to something, even if it was only my own wallet. So I took to gambling; it was more fun, and more lucrative than work. Also, I could choose my own hours.
One of the early symptoms, which convinced me I had contracted this terrible illness, was the overwhelming need to sleepin on most mornings. Mother blamed my laziness on the late nights of partying I did after my big gambling wins.
With time, my illness became worse. I found the very mention of the word work, sent my blood pressure into overdrive. This was always followed by a feeling of faintness and an over-powering need to lie down with the TV remote. Some mornings I was so physically drained, and so hung-over with Workitis, I had to stay in bed until way past lunchtime, watching TV or reading the magazines I kept under my mattress.
During these stressful times, I would scream, ‘Damn you, Workitis; look what you have done to me!’
Upon hearing my screams of anguish, Mother would yell, ‘Don’t think for one moment you can get a ticket on the “feel-sorry-for-me train” that easily, you lazy, good-for-nothing, heathen scum! There aren’t any seats left; some of your relatives have taken the spare ones. You’ll have to wait for a couple of them to die. Toot-toot!’
‘Oh, dear God,’ I whispered, ‘please hear my prayer …’
But, true to form, God never heard my prayers, let alone answered them. Shame really.
‘Why don’t you get off your lazy backside and get a job? You’re a disgrace to the family name,’ Mother would say.
‘I need sympathy, not a job. How about showing me the love?’ I asked.
‘Fat chance,’ Mother answered.
Despite my lack of enthusiasm for most things, apart from gambling, partying and sleeping, I did at times show the community I lived in that I was trying to soldier on despite my illness. Weak from a mere twelve to fourteen hours of sleep, I’d sometimes drag myself out of bed and prepare a chicken and champagne breakfast. I’d set up a small camping table and chair on the nature strip in front of our house and have my breakfast. People drove past me on their way to work, fighting the morning traffic and, later in the day, fighting the same traffic in reverse. To these people I would raise a chicken leg and a glass of champagne in salute, reassuring my fellow humans that I admired their work ethics, and I was trying my best to recover. People stared at me from behind their car windows with surprise and astonishment. I think they were shocked to see a man with my medical condition out of bed so early and attempting to get on with life.
Nice people acknowledged my effort by blowing their horns whilst yelling at me. The horn blowing made it impossible to understand the words they uttered, I assume, words of encouragement. I was happy. I was demonstrating to the people it doesn’t matter how afflicted you are with Workitis, you can always get out of bed for a chicken and champagne breakfast.
One Sunday morning in God’s universe or Charles Darwin’s paradise, depending on your belief system, I had risen early from bed, pumped out two calf raises on my left leg, and engrossed myself in analysing the horse-racing form for the afternoon races. My unfair, but wonderful, expulsion from the Baptist church, had forced me to become a non-practising Baptist. Therefore, not to bet on a Sunday afternoon was being irreligious and disrespectful to all non-Baptist gods.
On this Sunday morning, as with every Sunday morning, those who believed in the Almighty had also risen early to eat and dress, as this was their day to attend church with other like-minded people. At church they would all pray, sing, be jolly and promise to love one another, whilst collectively ignoring the plight of the homeless and the starving. They would disrespect their own fathers, by praising someone else’s father, who lived in Heaven. The sounds of my own father noisily clearing his throat in the bathroom filtered through to my bedroom.
Downstairs Mother prepared breakfast whilst merrily singing, ‘Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.’
I yelled, ‘No he doesn’t! He hates us, especially those Roman bastards! He’s none too keen on them.’
Mother retorted, ‘Hush your heathen mouth, you ungrateful bucket of pigs’ swill! After all I have done for you, you treat me like this. When Jesus comes back, he is going to get you good, boy. I’m going to tell him you were expelled from church.’
I replied, ‘Seeing as you’re going to church, can you ask Jesus or his old man who they fancy in the fifth race at the Valley this afternoon?’
‘You mock him at your own peril. Jesus died for our sins on the cross and you mock him; how dare you!’ Mother fired back.
I responded, ‘Do you know how stupid that sounds? How could he have died for my sins? He’s been dead for over 2,000 years. I wasn’t born back then. When Jesus was running about the place flogging his stuff like an Amway salesperson, I hadn’t committed any sins. Bit different now though, the sins I mean. When’s he coming back again? I may need him to die again’.
Laughter erupted from the bathroom.
‘Besides, if Jesus did die for other people’s sins, more fool him for taking the rap for stuff he never did.’
‘You’ll never get to Heaven, you blasphemous, free-loading, lazy bastard,’ said Mother.
I replied, ‘My definition of Heaven is a winner at 20/1, that’s Heaven, especially if I’ve got a shed load of the folding stuff on it.’
‘One day, just you wait. One day, the Whinging Aunt from Whining Hill and I will get your father’s hacksaw and cut you up, you bad child,’ threatened Mother. ‘You, who insult and mock everything religious.’
‘That’s a tad unfair. I neither insult nor mock religion. I merely point out the bleeding obvious. Based on my observations, this life is the only one we get. There is no evidence to suggest we’re getting a second crack at it.’
‘I just knew I should have beaten you more when you were a baby. When I get to Heaven, I’m going to tell God not to let you in, ever,’ Mother snapped.
‘You’ll never get Heaven,’ I said.
‘Why not?’ Mother asked.
‘Because I’m not going to tell God you died,’ I answered. ‘I won’t even tell the police or the church minister. I’ll leave you where you lie. God won’t know you died. How’d you like them apples, baby?’
Ahh, there is something special about the sound of silence.
My God-fearing parents ate, dressed and came up to my room to tell me they were leaving to commune with the great Creator. Well, Father did. Mother came up, spat at me, and mumbled something about how I was destined to go live with the Devil. The backfiring and the rattling of the family FJ Holden (yes, the same car), told me I had the house to myself for a few hours. I settled back into my form analysis.
Within thirty minutes, I had finished and placed my bets for the day via the internet using my online-betting account. With my parents gone, and to help me unwind from the rigours of thirty minutes of gambling analysis, I usually made a call each Sunday morning to the agency, and asked for a home delivery. One of the benefits of being a successful gambler is one has the ready flow of cash to be able to participate in whatever the agency offers.
On this morning, her name was Karen; at least that’s what she told me when she arrived. But, you never know with agency girls; it could have been a false name. Karen was younger than I was. Slim and tanned, she was. Her light, yellow dress, with the hemline falling discreetly at upper thigh level, fluttered in the morning breeze as it gave way to a nice pair of legs. Her long auburn hair fell loosely over her shoulders and her eyes displayed a vacant look of ‘Here we go again’. I figured her good-looking cleavage had to be part of a great set of boobies. In one hand she carried a bag, which housed the products she used for her specialised trade.
Whilst chewing a big wad of gum, Karen warmly, affectionately, lovingly, and showing I mattered to her, asked, ‘What’ll it be love – cash or credit?’