Divorced Dad Diaries 2
In which we make our own fun.
In the harsh, humid light of the new Durban day, I see lots of things I missed in the dark. The garden has become overgrown in my mum’s absence - I had suspected as much last night, smoking a joint with my Divorced Dad™, where I attempted (and failed) to inconspicuously detangle a creeping vine from an orange tree it had begun to choke out. My mum has always been a proud green thumb - this vine was one she transplanted from my grandmother’s garden in Pietermaritzburg and managed to keep going for years and years. The orange tree was one we had picked out together at the garden centre. I expected some overgrowth without her careful watch, but this morning I noticed exactly how overgrown it really is. Trees have begun to shade each other out, weeds and thorns line the driveway, vines have crept and choked and then died themselves. The garden has been neglected for way longer than the month my mum has been gone - evidence that she checked out a long time ago.
I also notice an abundance of Neil Young cassettes amongst my dad’s music collection. I had been looking through his records for Bob Dylan bangers that he never got to play usually, as my mum absolutely loathes Bob Dylan. Upon noticing all the Neil Young, I begin to suspect that my mum perhaps hates Neil Young as well. My dad and I make some casual, low-stakes conversation over Blonde on Blonde, then he declares he’s going to have a nap. At ten in the morning. As he leaves the room, I get a text from my mum - it’s all pictures of her on a romantic getaway in the mountains for the week. I feel somewhat relieved that I don’t have to tell her I’m back in Durban, and then I leave her messages unanswered.
The house feels so empty in the daytime. I feel like there used to be more things to do, but maybe that was just because my mum was always up and doing things. I had sorted the 7-inch singles into a listening order last night, starting with the ever-mysterious Test Pressing, but my dad was already unconscious before I had the chance to float the idea. The record player is noisy enough to wake him, so I forego the plan of documenting my adolescent collection of singles for now. When my dad wakes up, he immediately retreats into the granny flat office, where he appears to solely look at maps of the world and jpegs of various makes of home audio systems. My attempts to make conversation while he’s in map-and-speaker hyperfocus mode are met with noncommittal grunts and nods. I try to gently remind myself that he is also just a guy going through a very messy breakup, and probably would enjoy being left to his amateur cartography for a bit.
I try to find ways to occupy myself, but everything in the house seems to remind me that my mum isn’t there. Books she once loved, the garden she once tended, the art she once curated. I understand more and more my dad’s desire to be distant from it all. At some point. floating around the empty house, I recall the R20 joints that supposedly exist “down the road”, and tell my dad I’m going for a walk. I have vague memories of a dispensary existing in the vicinity of the local football club, and so I head that way first. The building once housing the dispensary is there, calling itself the “Herb Zone”, but it looks largely abandoned. A sign next to it sternly proclaims “NO BOOT DRINKING". I have no other leads on R20 pre-rolls from here. A guy pulls out of the football club parking lot and shouts “NICE TATTOOS, FRIEND!” out of the driver’s side window.
I make my way to the art gallery down the road from the club and abandoned dispensary. Here I surreptitiously search “cannabis durban” while standing in front of an oil portrait of a sports-bra clad, septum piercing adorned, chubby tboy who could easily be my twin. He’s shaving his tiny little moustache and cluster of chin hairs, just as I did yesterday morning so as not to shock my dad with my sudden transsexuality. The portrait is titled In His Bathroom, and is yet to be sold. Meanwhile, my Google search for Durban cannabis has borne fruit - too much fruit, in fact. I have at least three dispensaries to choose from within 500 metres of the art gallery, all on the same street. I recognise the street as one I would regularly get drunk on while still below legal drinking age. Most of the dispensaries I encounter along the road are shuttered, except for two that are so close together that they almost share a wall. The man behind the counter of the first shop I go into informs me that they charge R200 a joint. I pretend to be considering their wares seriously before declining and very obviously going next door.
Next door, “Sativa Princess”, is located within an airconditioned shipping container and is absolutely filled with customers - easily done considering the size. I suspect their success may be linked to the other shuttered dispensaries further up the road, and I have this further confirmed once I get to the front of the queue and see very clearly advertised “PREROLL - OUTDOOR - R20”. The cashier packs two joints in a brown paper bag and reaches out a finger to touch the chameleon tattoo on my arm. “I looooove this,” she exclaims. I am becoming increasingly aware that while I may be par for the course in Obs, I’m perhaps somewhat of an oddity in my dad’s little suburb, even though they share similarities in weed pricing. I make my payment and express my gratitude at their cheap pot, and head back to Sad Dad headquarters.
Dad is still in the office when I return, presumably still looking at maps, and I smoke one of my joints on the patio alone. When I check up on him, he lets me know that he’s booked us for a pub quiz that evening. An activity! Outside of the house! I can hardly wait until five o’ clock rolls around - the quiz only starts at six thirty, but I’m so ready to have a break in the never ending silence of the house that I convince my dad to leave early. He does not need much convincing.
Trivia quizzes used to be our family thing. We were once champions of the local Durban pub quiz circuit, a title my parents had been defending up until recently. The weekly quiz nights had also served as my dad’s primary form of social interaction in the neighbourhood - but now my mum is doing all the local quizzes with her new man. The quiz tonight is an untested battleground, one that we know they won’t be at, but is also being hosted at a chain restaurant in a mall. When we get there, it’s obvious that this will not be a well attended quiz night. There is one other team present, and they’re all friends with the quizmaster. We decide to bail on the quiz and head home early, having sat in silence for most of the night. I get the distinct impression that my dad and I both feel like we’re fucking up this father-son bonding time and don’t really know how to change course. In the quiet car ride home, my dad suggests that I think of an activity for us to do tomorrow. I think about my 7-inch singles collection once more, but now struggle to explain my reasoning behind wanting to do it. I trust I will find better words in the morning, and we return to silence.
After some online quizzes together and another joint, my dad heads off to bed. It’s only 9pm. I feel somewhat trapped when all the doors are locked and the alarm system is activated, and I’m still awake. Like some kind of caged nocturnal animal. I’m writing this once again in the idle hours that my dad used to claim as his own. I don’t even really know how to conclude it - this feels very much like a day without a solid conclusion. I hope my dad and I figure out what we’re supposed to do with each other, but I honestly don’t mind the silence. Maybe tomorrow we’ll fill it with the sounds of 7-inch singles from a bygone era. I think just being here is making the house less empty for him, and that’s all I can hope to do.
