I’VE stayed at my foster home four days. It’s not a bad place if you love horses. But I think horses are only okay. I get it, it’s cool they have four legs and smell strange and almost look like a unicorn, but they are still a bit overrated.
To pass the time of day I rake leaves in a corner of the front horse paddock.
A car parks at the end of the driveway. It looks like government, and government looks like a bland colored and featureless rectangle on wheels.
My social worker steps from the car. He is thick bearded and heavy built, with a packet of smokes in his front shirt pocket, and years later I will watch my first Sons of Anarchy episode and scream “that’s him! That’s totally him!”
John visits three times a week to take me on outings. He visited my real home once. At the time I was hanging out on the roof – as you do. The DOCS workers were pissing me off, so I threw the pumpkins we stored on the roof at him.
And that’s how we met.
Fortunately he was a gentle giant.
I grow to love the guy. He orders my first subway, we taste popcorn chicken for the first time together, and he says if I want to I can call him the big, fat, hairy man.
So every time he visited, such as on this occasion I’d shout, “big fat hairy man! Big fat hairy man!” because it’s funny.
It’s a nice Saturday morning. My foster mother has just bought me a Pokemon kite. The social worker and I decide to go to the beach and fly the kite and stop on the way back for a crocodile pie.
The day is ours. It’s just me and the big fat hairy man.