who know me will find that amusing).  Hence this drive.

SEVENTH WEEK

My father has returned to Oz, his brief time here (this trip) neatly bookended by lunch at Abe’s Bar-Be-Que.  Out on the highway, faded signs scattered around the gravel parking lot warn those not eating at Abe’s that they will be towed.  Porcine statues mill about outside the entrance and an ancient non-illuminated neon proclaims the place has been here since 1924.  The delicious scent of slow-cooked pork hangs thick in the air and inside a buzzing crowd hungrily devour what has come to be called ‘the come-back sauce’.  And with good reason.  We sit at one of the little brown plastic booths, hemmed-in by more pork-based interior design than one can comprehend.  Our server is a large woman worked off her feet by the clamouring crowd, weaving her way between the closely-packed tables in a classic American server’s apron.  She’s been putting herself through night-school.  Her weary face breaks into a wonderful grin when she sees John – he’s been coming back here for years now – all the way from Downunder for this world famous barbeque.  And we have a feast.  And boy, that’s good.  But then my father and I part ways.

SEVENTEENTH & EIGHTEENTH WEEKS