Chapter 01: Prelude In Reverse

It was my birthday.

After finishing work, I hurriedly drove to the real estate agent to pick up the key.  Once I finally held it in my hand, it was small and weathered and made of brass – a well-worn utensil.  The object itself was a powerful talisman, an official acknowledgement from the community of my adulthood and the great measure of financial responsibility placed squarely on my shoulders.  I clasped it tightly; strangely protective of the trophy I had been awarded.  Paperwork signed and large sums of my money dispensed, I clambered into my car once more, bound for my new apartment.

The key slid into the lock comfortably and made a low clunking sound as I turned it for the first time.  I gently pushed open the heavy front door and stepped over the threshold into what would become my new home. 

A spacious living room revealed itself to me, resplendent in bizarre blue carpet.  The walls were bare, yet bore the lingering evidence of previous occupants – nails and hooks still in place from artwork previously displayed.  The blue carpet ended at a large glass door which opened up onto a modest ground floor balcony, offering a panoramic view of an uninspiring corrugated iron fence outside.  Adjacent to the living room was a single bedroom, similarly carpeted, and a tiny kitchen sporting some amusingly outdated décor and a linoleum floor.

I slowly walked around the seemingly cavernous space, my every molecule electric with excitement and terror.  It was a tiny place – but it was all mine.  My first time living on my own.  The rigorous constraints of my rental agreement did nothing to dampen my spirits – if a man’s home truly is his castle – then I felt like a king.  In this tiny box-like space I called all the shots, made all the important decisions and established the social norms.  Would smoking be allowed indoors?  Would I require my guests to wear pants?  Drunk with power, I resolved to relish each and every decision. 

I had earned this moment, having obediently jumped through the many bureaucratic hoops required in order to rent an apartment.  I had embarked upon a quest, auditioning many other domiciles, some intensely dilapidated and often wildly impractical. Having furiously saved money for rent and furniture, this minor triumph had been paid for in time, money and blood.  Though blissfully unaware of it at the time, it also marked an initiation of sorts.

Many tribal cultures still engage in rites of manhood in which boys must face arduous mental and physical challenges in order to be recognised as fully fledged adults.  These tests marked the transition from childhood to adulthood and often concerned themselves with one overriding theme – survival.  Like a young man alone in the woods, tasked with surviving, I had stepped fourth and accepted the challenge.  I too had only my wits to guide me – and I didn’t even have a refrigerator.

In a first world country, living on one’s own is the urban analogue of such practices.  One must navigate a ruthless monetary system to ensure continuance.  Free from parents and housemates, I would have to budget carefully, manage my time, learn to feed myself and attempt a vast selection of domestic tasks previously unknown to me.

I walked into the empty bedroom, surveying the weathered walls and barely functioning shutters.  Though charming, the place was far from state of the art, and the exorbitant rent I had agreed to was likely a result of its location – a mere 8kms from the city centre.  The bathroom wasn’t much better, with chipped white tiles concealed beneath a dense layer of mould – a grimy by-product of an anaemic exhaust fan which did practically nothing.

Despite the many flaws on show - I was most assuredly smitten.  It was a box of my own, and I would treat it with love and respect.  The thrill of the captaincy of my own ship, and the anticipation of adventures yet to come was exhilarating.  The stage had been set for a new era of independence.  The removalists engaged, I would move in the very next day and spend the first night in my own apartment.  I knew then that I would remember this moment my whole life.  Still euphoric, and unsure of what to do next, I slowly toured the small space one last time before quietly masturbating in the bedroom.

It was, after all, my birthday.

SEVEN DAYS EARLIER

“Hey man…sorry I’m a bit out of it - just woke up” said the scruffy shirtless man who opened the front door.

It was a sweltering December day, and I had taken the afternoon off from work to attend yet another open for inspection.  This would be the eleventh apartment I would be seeing – no doubt the latest in a long line of disappointing, time wasting experiences.  I was growing weary of the house hunting process which often required my availability at stupid, inconvenient times. 

Deception seemed the way of the real estate agent - often supplying misleading information and conveniently blurry photos to accompany their property advertisements.  Usually appearing disinterested, the agent would begrudgingly unlock the door for hopeful tenants, paying close attention to those who appeared the wealthiest or in possession of the highest social standing.  Despite the heat, I was attired in full suit and tie, determined to be ready should a good impression be required.

“I’m Tim” said the shirtless man, offering his hand, “Come inside”.  He certainly wasn’t the estate agent I thought, as he disappeared into the bedroom to get dressed.

I entered warily, along with a young Indian couple who were also in attendance.  We had exchanged a half-hearted greeting in the driveway with the unspoken understanding that if either party wanted to make a serious application for the place – we would instantly become enemies.

The apartment was empty, save for a single mattress in the corner and a large wicker basket in the kitchen housing a selection of rotting fruits and vegetables.  Tim explained that he had been unexpectedly summoned back to his native Estonia and required someone to fulfil the remaining months on the one year lease he had just signed.  At least that explained the lack of estate agent, though I still felt perverted scrutinising every last detail his home as the guy stood right there.

Despite the many pairs of underpants scattered across the bedroom floor - I liked the place.  It was spacious, had a built in wardrobe and the large glass door in the living room filled the entire apartment with brilliant natural light.  I even liked the strange blue carpet.  But it wasn’t just the exterior details that had caught my fancy – there was an undefinable quality in the air – a calmness that put me at ease.  Feeling the glow of desire rising up in me, I knew then that I wanted this apartment.

The Indian couple slowly skulked around the tiny kitchen, muttering softly in Hindi.  After a few minutes, they both exchanged disapproving glances before politely excusing themselves.  Tim found me carefully examining the balcony.

“Whaddaya think?” he asked, now thankfully fully clothed.

“I like it.  This could do nicely” I said, employing my very best poker face, determined not to appear too desperate. 

In truth, I was elated.  This was the first apartment I had actually liked.  Furthermore, it contained no major structural problems.  I wondered if I had finally arrived at the end of my quest.      

There had been the greasy smelling apartment above a fish and chip shop.  There had been the apartment with no bathroom.  There had been the apartment where the wardrobe opened up onto the car park.  There was no way around it – this place was perfect.

“When are you moving out?” I enquired nonchalantly.

“Next week”

I scratched my chin in mock consideration.  Shit - only one week – not much time to deliberate.  It was time to make a decision.

SIX DAYS EARLIER

Mitch and I sat in my car with the windows wound down.  I had parked in the most isolated part of the Glenroy shopping centre car park, hoping no one would disturb us.  Mitch carefully passed me a joint and I enthusiastically took a long drag before forcefully exhaling out the open window.  Quickly becoming quite stoned, I nervously darted my head around, checking the rear-view mirrors for uninvited guests.

Glenroy had quite a reputation, and getting sprung by the cops was the least of my worries.  Roving gangs of ethnic thugs were commonplace, and I was fearful that the scent of marijuana would attract them.  Still, it was great to catch up with Mitch again so soon after New Year’s.  Both of us had resolved to make a concerted effort to reignite our friendship after an extended period of dormancy.

“How’s your leg?” asked Mitch as he meddled with the car stereo.

“Yeah it’s okay - healing up nicely.  I was hoping for a scar”.

I took another long drag on the joint and passed it back to Mitch.

“So the house hunting isn’t going well”, I said, leaning back in the driver’s seat. 

“Every place I see is fucked up in some way - this one place I just saw had no toilet!”

Mitch choked on his joint and started giggling.

“Sssshh!!” I admonished “The Lebanese will come and take our stash!”

“Sorry man”

I had smoked weed occasionally in the last few years, but it was spending time with Callum that solidified my habit.  It had always been fun, and always took place in a safe environment - behind closed and locked doors and away from the prying eyes of the judging public.  I was never afraid of being caught by police – the only real consequence was a fine – I was scared of being disgraced in front of strangers.  What would they think?  That poor boy – stoned in a car park.  What would his mother think?

“Anyway dude, soon I’ll have my own place.  You can come over and we can smoke whenever the fuck we want.  Don’t have to worry bout parents or Lebanese or anything.  I mean, this is awesome, but I don’t wanna have to do it in secret”.

I desperately wanted to find my own place, but so far, the search had not gone well.  Other than giving Callum and I a place to hang out, it also meant that Mitch and I could smoke weed free from paranoia and clandestine meetings in dirty car parks.

“Deal” said Mitch, plumes of smoke emerging from his mouth.  I could tell he was excited.

“Its gonna happen man – just you wait”. 

I knew it was a promise I would keep – I just had to keep looking.

FOUR DAYS EARLIER

New Year’s Eve was always a letdown.  The celebration itself never lived up to my enormous imagined expectations, but tonight appeared to be the exception.  Paul, a friend from work, had thrown quite the shindig.  His back yard adorned with chairs and candles as thirty or forty people mingled and drank away the remaining hours of two thousand and seven.  By all accounts, it was a massive house party, with each guest asked to bring a single bottle of alcohol as a donation to the festivities.  On a small wooden table sat an impressive array of at least fifty different beers, wines, spirits and liquors – all garnished with half empty plastic cups abandoned by passing drunkards.

I was in a happy mood - having consumed at least twenty seven different types of booze (I counted). Comfortably sat on an outdoor sofa, I made drunken small talk with a trapeze artist – one of Paul’s many and varied guests. Callum sat next to me, just as drunk, looking devastatingly handsome as always.

The pressure to select an appropriate New Year’s Eve celebration is significant for a twenty three year old.  Incessant questioning of one’s plans for the night begin months before.  For a young adult, the manner in which the event is marked determines social standing for the coming year and is a reflection of status, prestige and attractiveness.  Unpopular people went to bad parties, or even worse, did nothing at all.  I had been fortunate – I happened to have trendy friends who graciously invited me to their trendy party.

Responding to a vibrating in my trousers, I pulled out my phone to see who was calling.  The small glowing screen read ‘MITCH’.

“What?!” I exclaimed, promptly sitting up and excusing myself to take the call. 

I hadn’t spoken to Mitch in many months.  My best friend of ten years, our platonic romance had been interrupted by his journey to America to work at a crazy religious summer camp.  The experience had been a rewarding one for him, forging lasting new friendships and broadening his own sense of identity.  Mitch had been back in Melbourne for some time, but neither one of us had made an effort to spend any real time together.

I’d missed him – and his absence had left a void in my life that I had yet to fill – and here he was - calling me in the twilight hours of the year.  I clumsily mashed the keypad and brought the phone up to my ear.

 “Hey man!  Howya doin?” came Mitch’s familiar tone through the tiny speaker.

“I’m at a thing in Fairfield.  You should come round if you’re not doing anything!” I slurred, still excited to hear his voice.

One hour later, Mitch negotiated his way through the crowded party and made his way over to Callum and me.  A scruffy dark beard covered his boyish features and long dreadlocks hung low upon his shoulders.  As soon as I set eyes on him, I discarded the drink I had been nursing and clamped my arms around him as we exchanged a ferocious bear hug.  After some hasty introductions, Mitch and I spent the next hour catching up, ignoring everyone else including poor Callum.  Always amiable and far more outgoing than me, he didn’t seem to mind.  In rushed, rapid fire tones, Mitch and I frantically began swapping stories – he regaled me with tales of his journey to America, while I filled him in on my new job and my exciting new romance.

“I’m getting my own place next month”

“That’s awesome!”

“I know hey!  It works out pretty well - Callum and I really need to get away from his brother.  There was some…unpleasantness.  Plus it’s time to get out from under Mum and Dad.  I was only sposed to be there a few months and it’s turned into a year!”

Mitch seemed intrigued by my news, as both of us silently and simultaneously realised how much each of us had missed the other.  As our frenzied discussion continued, I understood that our intermission had ended, and I desperately wanted my best friend by my side as I boldly traversed my wild, hedonistic twenties.

As the countdown approached, Mitch, Callum and I found ourselves on top of Paul’s rooftop watching the fireworks from the distant cityscape as a mighty cheer erupted from the crowd below.  A new year had begun, and already, on January 1^st, I could feel the weight of responsibility like a barbell upon my scrawny shoulders.  It was time for me to grab some independence - I had procrastinated enough – finding a place of my own would be my very first priority of the year.

A joint was passed around, and the three of us all partook, gazing up at the stars and exchanging thoughts profound only to the very drunk.  Mitch and Callum seemed to get along, and Callum was pleased that I had a genuine ‘hippie’ friend. 

It wasn’t long before the crippling nausea and stomach cramps set in.  It seemed the old adage was indeed true – alcohol and weed seemed like a perfect pairing in theory, but the reality was far less pleasant.  Within minutes, it became clear that I was going to throw up, but perched upon Paul’s rooftop there were precious few places I could expel my impending projectile vomit.  I began to panic.   Mitch and Callum’s attempts to calm me proved futile as I desperately searched for a safe way to climb down.  Frustrated, I leapt from the rooftop, landing clumsily onto the concrete floor beneath me with a sickening thud, drawing gasps from drunken gawkers.  Luckily, I managed to avoid serious injury, suffering only a bloodied knee and a small tear in my trousers.  Injured, disoriented, and still highly inebriated, I staggered inside the house to search for a safe place to violently expell the contents of my stomach.

My ten minute vomiting session concluded; I made my way out of the bathroom, cautiously gripping the walls of the house for stability as I waded through still crowded party.  Craving fresh air, I lumbered out the front door, through the front yard and onto the street.  My still bloodied leg gave way beneath me and I collapsed onto the nature strip, arms and legs outstretched like a starfish.  It was a remarkably clear night, and the stars looked spectacular.  I would be okay, I told myself.  I just need a minute. 

I lay there motionless, marvelling at the cosmic light show taking place billions of miles above me and listening to the muted sounds of cars driving past.  The sky was singing an ancient pulsating song composed of ghostly light from stars long dead, a silent serenade to the first day of the year.

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

Life with Callum was so different.  An ardent stoner, he masked his acute intelligence with a self-deprecating exterior.  After four months of dating, he’d already brought so much positivity into my life.  Our relationship was progressing nicely, and we bonded over our many shared passions, not least of which was weed.

Compared to Callum, I was a novice.  He had been a bona fide stoner for many years, and the habit was a fully integrated component of his life.  Ever the free spirit, Callum had taught me to relax and let go of the many social rules that I held in such high esteem, purely through conditioning or a need to appear “appropriate”.  Gleefully belching and placing his feet up on the tables of expensive restaurants, Callum was utterly unencumbered.  It was as embarrassing as it was inspiring, and to an upright corporate drone like me - extremely attractive.

My conservative parents weren’t too keen on me bringing a boy home to spend hours in a locked bedroom, so we hung out at Callum’s.  His mother, a former flowerchild, was far more liberal in her views and seemed primarily concerned with his happiness.  Every weekend, I would drive up to the salty, seaside suburb where he lived to while away the hours having sex and getting stoned.  For my twenty three year old self – life was about as good as it could possibly get.

This particular weekend, we had ventured out to the beach.  As we traversed the short distance from Callum’s house, the many beer bottles we had brought made a soft clinking sound as we trundled barefoot, through the hot white sand.  It was a perfect summer day in Melbourne, a clear Joe cloudless sky and the faint scent of barnacles on the wind.  After a few beers, and some drunken horseplay in the ocean, I fell asleep on Callum’s bare chest, my wet, wavy hair now caked in sand.  Half drunk and sunburnt, we both drifted off into a peaceful dreamless sleep. It the most relaxed I have ever been.

Soon the sun began to dip below the horizon; we both awoke to the sounds of families and other beachgoers gathering their belongings and preparing to leave.  Time to go.  Taking our empty bottles with us, we slowly began the walk home.

Rounding the corner of his street, we could see a brightly coloured object in the middle of the road.  Moving closer, I could see that it was a pair of boxer shorts.  They looked familiar – I was sure I had seen them somewhere before.  Not far from the boxer shorts was a pair of socks, closely followed by a scrunched up t-shirt and a small notebook, its pages gently fluttering in the evening breeze.  A few meters further lay a sports bag - its contents splayed out across the dark bitumen.

There was something incredibly familiar about all of these items.  They all had something in common.  Still groggy from my nap in the sun, it took me a few moments to realise.

“Hang on – this is all my stuff!”

No sooner had I spoken than a lumbering figure materialised a few meters away.  The figure started moving quickly towards me, its sizeable arms flailing urgently.  It didn’t take me long to realise that it was Joe.

Joe was Callum’s younger step brother.  He occupied the bedroom next to his and would often make his presence known by blasting music through the house at 5am – a most unsubtle attempt at annoyance.  Their rivalry was ancient, but had been recently agitated by my presence.  Joe resented Callum having a boyfriend.  He detested my presence in his house and often made his feelings known through passive aggressive behaviour. 

To complicate matters, Joe was in the process of gender reassignment. He was transitioning from male to female over the course of many months and years using a number of surgical procedures and an intensive regimen of hormone treatments which severely affected his mood.  Callum and I would often see him in the back yard during the early hours of the morning laying into a makeshift punching bag in a frenzied pre-breakfast rage.

I never hated Joe, nor bore any ill will towards him.  He simply annoyed me, and I wished he would leave Callum and me alone without succumbing to his insatiable jealously.

Joe moved aggressively like a predator.  His momentous gait came to a halt a mere six inches from my face as I craned my neck upward to meet his icy gaze.  His face red with rage, he furiously stared into my eyes, nostrils flaring wildly.  If Joe wanted a proper fight, I would surely give him one, though victory was by no means guaranteed.

“The next time you’re here – I slash your tyres” he began, spraying particles of saliva onto my sunburnt nose, his angry eyes inching closer to mine as I defiantly met his gaze.

“After a while, I’m gonna get tired of fucking up your stuff and come after you!”

His brief tirade complete, he stormed back into the house as quickly as he had arrived, sealing himself in his bedroom.  Callum and I stared at each other in disbelief for a moment and then silently gathered up my belongings up off the street.

“I can’t believe that just happened” I said, still surprised and confused at Joe’s outburst.  Either I was at fault, somehow giving him offense, or Joe was simply angry.  Callum and I were, after all, quite the happy couple.  Perhaps he thought that we were somehow taunting him with our playful sun kissed antics.

Callum sat, crossed legged on his bedroom floor quietly seething.  This was the latest assault in a bitter, long running feud.  Wary of getting embroiled in another family’s psychodrama, and feeling guilty for indirectly having caused a diplomatic incident, I decided to make a discreet exit.  I carelessly stuffed my last unpacked t-shirt into my bag and zipped it up.

“I think I better go.  I’ll call you later tonight” I offered, wary of Callum’s darkening mood.  He was embarrassed, but mostly angry that Joe had interfered in his affairs for no apparent reason other than his obvious insanity.

“I’m really sorry” he said softly as I fingered my car keys.

“It’s fine.  Really.  It’s not like it’s your fault” I kept my voice low, fearful that Joe would come bursting through the door with a knife.

Despite my best efforts to affect a calm facade, I understood the dilemma before us.  We couldn’t be together at Callum’s house.  We couldn’t be together at my house.  Our prospects for any semblance of privacy didn’t look good.  This was a setback that could well prove deadly to our nubile courtship. 

The thought of ending our relationship sent pangs of sorrow rippling through my chest.  Things were going so well, and despite his irreverence, I had recently begun to entertain thoughts of a future with Callum in it.  I couldn’t let it end this way.  No tyre-slashing maniac would keep us apart.

“Don’t worry bout it” I said, leaning down to place a kiss squarely on his cheek “I’ll call you later tonight, okay?”

“Okay”.

Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I tip toed out of Callum’s room, still fearful of waking the adjacent beast and made my way out to my car, my shiny mood now totally obliterated.  A return appearance at Callum’s house seemed out of the question, especially if I wanted to keep the peace.  I would miss his seaside home. 

Shit.  This was bad. 

As I turned the ignition key, I racked my brain for a clever solution, but none seemed to present themselves.  I was deadlocked, and it was time for drastic action.  It was time for me to move into my own place.