the table of mothers
One of only two men showing any sign of life in Woy Woy last Saturday lunchtime was young Simon, halfwit he is with his wandering ways and disturbing habit of accosting shop windows and loudly accusing the reflection there of being a fool.
– and Timothy O’Shea
Timothy O’Shea, completely bewildered by the exact and orderly science of losing money to the TAB on any animal that that is willing to run round around in circles.
Wakeful nights are many for Mad Tim, as he plots his unending calculus of weights and distances and horses names and jockeys’ colours.
Tim’s dad puts it all down to the marijuana. The backyard weed.
Simon’s mum reminds me of the days when her young son would beg a ride to Ettalong every Saturday, weather regardless, gambling on yet another long ride on that fabulous unshifting bank.
So we all sit together in the dusty room that services the half dozen families who have travelled here today, we sit in some kind of rough circle around the wooden table.
Mostly women, mostly mothers, and all almost immune to the green stink of the hydro-grown bake that has beggared their sons’ minds.
Laura, with the frightening semi-circular indentation on her temple. The place where her son drove a screwdriver down into the Sleeping Devil whose reddened eyes never blinked and who had always lived in there.
In that head.
Always talking. His ruthless instructors.