I was just about to start my private rehearsals for our band repertoire when Dad knocked on my door, waited, knocked harder, waited some more, then barged into my room and pulled off my noise-cancelling headphones to scream whether I already applied for student grants (at least, he said he knocked multiple times, I have no evidence myself. He also stated that he didn't want to be classed as 'noise').

Once he had cooled down a little bit, I asked him why I should be doing that and not him. The following sermon about coming of age and the luck I had not being born into some sort of African tribe and the kind of rituals and mutilations those adolescent boys have to endure to prove their worthiness, ended with 'Just try to arrange it and come to ask questions if you really can't figure it out.' Since Dad seemed pretty serious about it and because he took my headphones with him as he barged out again, I decided to give it a try tomorrow. Or at least after rehearsals, which would now need to be performed 'en plein air', as the French say (probably not all the time though), due to the lack of aforesaid headphones. They are really going to like this. At least I am going to.

Cranking up the volume of my amplifier and adjusting the microphone to a position further inside the hornhelmetpipe, I took a deep breath, thought better of it, rummaged in my desk drawer to get some earplugs, fitted those and THEN blew into the mouthpiece of my instrument as hard as I could.

The heavy room divider mirror managed to move back about half a metre before the glass shattered all at once, closely followed by the conus of one of my speakers.

It took Dad all of 5 seconds to run back up the stairs and to my door. He then needed another minute to get his breath back and to try and figure out what he was going to accuse me of, and failing. Shaking his head, he turned around and left the room, dropping my headphones on the floor. I count that as a hard won victory.

Lacking the right resources (my amplifier appeared to be slightly smoking and speakers do not generally function when they have holes like the ones in mine) I decided that looking into the student grants thing maybe did need some of my attention after all.

Finding the shard(s) of mirror containing the passcode to my digital ID app that is required for official stuff like that took me the rest of the afternoon.

I perceived a distinctly tense atmosphere when entering the kitchen for dinner. From the looks alone I knew that Dad had asked Robyn the same question, while Mom seemed oblivious of all this, because she had been at work when all the fun happened. The flapping motions Dad made with his mouth made me decide to take off my headphones, to see what that was all about. I waved my hand between Robyn's eyes and her phone in an attempt to let her do the same thing.

That settled, a disgruntled Dad sighed that he would only tell us once more what he expected us to do. (I decided not to push my luck and ask him if that was a promise). He went on to lecture us about starting to act as adults (nothing new so far, maybe taking up acting classes would make him happy?) and manage our own responsibilities, because if we let him be the responsible person, there would be no guarantee he would take into account what we actually wanted. Since I am still not entirely clear on what I want to study next year, this was no idle threat. I could end up in chartered accountancy hell for all I know. This must have radiated from my expressions, because Dad then stood up to see what we had for dessert, whistling on the way to the fridge.

In an attempt to skip the dishes, I solemnly pledged to go and arrange matters right away. This was not honoured on account of the inevitable loss of household competence buildup I would allegedly suffer if I didn't do the dishes. Sometimes it would be nice if parents cooperated.

Suffering the dishes in my own musical bubble, bumping into my equally noise-cancelled sister several times, once while she was drying a large and ridiculously sharp chef's knife, pointy end in my direction, I further contemplated my choice of studies. In the end, I only needed two stitches and still didn't get to do what I was told.

Caiman Raptor Elk

11.03.24 Front Page

Back Issue Page