Pancakes

Robert wakes up with a grumbling belly. He checks his watch. It’s 10 am on the first day of the year. “Dammit,” he mutters, “so much for starting the year right.” He was gonna wake up much earlier to make his son breakfast for a change. He forgot to set the alarm. Instead, he woke up to David’s footsteps on the creaking wooden floor of their unfinished house.

“Coffee?? Dad?” David yells from the small, filthy kitchen. It reeks of old animal fat.

“You know it,” he yells back while putting on his rubber slippers and dragging his feet to the kitchen. 

“Happy new year, dad!” David says gleefully. He pours hot coffee for the both of them. Between the two mugs is stacked pancakes on a plate, letting off steam.

“Bloody nice of you,” Robert thanks his son. “Drank too much last night.” He picks a pancake with his hand and tears it into two. 

“And the night before,” his son quips. He pulls the chair next to his dad.

“I really wanted to get up early and make you some pancakes,” Robert says with his mouth full.

“Well you can make it up to me!” 

David adds sugar to his coffee and crosses his legs. Robert watches his 10-year-old son act like the grown-ups he see in the movies. He’s not impressed.

“You’re a bit too young to have black coffee.” Robert eyes him stirring his mug. “You should still be drinking milk at your age. Or is it a ‘thing’ nowadays? Back then it’s cigarettes.”

David dismissed the idea in his head. Black coffee makes him feel like an adult—strong and in control. Someone has to in this house, he reckons. The lack of structure and routine is intimidating to him. He isn’t used to it. He grabs the notebook next to the dump of Robert’s accumulated useless stuff that has taken residency on the dining table.

“Okay, sooo,” he picks up the pen between the pages and scribbles away.

Robert reaches for a second helping. “What’s this all about?” He asks.

“I’m gonna help you write your new year’s resolution,” the child answers proudly.

“I don’t do resolutions.”

“Yes, you bloody are.”

“Well they don’t bloody work on me, mate.” Robert takes a sip from his mug.

David ignores his opposition. “Number one. Hmmm, take a shower atleast three times a week? Number two...make your bed every morning. Number three...ah, easy! Eat less chips!”

Robert shakes his head in disapproval, still eating pancakes.

“Number four...definitely drink less booze.”

“That’s gonna be a tough one,” he chimes.

“Number five...”

Robert rises from his seat. “Thanks for the breakfast, son. I’ll just be on the paddock.” 

“But we’re not done yet!” 

“Oh yes we are. I told you. I don’t believe in new year’s resolutions,” he asserts.

“You used to!” 

“Well, not anymore,” he shots back at his son.

“Why? Mum believed in them.”

“That was your mum, kid.” He takes his empty cup and puts it in the sink. “Her resolutions couldn’t save her, so what’s the point? What’s the point of trying to ‘live your best life’ and eating only organic food, and cutting back on salt and sugar when she still fucking died all of a sudden in the middle of the night!”

They both fall silent. David stares on his writing, wishing he hadn't bothered. Robert, on the other hand, feels ashamed of himself. 

“Sorry, I...I never should have said those words,” he stammers. He sits back on his chair. He looks at his son and his eyes are met with his stoic face. 

“You have the right to be upset but it’s been two years. Move on.” He finally speaks.

“I’ve been trying to.”

“Get your shit together.”

Robert can’t believe his ears. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said get your shit--"

“Get out of my house, you little punk.” He body goes warm and rigid.

“You want me to get out of this shithole?!”

“Damn right I do.”

“My absolute fucking pleasure. Everywhere stinks of you. Ever since mum died I’ve been feeling like I have to take care of you when you should be taking care of me! I’ve been trying so hard to help you, you--you scumbag.” He rises from his chair dramatically, almost hurling it to the sink. He stomps out of the room.

“David...I...David,” he tries to make him listen but he falls on deaf ears. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. Robert stares at the open notebook and the pen resting between the open pages. He drags the pad across the table and read his scribbles. He closes it.

David is busy packing in his room. He holds back his tears. Without hesitation, he picks the photo album of his mom on his study desk and carefully places it in his backpack, like his whole world depends on it.

“David, stop.” His dad stands in the doorway, holding his notebook.

“I’ll be alright, dad,” he replies between sobs. “I’ll stay at Aunt Stacey’s”

“I refuse to write a new year’s resolution because--"

David interrupts, “Because it reminds you so much of mum.”

“She’s crazy about it,” his old man chuckles. “She loves new years and the illusion of a clean slate just because a year has ended and another one begins. But you see, my son, it’s just an illusion, a blatant lie.”

David keeps packing. “Here we go again,” he groans. 

“Every day, every minute, every second is a chance to start again.” He motions towards his son and opens the page where his new year’s resolutions lies unfinished.

He finally gets David’s attention. He wraps his arms around him.

David resists. “Dad!” he squeals. “Men don’t hug.”

“Number one: Hug daddy after a fight,” Robert said in his authoritarian voice.

“Only if you get rid of your junk lying all over the place.”

“Alright, no hugs."

All of a sudden, David throws his arms around him. It's been two years since they last showed affection for each other.

“Sooo, what’s number five on your new year’s resolutions?” David asks. 

“Huh?”

“You should atleast have five,” he insists.

Robert thinks long and hard. "Hey, would you like some ice cream?”