Qantas lived as an only child caring for his broken father- a father with no self-respect, no sense of honor. Everyday Qantas would wake up to his father lying in bed with argyle socks, striped boxer shorts and a fedora. The young man would make his way to the washroom, look himself in the mirror—right through his own eyes—and say his daily morning mantra-
I am not my father. My sunshine is just beyond the hilltop and my feet are running, running, running.
Qantas started shaving at the age of eleven when he realized he needed to be the man of the house. He knew just how much water to mix with just how much cream. Take the brush, swirl it around. He would reach under the sink and pull out the strop with his father initials branded into the handle. From behind the mirror- next to the vitamin supplements- was the straight razor. Qantas would delicately open the razor, grab onto the strop and make it sharper than sharp. Nobody else was going to sharpen this razor so Qantas made sure it was done properly. He would pinch his nose, swirl the brush around his face (over his lips) and all the way down his neck. With swift, precise motions he would mow away his peach fuzz. Qantas Tillingsly needed to look presentable for work.
Qantas provided for he and his father until he was twenty-two years of age. He worked his way up at the Rumbpletum Corp from a custodian (age 11) to mailroom (age 14) to intern (age 16) to trainee (age 19) and ultimately to a full on customer agent. Qantas knew every corner of his profession. No detail left unlearned, no strategy gone untested—Qantas watched the agents at work for eleven years, learned from the best and was steadily climbing up the corporate ladder. Qantas loved his job. Qantas earned his job.
He would come home with a whole ham, ready to share and eat with his father. Winscott would turn his back and fall back into his coma. Qantas would come home with an ice cream cake with a fat, red heart with “My Dearest Father” inscribed on the piercing arrow…no response. A tear perhaps. Qantas didn’t know what to do but never quit before and didn’t plan on doing so anytime soon. His father would wrap himself in sunshine before too long. Qantas always tried his best to keep a positive air around his father—life was hard enough for him, why should a son be any more weight on his father’s shoulders? But Qantas would sneak off after Daddy would turn his back on the meat.
Down the street, past the end of the block, cutting through Dr. and Mr. Pendleflopper’s backyard was a secret, abandoned bike path—Tinsly had revealed this magical path to him in their youth. Qantas never knew his youth- always working, no friends and forver caring for a man who couldn’t be cared for yet expected to be every inch of the. Qantas would come to the bike path to relive special moments of he and his sister. He didn’t know where his mother had carted her off. Maybe a pyramid? Big Ben? Easter Island? The world is so big and he’s a simple, honest young man. After the move, Qantas and Tinsly never spoke to each other and he suspected he would never speak to her again.
Along the bike path was another route- a narrow dirt road hidden by the large leafs of the Fascia Bayou plant. He would sneak through the road until he came upon a bundle of large trees coupled together—their arms stretching across each other, entwined; working along to bear the weight of a quaint pink treehouse. Qantas built the treehouse and nobody, to that point, had ever found it. His special spot. A place to be and dream.
The treehouse had a ladder, cut in two and hinged together. This was attached to a small pulley system working through the branches—when Qantas would pull on the rope, the ladder would collapse in on itself and pull up for optimum privacy. Inside was an upholstered armchair (the perfect height). He had installed a sunroof the summer prior. The walls were papered with sketches, doodles and poems he kept hidden from the rest of the world. And the centerpiece of the entire house—a life-sized line drawing of a grandfather clock he had meticulously etched. Every night he would pull out his pipe, smoke his tea; close his eyes and dream of the gentle tick-tock of his birthright.
One morning Qantas happened to wake up fifteen minutes late. He decided not to take a shower but brushed his teeth. Through his eyes he spoke-
I am not my father. My sunshine is just beyond the hilltop and my feet are running, running, running.
Donning his three piece Rumbplesuit and uniform porkpie, Qantas hopped on the 334 to Webblytebbly Way to the Rumbpletum Corp’s office buildings. It was a particularly warm scented morning—flowers, bicycles, bread rolls all filling the air. Qantas looked forward to meeting new customers and earning his paycheck—and of course was always looking forward to resting his eyes after a little tea relaxing after earning.
Clusters of people surrounded the televisions in the lobby. Probably the Footsport Globe Trophy, he thought, Qantas didn’t much know from sports.
He made it to his cubicle and exhaled mightily as he sank into his chair. Time to begin this day. As a part of his morning ritual, Qantas grabbed himself a cup of coffee (five proper sugars, a third milk), a too-crunchy granola bar and watched his favorite video clip. The clip showed the waves of a tropical beach. No humans—just waves easing on and off the shore and blue sky as far as the horizon can offer. Qantas made sure to plug in his big headphones as to tune out any extraneous noise—the subtle trickle of the ocean is half the point to begin with. Without warning there was a *boomp* on the computer and the video minimized to the bottom corner of the screen.
Qantas had gotten an email.
It was from his father.
He didn’t know his father even knew what email was. Qantas opened the untitled message. It read-
Dear young Qantas,
You have taken care of me in a manner befit for a duke and I owe this to you. I have just received word from around the globe: there has been revolution in the small country of Lefstrafrau. When the President’s wife, the first lady of Lefstrafrau, was found and convicted of embezzling taxpayer money—the citizens rioted, demanded satisfaction and now the president and first lady have been expatriated to an even smaller country.
Qantas had no idea what his father was speaking of or why it concerned him. All he knew was he hadn’t seen, felt, heard, or read this much heart from Winscott in years upon years. The letter continued-
The first lady goes by the name Befloir Tillingsly Skrumplwart Orion. She is your mother. I must go find her in order to find your sister, Tinsly. Please enjoy the house to yourself. Live. You deserve it.
Your loving father,
Winscott Tillingsly
Qantas left work early, right after lunch. That night he walked about nude while smoking leaf and reading his favorite drawn books. His lungs hadn’t felt so full in a lion’s age.
The next week two crates arrived at Qantas Tillingsly’s doorstep. One was a casket, the other marked ‘fragile.’ It ticked.
To Be Continued—
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