Our New Dad - Part 1

The Strangest Week of My Life

Before we begin, I feel it’s important to stress that every word of this bat-shit-strange tale is, indeed, absolutely true.

It was the morning after the night before, as it always was, when there was a knock at the door.

Like any knock, it triggered a wave of panic through our feckless male household. Knocks meant tired neighbours, knocks meant prying landlords, knocks meant bad news, hand-delivered. 

Accepting the worst, I breathed in a few deep breaths, wretched out a few deep wretches, and opened the door. 

Looking past me was a stout, moleish-looking fella, either side of 50. This grizzled little man introduced himself by humping a suitcase into the centre of our living room. There, he paused for breath.

“Jeff Frame.” The man explained with a gruff, East-coast accent, as if those two syllables alone would smooth over the forced entry.

The rapid transition from no old Americans in our hallway to one old American in our hallway was a little much for our hungover circuits. Nobody knew what to make of this exceptionally entitled trespasser.

“Jeff Frame.” He explained further still. Losing his patience.

Turns out, the man now thoroughly identified as Jeff Frame, was working at the same school as us and, apparently, living in the same house as us. 

Thank god. Of all the dark and terrible consequences that doorway threatened, a grouchy surprise housemate really was a turn-up for the books. 

This diminutive home invader had probably given up on his appearance a kid or two ago. An appearance he never much bothered curating anyway. Jeff Frame’s salt ‘n’ pepper stubble melded with a fuzz of equally well-seasoned hair - giving his head an invertible quality. Upside down, he might have almost passed for cheerful.

Next, with the stiff delivery of a doomed undercover cop, Jeff Frame asked, “Are we getting fucked up or what!?” 

After a brief pause for deliberation, we decided against what. 

As it so happened, his arrival had coincided with our groundbreaking ‘daylight savings’ drinking study. The tentative hypothesis: if we start drinking in the morning, we will be able to drink ourselves to sleep, twice a day. For now, we were still in that 20-something grace period, where that seemed more charming than concerning.

Jeff Frame, however, was not. But cometh the hour, cometh the man; 11 am, Jeff Frame - the living room went off. We all found his bold attempt to relate to a group of guys, easily young enough to be his sons, pretty damn endearing.

Our middle-aged guest stood basking in this small victory. His first in a while, by the looks of things. Clearly on to something, the man as white as his beard followed up with “Where da party at?!” 

The party was at our grimey kitchen table. Attended by two emerging alcoholics and a depressed divorcé - a decidedly livelier turnout than most of our get-togethers. 

“My ex-wife’s running the marathon today. She’s a bitch, but she's a damn good mother,” Jeff Frame announced, half a sip into his tenancy. 

“Oh right.”

Wounds still fresh, Jeff Frame’s life story spilt out all over the kitchen counter. The marriage hadn’t worked out and he left a couple of kids back home in the States, Ashley, 8, and Taylor, 13. And here he was, on the other side of the Atlantic. 

The emotional toll of living without his family was buried deep in the furrows of his face. We consoled him with the customary tact of carefree young men, “Shit, man. That’s really shit.”

By lunch-bedtime, Jeff Frame had drunk himself from old intruder to old friend. That harsh voice betrayed a sweet soul. The poor just bloke carried around a kindly ursine sadness, like Paddington bear lost in a world without marmalade*.

After our chemically-enforced siesta, I popped out for PM booze. Ever the gent, our senior roomie insisted I take some cash for the next round of beers. Jeff Frame was a class act, all agreed.

The afternoon’s drinking followed the same spiralling trajectory as the morning’s and, unfortunately, Jeff Frame’s marriage. 

Lost in the ginny grog of that afternoon, some words are said to have left my mouth. Some words I am not proud of.

In a thoughtless attempt at humour or comfort, which was universes wide of either mark, reportedly, I grinned:

 “Don’t worry, we’re your sons now...”

After the kind of Monday that persists their lousy reputation, we walked in to a real treat. Jeff Frame had cooked up some delicious Argentinian cuisine for the whole scurvy crew. A welcome change from our usual diet of bread and things that fit between bread.

Jeff Frame was a lovely bloke, all agreed.

Later, as I popped out to the shop, Jeff Frame thrust out another ten euro note.

“Take this.”
“Um, nah, you’re alright. It’s cool, I’m just getting a few bits.”
“Come on, take it, son.”
“No, you’re alright. Don’t worry, it’s fine mate.”
“Take it, son.”

Now, I should mention at this point, Jeff Frame had that charming American way of capping off sentences with “son.” Exactly how a pensive rancher might when instilling some hard-learned life lessons. “Treat those ladies with respect, son” “Mind your Ps and Qs now, son” “Aim for that yella’ belly of his, son,” - that kind of thing. 

Until now, “son” had seemed a term of endearment, rather than a term of, well, fatherhood. But Jeff Frame pushed that money on me, just like a worried dada before an unchaperoned night out. 

“He is quite… um… paternal, isn’t he?” 

“Yep, he’s definitely getting very paternal.”

Little did we know, things would only get more paternal still…

Read part 2 of Our New Dad here.

*I know I compared him to a mole and a bear, but he was a moley ursine type. If that makes me a bad writer, so be it.