‘Are you blogging about my dad?’
Regina looked up at Reggie from her laptop, tilting her head so she could see over the thick rim of her glasses. She was set up at their kitchen table, which also served as their dining table, desk, and occasional guest bed. She sipped from a grande Starbucks cup. ‘He’s a valid entry in the Freakalogue,’ she said. ‘Come on, you must have known he’d get a spot, taking me to meet him.’
‘I took you to meet Mum. I was hoping he’d already be in the shed by the time we got there.’
‘Reggie,’ Regina said, ‘the man is a class-A freak. From everything you’ve ever told me about him, and from what I saw of the guy, albeit briefly … I can’t not give him an entry.’
‘Okay, just be kind.’
‘Why? You hate the guy.’
‘Mum still has to live with him.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t publish his address or anything.’
Reggie let out a breath of surrender and went to the fridge. ‘Is it too early to start drinking?’
‘Do you have classes today?’
‘Yes,’ Reggie moaned.
‘Then no. No drinking until at least noon.’
He lifted out a carton of orange juice and poured a glass. He watched Regina typing away as he drank, fleshing out a virtual profile of his father in her blog, the Freakalogue. She had an entry for every strange, odd, unusual or otherwise bizarre person she had ever encountered in her life. Reggie suspected she’d only agreed to dinner at his parents’ house in the hope of meeting the man himself, Reggie’s own personal freak-figure. Whenever Reggie had to make a significant decision in his life, he’d think: What would Dad do? Then he’d do the opposite. Unlike Reggie’s blog, Ramble On, the Freakalogue had a significant following, upwards of twenty-thousand. His father’s profile would entertain many.
‘Don’t mention me, okay?’ he said.
‘Of course, hon. Tell me, what kind of childhood did you dad have?’
‘He was born at the age of thirty-two. He was never a child. Hey, don’t type that.’
‘If you say it, hon, I’ll type it. Maybe skip his childhood. What are your early memories then?’
Reggie stretched out on the sofa. ‘God, this feels just like therapy.’
‘You’ve been to therapy?’
‘Yeah, after I moved out of home. Six weeks with Doctor Wendt. Nice man. Really helped me.’
‘What made you think you needed therapy?’
‘Oh, Mum insisted. She paid for it, said I needed a mental spring clean now I was clear of that cancerous bastard. Her words.’
‘You know what I think?’
‘That I’m damaged goods? That you want a refund?’
‘I’m thinking I should be talking to your Mum to get notes.’
‘Regina sweetie, I don’t think you can type that fast. You want to hear my early memories of my father? Here they come.’
