During all the time I lived in Leederville, my parents only ever came to visit me once. Later in life - much later, after a lengthy period in which I did my very best to simulate a normal lifestyle – later in life, they came to visit me more often. Twice, I think. But back then in the bad old days I was living underground in the city. Quite literally, holed up in my basement sound recording studio in the central business district, and, more figuratively, in a series of cheap rented houses around the city. Large, rambling old places which were, once I relinquished tenancy, invariably demolished. Or, as some would argue, further demolished.
But my parents did come visit me in Leederville once. They came to visit for some quite banal, innocuous reason, and were no doubt surprised to see the paddy wagon parked in my driveway. They were forced to park on the verge. They were even more surprised to see their son bustled out onto his wooden verandah between the shoulders of two burly blue-suited detectives from Belmont. The detectives had just placed me under arrest for possession of an unlicensed firearm. The timing of my parents' visit was, to say the least, unfortunate.
“Oh, hi mum,” I said to my ashen-faced mother in passing. “It’s not as bad as it looks - ” before they pushed me inside the van and slammed the door shut. I waved to my mother through the square, steel-mesh window “I’ll call you later, ok?” Smiling, holding an opposable finger and thumb to my ear.
My father did not look so surprised. He just looked the same way he always looks: like someone standing in the rain on a desolate stretch of freeway next to a broken-down second-hand car at night holding a warranty that expired the day before.
Bad timing. Jung would call it synchronicity.
I would just call it a bitch.