“…And a Coke for the Boy”

My dad and I are polar opposites.

He loves fishing. I haven’t cast a rod in the water since I was a kid.

He notices things like the river level being up; I could be oblivious until the point where I’m suddenly swimming.

He can fix stuff. I can’t.

He’s a rough-palmed country bloke.  I’m country-raised, but with the soft hands of a city-dwelling librarian.

I’m into music, words, running. His last album purchase was an Eagles compilation in the 1980s; his last ‘book’, the Footrot Flats ‘Weekender’ Special. As for the last time he ran: probably to the outside toilet of our childhood home for his morning smoke.

But one thing we have in common is a love of – or a weakness for – beer. And for those who know us both well, we might well be mirror images. “You’re your old man’s son,” an uncle would exclaim as I slurred and staggered at family gatherings.

Maybe it’s because pubs were familiar terrain to me while growing up. As a kid, dad would take me to the local footy on a Saturday. We’d always stop in at a nearby pub beforehand, and dad would always say to the bartender:

Pot of heavy, please, and a Coke for the boy.

My mother and I have often laughed about this. Why did he always have to clarify that the Coke was for me? Was it some sort of warped macho thing? I wasn’t going to be drinking the beer, was I?

I’ve taken my girls to the pub a few times over the years, but I’ve avoided making it a habit. One previous visit obviously sparked something in middle-child Avie the other day as we passed by the local. She chirped up that she wanted a raspberry and lemonade. Eventually I relented and in we went.

At the bar, I said to the barman: “A pint of Guinness… and a raspberry and lemonade…” – I caught myself before it came out, resulting in an embarrassed twitch as I tilted my head southwards in Avie’s direction, but uttered the words anyway – “… for her”.

What’s that idiotic idiom – the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? I’m still clinging to a branch. My fruit might have a few shades of colour that the old man doesn’t recognise, but my uncle is right: I am, even at 40 and with my own offspring, the old man’s boy.