Chapter 03: Drinkers, Smokers & Thinkers

A half-eaten tub of ice cream, a bottle of scotch and a cold, half eaten can of baked beans sat in front of me as I gazed starry eyed at the television.  This was dinner on a Tuesday night, and more importantly, this was now my life. 

I had just returned from a party - in the middle of the week no less and sat - quite contentedly in the centre of my still new living room.  After a few too many drinks, I had called it a night, realising I could return home drunk with impunity – no longer required to conceal my intoxication from nosey parentals or housemates of dubious character.  Though petty and simple, this freedom was unlike anything I had ever experienced before, and I felt like a liberated slob. 

I realised that society had thus far conditioned me to accept supervision in some form or another, be it from mum and dad, my boss at work or invisible all seeing deities.  Quite simply - it was privacy – perhaps for the first time ever, but it wasn’t purchased cheaply.  Living on my own meant that I shouldered responsibility for every aspect of my life.  No one would wake me up for work, do my laundry or make me dinner.  If I was indeed the King of my very own castle, I was the Scullery Maid in equal measure.  I had yet to master some of the necessary domestic tasks required – hence the ice cream, scotch and cold baked beans.

To my surprise, security and safety were foremost on my mind, borne out of my solitude and the fact that I had only two childhood karate lessons worth of combat experience.  I felt vulnerable to robbery, attack and far greater horrors that I could conjure in the dead of night.  It was up to me to protect myself and my belongings, so I promptly installed a rudimentary alarm system, capable of producing a dreadful head shattering sound if triggered.

A garden and sturdy fence usually separate the front door of a typical house from the sidewalk and passing pedestrians.  Not so with an apartment – my front door opened up onto a communal corridor, used by residents of the sixteen other apartments in the complex.  The sound of passers-by and their half heard conversations soon became part of the soundtrack to my life.  The apartments themselves were essentially boxes stacked upon boxes, and despite foot long measures of steel and concrete, sound travelled easily.  The gentleman living above me enjoyed taking a bath at 4am every morning, like clockwork.  Lying awake, staring at the ceiling, I could often hear the water running and the sound of his butt cheeks scooting across the base of the tub.

After only a few weeks of independent living, I found myself falling into a pleasant routine – I often looked forward to coming home after work, the sheer novelty of my new home still untarnished.  I had already invited Mitch over for a night of weed and television, our first evening of revelry establishing a formula for the months (and years) to come.  Mitch’s excitement for my new pad rivalled my own.  Upon entering, he slowly scoured the space, drinking in every minute detail.  Together, we stayed up into the wee hours of the morning watching cartoons, listening to music and eating voluminous amounts of junk food. 

The ‘munchies’ are a time honoured stoner tradition, and Mitch and I embraced it with gusto, often visiting the supermarket to obtain supplies before our smoking commenced.  Our poison of choice was a no name frozen cheesecake.  Costing a whopping two dollars, it was a hideous conglomeration of industrial chemicals, yet we loved it just the same. 

The crisis with Joe averted, Callum and I had entered into a new phase of our relationship.  Spending several days a week at my place, he comfortably became my faux live in boyfriend – his sundry belongings dotting my shelves and his clothes adorning my bedroom floor.  Far more adept in the culinary arts than I, Callum would often disappear into my kitchen; emerging hours later with impressive home cooked meals.  Scolding me for my penchant for microwave cookery, Callum was insistent that I eat some ‘real’ food and during my first few months living alone, his ease with domestic tasks helped foster a sense of hearth.  It started out as a place with my stuff in it – Callum turned it into a home.

It was about this time that I first met Craig.  A new colleague at the advertising agency I worked at, Craig had been employed to maintain our computer systems and spent his days engaged in all manner of high tech tomfoolery.   A small portly man beset by fears and anxieties, Craig was remarkably intelligent and, like me, had a keen interest in science fiction.  Being close enough to my age, Craig and I became fast friends, spending our breaks and lunch hours together and eagerly consuming the tidal wave of gossip inherent to office environments.  It soon became obvious that Craig harboured romantic feelings for me, in spite of my happy entanglement with Callum.  Not reciprocating, and with very few implements available in my emotional tool belt, I elected to ignore the situation altogether.

Craig’s friendship only enhanced my work experience – I was well liked and respected by my co-workers and I appeared to be on the fast track to corporate success.  I was amazed that I had found fulfilment in every arena of my existence.  Work, relationship, friends – my cup truly had runneth over.  Without my constant proximity, even the cool relations with my parents had improved steadily as I faithfully returned home every Sunday night for our family dinners. 

But my feelings of contentment were short lived, and as a young man of the world, I was hardly immune to expectations society had of me.  Communicated via a toxic barrage of advertising, I began to take note of the young men portrayed on television.  Handsome, well dressed and invariably successful with the ladies (and some men) these guys spent their weekends at exclusive clubs and bars populated by other handsome well dresses dudes.  I spent my weekends happily getting wasted.   Was I living my life incorrectly?

Much has been made of the pressures young women face in respect to body image and clothing.  Men face the same crushing and often unrealistic expectations.  A perfect body, a high salary and an ever increasing number of sexual conquests to guarantee masculinity.  For the first time in my life, felt conscious of these tropes and began to question their authenticity.  Rationally, I knew that they were fraudulent (alas, I had no handsome well-dressed friends) but emotionally they made me feel inadequate and poor.

The same sentiments often came my way via friends and colleagues, who eagerly told me that I was in the ‘prime time of my life’ – twenty four years old with a good job and my own apartment.  It was indeed a brand of social capital none of my contemporaries possessed – most of my friends lived with parents or housemates and even Mitch lived with his uncle in Glenroy.

Opting to at least part way embrace this concept, I resolved to wield my powerful tool and establish my tiny home as the central hub of my social life.  Phillip, another long serving ally would often visit seeking refuge from his tyrannical girlfriend.  The same was true of Ramona, my trendy Egyptian friend who would come round seeking refuge from stressful family drama.  She and I would stay up late discussing God, the universe and the biggest questions of existence.  Her formidable skills playing Motal Kombat surprised us all.   

Like a talk show host, I relished the opportunity to entertain a revolving door of guests who would sit on my sofa and keep me company.  I learned to keep my apartment tidy, determined to set an impeccable standard of cleanliness.  I felt loved and my friends helped stave off loneliness and prevented me from consuming an unhealthy amount of pornography.  Even after months of living there, the emptiness of my apartment sometimes scared me and I became convinced that some type of ghostly entity had taken up residence beneath my bed.

Mitch and I smoking became a regular occurrence on Friday nights, with Craig often present, but not participating.  He too lived alone and was glad of the company.  A willing passenger, Craig revelled in the spectacle of young men getting stoned and the immature hijinks that often ensued.  Saturday nights I devoted to Callum, who also unfailingly brought weed for us to smoke. 

As if by accident and happenstance, and halfway through the year, I was using drugs every weekend without fail.  I liked it, and despite my failing immune system and rapid weight loss, I saw no end in sight.  It made everything better – an obvious altered state, it helped me relax and opened pathways of creativity previously closed to my conscious mind.  I wondered why I had spent so many years imbibing childish alcohol when I could have been toking at the fabric of reality with weed.  A reliable source of fun and excitement, I never thought that it would take its toll on my mental and physical health. 

Nevertheless, cracks in my perfect life had begun to show.  I was often despondent or enraged when an adequate supply of weed could not be located in time for the weekend, and my moods became erratic and unpredictable.  Mitch too was slowly morphing from a vibrant fun loving young man into a grumpy misanthrope, old before his time.  I was too stupid and having too much fun to make a connection between my frequent drug use and these insidious changes. If addiction has a honeymoon phase – then I was squarely in it, and so were the most important people around me.

But of course we couldn’t spend every weekend committed to our indoor compression sessions, and, typically at my insistence, I dragged my friends out to nearby Brunswick Street.  Dragged was the appropriate word - it was always a tough sell.  Presently angry at all of womankind, Mitch was comfortable in my apartment and had no desire to associate with ‘liars’ and ‘whores’ as he put it.  Craig was equally reluctant, his social anxiety preventing him from meeting an eligible young bachelor.  Intransigent, I forced the issue, even going so far as to turn off the lights and shut off the electricity to my apartment.  Getting my friends to come out with me was no easy task, and in spite of how much I loved them, I often wished they’d behave differently.  After all, I was supposed to be in the prime time of my life.

A cacophony of visual and auditory stimuli, Brunswick Street was the natural habitat of the hipster and its many new age cronies.  It was also home to any number of restaurants, bars and clubs and as such, it was the place to be for the city’s young and trendy.  Stoned, we would roam the streets, traversing the human jungle of drinkers, smokers and thinkers looking for a barstool upon which to perch. 

Hitting the town was my earnest attempt to do what was expected of me – being out in the city, getting up to no good with my friends.  I fondly remember some of these evenings as occasions filled with laughter and intoxicated merriment, but most of the time I was miserable, largely owing to the sour temperament of my companions.  True, I had coerced them into a night out, but Mitch and Craig simply didn’t want to be there.

“So where do you guys wanna go?” I would ask enthusiastically as we alighted from the tram.

“I’m not fussed”

“I don’t really care” came the same old languid responses. 

It was only a matter of time before I gave up on our grim death march through the streets and relented, agreeing to return to the safety of my apartment, and of course, our ample supply of weed.  This, it seemed, placated Mitch and Craig who were hungry for the familiar, but I was desperate for excitement and bored by the confines of my small home.  Tenacious, I persisted, every few weeks, coaxing my grouchy amigos out to various bars where they both sat scowling into their drinks like men held hostage.  My infrequent attempts at match making were met with derision and outright hostility.

“Whore!” exclaimed Mitch, slamming his drink down on the bar in disgust as he spied a scantily clad young woman across the room.

“Look at that piece of garbage” he spat “No one’s gonna wanna go home with her!”

Mitch harboured a deep wellspring of resentment toward women.  I wasn’t sure why, but his misogynistic attitude meant that he was in no danger of finding a girlfriend anytime soon. 

It was one such night that I first met Owen. 

Mitch and I had ventured out to a pub called the Purple Turtle.  Filled with university students and loud music, the place had a jubilant atmosphere yet the night had gone exactly as I had expected.  Mitch seemed cantankerous and left his drink untouched.  After a couple of hours, I was ready to accept defeat and return home, my itch for fun hardly scratched at all.  Before leaving, I excused myself to use the revolting men’s room.  I returned a few minutes later, scarred by the urine soaked toilets to see Mitch pocketing his phone.  He informed me that we were going to meet up with a friend of his named Owen.  Nonplussed, I agreed as Mitch led the way out into the busy street.

After walking a few minutes, Mitch and I spotted two dark silhouettes making their way towards us.  As we approached, the outline of a bearded man materialised, set against the backdrop of the vibrant city streetlights.

“What are you fuckers up to?” came Owen’s soon to be familiar brand of casual yet affectionate profanity.

An acquaintance of Mitch from one of his previous jobs, Owen stood in equal height to me with a thick auburn beard concealing his cherubic face.  A baseball cap covered straggly wild hair.  Attired entirely in black, Owen wore three quarter length shorts in the middle of winter and puffed furiously on his hand rolled cigarette.  I shook his hand, it was firm and trustworthy and I liked him immediately.

Standing next to Owen that night was Pedro.  Of Hispanic ancestry, Pedro seemed friendly enough, and we too formed an instant rapport.

“Actually we were about to head back to my place to smoke some weed – you wanna come?”

“Fuck yeah” said Owen, the ash from his cigarette dangling precariously.

Less than thirty minutes later we were back at my apartment, Mitch dutifully dispensing drugs to my guests.

“I can’t believe how tidy this place is!” said Pedro, marvelling at the cleanliness of my home. “I’m gonna have to come back with some mates and steal some shit!”

Despite his casual threat, I knew Pedro wouldn’t steal anything.  I had caught a glimpse of the Virgin Mary in his wallet earlier during our detour for cigarettes.  He was a good man, and wasn’t about to steal from me while his revered religious icon watched silently from his pocket.

Partaking in our weekly custom, we stayed up long into the night, Pedro politely excusing himself after an hour or so. Owen and I began to bond over the many bands we both listened to with a high enough percentage of my CD collection meeting with his approval.  He did however issue a stern warning against what he deemed an ‘unhealthy amount’ of pop music.

The archetypal man’s man, Owen spoke in gruff tones, talking only to utter obscenities or music reviews.  A difficult man to know, he played his cards close to his chest, but I was certain that underneath his aloof facade, Owen was a thoughtful and sensitive young man.  Over the next few weeks, these qualities (and an affinity for weed equal to our own) meant that he was instantly added to our regular weekend line up. 

Mitch, Owen and I were now a trio, his presence completing a perfect symmetry between us.  It was as if he had been a missing piece, hitherto unknown, yet now satisfyingly in place.  I looked forward to his company as much as Mitch’s and our drug fuelled nights were never quite the same when he was unable to attend.  Gaining Owen’s trust however, required time and effort.  As the only member of our group with a boyfriend, I had to work to earn his respect, often out drinking and out-smoking him to prove my manly fortitude.  I willingly obliged, knowing that Owen saw the world through relatively un-judgemental eyes.

His presence provided Mitch and I with a much needed injection of energy – Owen was unwilling to tolerate Mitch’s reticence to go out, and outvoted two to one, he had no choice but to succumb to the wishes of the majority.  If making new friends is akin to falling in love (without the sex) then Owen never failed to make us swoon.

As new found friend gave me a renewed sense of enjoyment, I was about to face another challenge.  My relationship with Callum had been choppy over the last month, our time together characterised by almost constant fighting and bickering.  Unbeknownst to me, Callum was under the impression that he would eventually move into my apartment.  While I always looked forward to his visits, I simply wasn’t ready for a housemate, let alone a defacto.

One night after a dinner, an increasingly escalating argument lead to our break up.  It wasn’t what I wanted, but Callum’s mind was made up.  The moment was devastating. 

Our current rough patch had obviously taken its toll on him, and I knew that he had an innate distaste for confrontation and conflict.  I’d like to think that I conducted myself with dignity, calmly walking Callum to the main street so that he could take a taxi home.  I wasn’t angry, just saddened that he was unwilling to persevere through our problems.  As the main street approached, and my time with Callum slowly reduced to but a few minutes, I struggled to think of the perfect words with which to leave him with – a perfect sentiment that would encapsulate my feelings.  After all, Callum had been a significant part of this adventure thus far and I was unsure of how his absence would affect me.

Hi taxi summoned, we embraced one last time as the taxi driver looked on, impatient.  I gazed into his tear stained eyes, my mouth now filled with invisible peanut butter.   My brain had failed me, and I had no words for this moment.  Callum got into the taxi and closed the door.  I stood there alone on the street corner watching that awful yellow car take Callum out of my life, most likely, forever.  Back at my apartment, I calmly sat in my sofa and stared blankly at the wall until the sun came up.

Mitch and Owen provided support in the only way male friends could.  Within twenty four hours they were at my doorstep promising enough debauchery to erase all memories of my break up.  I was grateful for their support, but knew that I had to face the weekdays without them.  The thought scared me, and the pain of losing Callum lasted the rest of the year.

But the universe abhors a vacuum, and I consoled myself by spending time with my friends. I had been gifted two best men on which to lean, and we were a unit, sharing in our victories and defeats.  Our bonds were now unshakable, and we marvelled at the many variables that had to align in order for us to meet.  In a few short months, we had come a long way since that unremarkable night in Brunswick. 

And as for Pedro, who came round to my place that very first night – I only discovered many years later that neither Owen nor Mitch knew exactly who he was.  He left my apartment that night, walking into the mists of our shared history, never to be seen again.