Chapter 05: The Magical Alchemical Formula

I didn’t want to go.  It just seemed stupid, and knew it was going to be shithouse.  But I had promised Mitch weeks earlier – one of those nonchalant commitments that I made safe in the knowledge that a future version of myself would have to deal with it. 

Well here I was, futuristic and present, as I stared into my bathroom mirror feeling a fool.  My usually spiky hair now subdued, I was attired in a half buttoned floral 70s shirt, tan slacks and brown vinyl loafers I had purchased earlier on the day.

Mitch and I were bound for a 70s themed party, and we had spent the day scouring thrift stores for period specific shirts and pants in an attempt to get into the spirit of the occasion.  Looking far sharper than I, Mitch had meticulously groomed his wiry beard into a perfect handlebar moustache.  He had disappeared into my bathroom earlier that evening to shave leaving dark hair scattered all over the basin and floor causing a frightful mess.  Staring at the clumps of hair all over the floor, I was both angered and aroused.

I’ve never liked getting into costume, or attending ‘themed’ events.  I had always thought costumes a lazy conversation starter for the socially inept.  Costumes were lame, and incidentally, I was very, very cranky.

Hosted by Mitch’s friends Jesse and Amber - tonight’s party was what we would be doing instead of smoking weed.  There would be new environments and new people - both of which would require me to exercise significantly more effort than I usually would have done on a Saturday night staring blankly at the TV, smashed.  For once, Mitch was prying me out of my comfort zone.  In response to the stress of the last few months, I had worked my way into a comfortable rut, and I clung to our weekly stoner routine.  Still hurting from Owen’s departure, I felt no great need to make new friends, and bristled at the idea. 

In a way it was perfect symmetry – payback for the many times I had forced Mitch out to bars and clubs, despite his vitriolic and vocal objections.  Dragging my feet, I dutifully buttoned up my awful shirt and prepared myself for the worst.

After a short drive through the dark winter streets, Mitch and I arrived at Jesse and Amber’s place.  I was surprised at how large their home was – quite sizeable compared to the two room shoebox that I kept my stuff in.  As we approached the front door, I anticipated the chaotic sounds of a house party.  Overlapping conversations peppered with clinking glasses and bottles atop a layer of booming music that reverberated through your bowels.  There was nothing – silence – I could actually hear the sound of crickets hiding in the front lawn.  This didn’t bode well.  Mitch rang the buzzer and within a few moments, the front door flew open revealing Amber, her arms outstretched in excitement.

This was the first time I had met Amber – though Mitch had talked about her often.  She and her boyfriend Jesse had bonded during an interstate trip the previous year.  Jesse and Amber constituted Mitch’s ‘other’ group of friends, and I knew that he was eager for us to connect during our first bona fide crossover episode.

The picture of enthusiasm, Amber looked like a gay pride float, every inch of her body festooned with flowers, peace signs and all manner of obvious 70s iconography.  Her short blonde hair was swept back by a sweatband which read ‘Groovy’.  I groaned internally as she ushered into the house.  Inside, the rooms were darkened – no lights on in the kitchen or corridors and the eerie silence still prevailed.  As we entered their cavernous living room, I could see a small group of people, quietly huddled around a small 34cm TV watching Star Wars.  Clearly, this night was bound to be electric.

Before Mitch could introduce me to everyone, Amber insisted that we take a moment to admire the decorations that she had worked so hard on.  She directed our attention to a single wall at the rear of the living room.  In coloured paper and magazine clippings, she had constructed a carefully edited 70s montage replete with a hefty dose of flower power.  Amber brimmed with excitement as she showed off her potted timeline of the tumultuous decade while Mitch and I tried our best to earnestly examine her childish opus.

Just then, Jesse appeared and wrapped his spindly arms around Mitch from behind.  The first thing I noticed about Jesse was his height – he was tall – seriously tall.  His slight frame was topped by a gigantic curly brown afro which sat atop his head like a mushroom cap.  I suppose in a way, Jesse was kind of goofy looking, but possessed a charming innocence and lack of cynicism uncommon in people our age.  He shook my hand excitedly.  Mitch had allegedly been feeding Jesse stories about me for some time, and I was unnerved at the invisible expectations I now had to meet.

Pried from their movie momentarily, I met the other guests – Amber’s brother – overweight but still handsome and Amber’s friend Priyanka.

“I’m Indian” she said offering me a half-hearted handshake.

“Hey that’s awesome”.

Introductions over, silence once again fell on our small group.

“You’ve never heard of the Millennium Falcon? … It’s the ship that made the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs” came the small TV across the room.

“Mind if I duck outside for a smoke?” I said, already eager for a temporary respite from this awkwardness.  Despite it being a filthy and expensive habit, smoking – the regular kind – always provided me with a convenient escape hatch if things got difficult.

“Sure man, this way” Jesse excitedly escorted me outside to a wooden picnic table and chairs.  Soon bored by a galaxy far away, the rest of the group followed suit filling the table with lively discussion and brightly coloured alcohol. 

I was relieved – this party wasn’t so bad, and I was genuinely impressed by Jesse.  I could see why Mitch appreciated him so much.  Thoughtful and intelligent, Jesse seemed unafraid to ask difficult questions of himself and his existence.  We soon found ourselves speaking on Buddhist teachings, existential thought and the nature of consciousness. 

A free spirit, Jesse’s positive energy was genuine with a naivety that was refreshing.  Amber on the other hand, was a different story.  Unwilling to join the rest of the party outside, I could see her indoors pacing the length of their living room like a trapped animal in a cage.  She looked furious.

“Is Amber okay?” I asked Jesse

“Yeah she’s fine – let her be, she’s just shy”

I worried that I had unwittingly hijacked Amber’s perfect evening.  By virtue of being a smoker, I had lured her guests outside while her kindergarten decorations remained unacknowledged.  Now feeling guilty, I ventured inside in an attempt to coax Amber out, but she seemed happier dusting bookshelves and cabinets.

I was unsure of how to interpret her behaviour, but at the time, she just seemed like a moody bitch.

As the night grew intolerably cold, the group returned indoors where Amber finally seemed more sociable.  I noticed her and Priyanka sat on some cushions on the floor admiring a set of tarot cards.  Intrigued I crouched down with them, thinking I was about to witness a reading.  Tarot cards have always intrigued me, and only the year before I had studied the correct method of using them.

“I’m Indian” said Priyanka as I shook her hand a second time.

“Errr…That’s cool”

Amber had laid out the tarot cards in a grid on the floor, but soon realised that she was simply admiring the artwork.

“I can do a tarot reading if you like” I offered, attempting a connection with Amber after making such a poor initial impression.

“No that’s okay”

“You can do my reading!” came Jesse’s voice from behind me as he awkwardly bounded over to the cushions and sat down in front of me like a hyperactive giraffe.  Remembering what I had been taught, I laid the cards out before Jesse as we began a half hour journey that illuminated some of the upcoming challenges he would face.  Rightly impressed, Jesse was enthralled, hanging on my every word as each new card was revealed and interpreted.  Amber looked on from a distance, scowling.

Knowing that our night was unlikely to get any better, Mitch and I politely made our apologies and departed.  Driving home, I was certain that I had made a new friend in Jesse, and wary that I had also made a seething new enemy in Amber.

The party had been fun – but not too much fun.  It was simply a place to be because I my presence had been requested.  Sure, I may have laid the groundwork for a lasting friendship with Jesse, but once again, my itch for fun had been left woefully unscratched.  Nights like these and the frustration they brought were common and perhaps analogous to the sexual frustration a 24 year old man feels every waking moment. 

Easily bored, only the very boundaries of my sensory experiences seemed to satiate me – it was the reason smoking weed had taken such a powerful hold on my priorities.  I knew Mitch and Owen felt the same way.  None of us knew how to achieve romantic or sexual success, so we channelled our energy into self-destructive behaviour and pointless adventures.  The magical alchemical formula for getting another person to take their clothes off for you eluded us completely, sending us home with empty wallets and a handful of vaguely amusing stories.

Following a strict diet of TV sitcoms, Mitch was convinced that he would one day find ‘the one’ – a girl so unique and special that he would impregnate her on the spot.  Over the years, I’d seen him casually reject a string of girls who failed to live up to his magical standards.  Far more cynical, and consumed by hormones, Owen and I simply wanted to get laid.

On one such adventure, Mitch and I accompanied Owen to a pub in Richmond to meet a girl he had met online.  As his ‘wingmen’ for the evening, we were there to offer moral support and an objective assessment of his proposed conquest.  We arrived at the entrance to the pub in time to see a panicked patron hastily emerge bloodied with a handful of teeth. 

Undeterred, we entered, Mitch and I parking ourselves on barstools while Owen made his rendezvous with the girl in question.  Within minutes, Owen returned, reporting that the girl was simply “too fat” and that he intended to pursue one of her friends instead. 

Abandoned, Mitch and I were promptly set upon by an older lady, some ten years our senior, who made frequent and predatory advances.  Bright orange with spray tan, she bored us both for almost two hours with drunken tales of her interfering family and unsavoury sexual exploits.  Mitch, never one to rise to a confrontation, shrank into his seat and silently began smoking an entire pack of cigarettes, leaving me to contend with the talkative orange lady alone.

Exhausted, and bored, we left the pub several hours later.  Mitch seemed unsettled, and Owen, who had struck out with the fat girl’s friends, was quietly disappointed. Years later, Mitch admitted that our encounter with that drunken woman had only served to exacerbate his social anxiety.

Reflecting on our nights out, I’m not sure what any of us were expecting to accomplish.  We were rarely well dressed, frequently stoned yet expected something amazing to happen.  Perhaps we were looking for fun in all the wrong places.  I myself never expected much.  The chances of meeting a handsome young man in a tooth shattering bar were negligible, so most of the time; I was simply along for the ride, content with a change of scenery and an excuse to leave my apartment on a Saturday night.  After all – what else was I going to do?

Despite my magnanimous attitude, the three of us were often left feeling cheated by fate.  With Owen temporarily seconded to living in Ballarat, his presence was special, and not to be wasted.

To add insult to injury, the reality of a night out in the city is that it is expensive.  Transport, drinks and quite possibly cab fare all took its toll on my limited supply of funds.  Owen was always financially self-sufficient, but Mitch never had any money.  If Owen and I desired his company, we would have to pay his way.

Enduring the beginnings of undiagnosed anxiety, Mitch was engaged in a difficult relationship with money.  Some of his other friends had accused him of being an unemployed layabout, forever leeching off their generosity.  The ferocity of their intervention-style attack hit Mitch hard, sending him retreating into his shell just a little bit further.

While I sympathised, I was forced to agree with some of the sentiments expressed.  Mitch and I had become quite co-dependent over the last few months.  Both of us were enduring some painful times and we took solace in each other’s company.  Still frequently off my head, I often pondered Mitch’s existence, still wondering whether he was a construct of my mind sent to keep me sane. 

Existential inquiries aside, Mitch’s consumption certainly proved his existence as he mowed through my food supply.  Rapidly responding to my dwindling breakfast cereal levels, I even started shopping for him, ensuring his favourite items were included in my regular grocery shopping.  When we went out, Owen and I paid for his entry into bars and clubs and covered any drinks or food that he might want.

Truthfully, I felt for Mitch.  Living alone, money and its management were frequently on my mind.  Upcoming bills and mounting expenses often kept me awake at night, and on many occasions I had to forgo entertainment because the money simply wasn’t there.  Nevertheless, I was fortunate to have a regular income which meant that more money was always on its way.  Yet another hideous truth of growing up was revealed – money (or lack thereof) can constitute a form of suffering and impact one’s self esteem in a very real way. 

The situation came to a head one afternoon when Mitch and I began a heated three hour debate.  Spurred on by Owen who could no longer afford to cover his costs, I gently tried to encourage Mitch to start thinking about legitimate employment.  But Mitch was in perhaps his darkest place, spending hours alone during the week, smoking loads of weed all while filling his head with notions of the impropriety of work and an invisible government stipend that he was allegedly owed.

His battles with the local government had quickly become the stuff of legend, as he barged into Centrelink offices demanding to see senior officials brandishing crumpled printouts and furiously quoting forgotten legislation.

To Mitch’s ears, I must have sounded imperialistic and conformist – urging him to get a job so that he could be like me and Owen.  Though perhaps clumsily expressed, I simply wanted him to have some success and greater self-esteem.

We argued incessantly, even agreeing upon a brief cease fire to accommodate a lunch break, immediately resuming as the both of us swallowed our last mouthfuls of food.  Indignant and entitled, Mitch was on a hellish crusade to get what he was owed from life – while I simply wanted him to pay for his own drinks once in a while. 

In all the time I have known him, this had been our most protracted disagreement, and in the end, it amounted to very little.  I agreed to be more considerate of his finances when planning outings, and he agreed to pay his way more often.  With the wave of a hand and a manly hug, our titanic conflict dissolved.  Whether he was real or imagined, I loved him unconditionally.

The end of 2008 was heralded by yet another pointless, weed fuelled adventure.  Finishing work early, I arrived home by the fading afternoon sun.  Mitch and Owen sat at my front door, impatiently awaiting my arrival.  As I quickly unlocked the front door, the both of them rushed in like excited children.  Putting my bag down, I disappeared into my bedroom to escape my work clothes and take a piss while they both shouted at me to hurry up – Mitch already sat on my balcony with his joint lit and smoking. 

It was good to see my friends in a happy mood.  It had been the year we had come together, united by the emotional gauntlet of youth and young manhood.  I was elated – I had made it through a full year of living on my own without getting evicted or starting any major fires.

After much indecision, a trip to St Kilda was decided upon; at the very least we would be able to see the beachside fireworks.  Once again, the three of us imagined a night of naked drunken dancing, capped off by a sexy rendezvous with two bikini clad girls and one wheelchair bound bodybuilder.  It was never going to happen.

Following a glacial tram trip, we arrived at the beach to see bonfires lit and hoards of partygoers revving the engines of their custom commodores.  While not the Pepsi commercial we had expected, the three of us strolled along the promenade, passing around a joint while we breathed in the sights.  An elderly couple approached us, selling cheap, plastic light sabers that glowed brightly in the night.  Quickly deciding that I would be happier with the light saber rather than my ten dollars, I purchased one and swung it around vigorously like a drunken child.

The countdown approached, and I cast my mind back to where I had been a year earlier.  Paul’s house party.  Callum.  Meeting Mitch.  Passing out on a nature strip.  So much had been lost, yet still more gained.  My pensive mood was interrupted by fireworks, sputtering out from platforms floating a few hundred meters out at sea.  The brilliant display lit up the night sky while the revellers below hugged, kissed and vomited into the sand.  The incendiary spectacle soon concluded, sending the mass of people scurrying for public transport.

“We should get home before the trains stop and we get stuck here” I said to my two friends as followed the throng of people towards crowded public transportation. 

Pressed up against the window of a crowded tram, my plastic light saber in hand, I cast my mind forward to another new year ahead.  2009.  I had a good feeling about it, but had no way of knowing how monumental it would prove.  In the months ahead, Mitch would finally find himself a girlfriend, Owen would make a life changing decision and I would embark upon the battle for my sanity.