When I was a boy of
fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man
around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had
learned in seven years.
~ Mark Twain
~ Mark Twain
Twenty-First, normally equaled a
big bash, a huge all in, three day drunk, even though in Australia the legal
drinking age was and still is eighteen, there was just something special about
turning twenty-one.
I’d been looking forward to my
twenty-first for years, I mean literally years, it was quite a while ago but I
think I was probably seventeen or eighteen when I began imagining the party I
was going to have, I had the food picked out, I had the bar setup formed in my
mind, I had the music and D.J. already selected, I knew all the pre-drinking
tricks to use so I wouldn’t end up with a legendary hangover, it was destined
to be huge, maybe even four days if my mates could hang in there. 
Of course there’d be all manner of
women, all the sheila’s in town and maybe even from neighboring towns would
clamor to be on the invite list, they’d be dropping hints for invites, I’d have
notes shoved under my door begging me to add them, they’d walk up to me in the
street asking if they were indeed penciled in.
Legendary, that would be the word
used to describe my twenty-first, yea legendary!
Aside from the party there were
other thoughts of fantasy flashing through my mind, my old man, he and I
weren’t that close when I was in my teens, truth be told we were never close in
any of my younger years, the Coal Mans boy, that’s what he’d call me, sometimes
with a grin, but usually not, “No son of mine,” Was a constant phrase, uttered
under his breath, or spoken with venom, sometimes yelled accompanied with a
glare of hatred, but my twenty-first would change all that, he’d probably call
me early in the day, wish me a grand birthday, offer me a fecking whiskey and
go on about how proud he was of me and my accomplishments… He’d speak about how
chuffed he was watching me play football and he’d brag to the blokes at union
meetings about my footy prowess, he’d tell me how he really always did love me,
and only treated me the way he did so I’d grow up strong and be able to stand
up for myself with my fists, “That’s the only reason I smacked you around a
bit,” he’d say.
Yea we’d have a good old chin wag
before the party got started, he may even join in, all my mates, for the
longest time thought he was the best old bastard Irish man they’d ever met they’d
love to have him swing by, and sing a bunch of the old ballads as he was apt to
do when he’d had few. Legendary, yep no other word for it, Legendary.
Mum would for sure drop by too,
she’d have the perfect card picked out, no present, I was never that big on
presents, but a good card, that was always the best, nothing like a good soppy
card, even if the verse wasn’t hers, the words she added were always heart
warming, sincere and never failed to bring a tear to my eye.
I kept the big bash alive in my
head for so long, the anticipation was almost unbearable, I’d get butterflies
when I thought about it, I wondered if my team mates would make me deliver a
speech, just because they knew how much I hated public speaking, they’d get a
kick out of that, so I’d practiced in front of my mirror, speaking out loud,
laughing at my own jokes, even choreographing the way I moved as I spoke,
thinking that not only was my party going to be, ya know, legendary but my
speech would be a highlight for all in attendance.
The year I turned twenty-one I quit
playing football, not by choice, but by injury, I blew my knee out and never
recovered, even if I had been able to play again I was told by my specialists
that I should never pull the boots on again, my knee would never hold up to the
strain, so I quit, I never did play competitive footy again, but it wasn’t so
bad, except I stopped going to games for a while, hated watching from the
sidelines, hated hearing people tell me how unlucky I was buggering up my knee
the way I did, funny but my dad never said any of that.
I was working the mines and driving
truck the year I turned twenty-one, I had a room in SMQ, Single Men’s Quarters,
C Block, a two story building with about a hundred twenty 12 x 8 rooms paper
thin walls, a bed, a desk with table light and a small hanging area, two shower
blocks on each level, tenants organized by the shift you worked so afternoon
shift workers wouldn’t wake the night shift blokes, stark white with aluminum
foil on the windows so not only the light wouldn’t wake you but it helped keep
the heat down. There were lots of shift parties in the blocks, usually when
you’d finished your 21st shift (3 blocks of days, 3 afternoons and 3
nights) because we’d get a four-day break before going back on rotation, those
were some crazy, fight filled events that always, Always started out friendly
always degraded into fighting and then swung wildly back to friendly before the
obligatory passing out. (I never attended any of those.)
My big day arrived, my family, all
of them four siblings, and my mum and dad lived less than ten minutes away, all
of us ended up working in the mine, except my mum, we all worked different
shifts and we never saw as much of each other as you’d think, but this was my
twenty-first birthday, they’d all make an appearance, I’d given up on the
legendary party months ago since I was scheduled to work the night shift, but I
was still looking forward to seeing everyone, I was still like a kid on
Christmas Eve, I felt like I was entering a whole new phase of life and I was
looking forward to the words of encouragement form my mates and family. I
showered mid-morning to avoid the rush and then I wandered over to the mess
hall, it was weird sitting there at my table in a room of 70 tables by myself
eating silently, trying to hurry so I could get back to my room in case someone
came by, the Romanian bloke that bussed tables came by and smiled at me as he
picked up my empty plate, I said G’day and he nodded back, I’d never heard him
speak except when he was with other blokes that worked in the mess, he had no
clue it was my birthday. I downed the rest of my cuppa tea and hurried back to
the block, I passed a few night shift stragglers that were wandering the halls
we ignored each other.
I let myself into my room and
flipped on the radio, the announcer was spewing out the weather report, then
went on to play a record without mentioning a thing about my birthday, I lay on
my bed and listened to the music and waited. I waited all morning, and into
early afternoon, no one knocked on my door, I got up and went for lunch turning
the sign on my door to “Quiet Please, Night Shift.” The Romanian had finished
his shift and a bloke from Scotland had taken his place, “It’s my twenty-first
today,” I blurted out as he picked up my plate, he cocked his head sideways,
“you done wi tha cup laddie?” he picked
it up not waiting for an answer.
I went back to my room, locked the
door and climbed under the covers, I woke when my alarm went off at ten o’clock,
I dressed in my usual bib-n-brace coveralls pulled on my safety boots, sat on
the edge of my bed and cried, before dragging myself to the bus stop to spend
the night driving truck in a dusty, remote, iron ore mine where no one cared
what day it was.
