I
had met him on the internet a few days earlier, and, in my testosterone driven
haste to get laid, I had chosen to accelerate our relationship and meet in the
real world. I had decided that 2009
would be my year of dating – the year I finally attempted the hackneyed process
of matchmaking and mating. At this point,
my self-esteem was so low, that any possible rejection would simply bounce off
me like an invisible deflector shield.
In short, there was nothing left to loose, and that, strangely, was
liberating, enabling me to be courageous and ask handsome guys out to have
drinks with me.
But
in spite of being disgustingly handsome, I found Wheeler annoying – even a
little self-obsessed. Every anecdote was
about him and his awesome life and friends.
Was this guy for real? I ordered
another scotch as he continued, without even taking a moment to breathe. I had barely gotten a word in, and had
already started to contemplate escaping into the men’s room. Five drinks later, I had had enough and stood
up to leave.
“You
know what, I think it’s probably time I was going. It’s getting pretty late and I errr...just
remembered I left my apartment on fire”
Wheeler
paused for the first time in the evening, his obscenely handsome eyes scanning
my face for signs of insincerity.
“Did
I say something wrong?”
“No,
it’s just that every word out of your mouth is about you and how great you are
and frankly - I’m starting to get bored.
Also I think I’m a little bit drunk”.
I couldn’t believe my bluntness, but there it was. I had said it to his face, words I couldn’t
take back.
Startled,
Wheeler simply stared at me for a few moments, trying to decide what to say
next.
“Please
don’t go” he smiled “You’re right, I have been carrying on, I’m just nervous”
“You’re
nervous?! What about me? For fuck’s sake – look at you! Compared to you I’m like some sort of hideous
Quasimodo, just nodding and listening”
For
the first time ever, my honesty had paid off, endearing myself to Wheeler and
slicing through the dense layer of first date awkwardness that hung between
us. One hour and several drinks later, Wheeler
and I were back at my apartment playing Super Mario Brothers together.
Deciding
upon a tournament, we established rules for our competition. The winner would be crowned champion of the
Earth (and its surrounding moons) - the loser would have to remove an article
of clothing. I neglected to tell Wheeler
just how skilled I was at playing Super Mario.
From
that auspicious first date, and a rare show of bravado from myself, Wheeler and
I began dating a few times a week, going to the movies and dinner and having as
much sex as we possibly could before passing out from exhaustion. It was the happiest I had been in months – he
seemed exactly what I had needed to boost my failing confidence, and served as
an effective counterbalance to the rest of the insanity lurking at the fringes
of my life.
Over
the last few weeks, due to stupidity and mismanagement, I had begun to fall behind
on paying bills and rent. Envelopes
marked “Urgent” and “Final notice” had begun to appear in my mailbox. I was well aware of what needed paying, yet
these red coloured reminders continued to materialise, only frightening me and
making me feel bad. Though I understood
that I had squandered much of my money on nights out with Mitch and Owen, these
carefully printed documents reminded me that my life was not my own. I lived in fear of shadowy agents from the
utility companies and government agencies reaching into my apartment to swipe
my television in lieu of payment.
Eventually,
with my nerves frayed, I avoided the mailbox altogether, preferring to simply
steer clear of the hornets’ nest of terror that awaited me.
Further
fuelling my paranoia was still a sizeable weekly intake of weed, and an even
heftier dose of conspiracy theories and alternative “news” that poured out of
my work computer. Fascinated by the lore
of reptilian humanoids, I devoured every piece of unsourced information I could
find. I fixated upon the tale of an
American farmer who claimed he had daily encounters with such beings as they
made a nuisance of themselves by hiding in his vast corn fields. This man alleged that their vision was based
upon reflection, and that shiny bladed weapons were ineffective against these
seven foot demons.
“Blacken
your blades!!” I would exclaim, as I coated a set of steak knives in black
texta and handed them out to family and friends. Mitch simply shook his head in disbelief as I
gifted him with a blackened filleting knife one night.
Still
angrily campaigning for the thousands of dollars he was owed, he had recently
had his car seized by his frightening aunty after questioning the legitimacy of
a local constable who had the audacity to issue him with a speeding ticket.
It
was a time of bizarre contrasts. As my
young sex-fuelled relationship with Wheeler unfolded, Mitch and I had reached a
new plateau of obsession where conspiracy theories were concerned. Mitch and I had joined a resistance cell.
There
was Brad, the misanthropic, overweight video store clerk, and Stanley, the
office manager who had immersed himself in alternative literature following his
divorce. The four of us would meet
regularly at a Richmond pub to exchange information and plan our upcoming
campaigns against what we ominously referred to as “the establishment”. Our vaguely defined mission: to raise
conspiracy awareness by spreading crazy literature across the city, plastering
telephone polls and bus stations with bullet point information on the coming
apocalypse.
“I
really wanna talk about project Blue Beam.
I mean, to my mind, that is one of the greatest threats to our civil
liberties in the next few years. They
can literally get inside your head and alter your thoughts!” said Brad.
“No,
no, no – the reptilian agenda is far more urgent” I interjected loudly “Did you
know they feed on human blood?!”
“Did
you know the government owes you hundreds of thousands of dollars?” came Mitch,
always eager to steer the conversation towards shadow economics.
We
were a well-intentioned, yet paranoid bunch - a veritable who’s who of
conspiracy nutcases, all united by a common passion, yet far too disorganised
to accomplish our vaguely defined objectives.
Never
one to be taken in by falsehoods, Owen attended a couple of our gatherings when
down from Ballarat, always remaining silent, yet listening carefully. Ironically, it was Owen who ultimately
uncovered a real life conspiracy of sorts, one that would profoundly stir his
sense of social justice and change his life forever. It all started with a short film entitled
“Meet Your Meat”.
Using
unflinchingly graphic images of animal brutality, the film graphically
illustrated the poor treatment of animals in the production of food, drinks,
beauty products and all manner of unexpected consumables. It was enough to turn Owen off hamburgers for
good, and shortly thereafter, he proudly proclaimed himself a vegan.
Vowing
never to consume or use any products derived from animals, Owen’s vegan status
still stands to this day. Never condescending
or disapproving, he became the perfect teacher, always ready to educate, but
never preachy or heavy handed with his beliefs.
Soon,
Mitch and I received a first class education on how the natural world is raped
to manufacture consumer goods. I was surprised
and sometimes nauseated to learn about the origin of some of my favourite
products. Did you know that beer is
filtered through fish scales? Or that a
slaughterhouse will literally boil the skin off a pig to make it easier to chop
up? For the first time, I felt guilt for
my first world, western lifestyle and the immense distance I was afforded from
such unending suffering.
Much to Owen’s silent dismay, I never became a vegan, but
my fridge and pantry received a thorough overhaul as I got into the habit of
scanning the ‘ingredients’ list in order to make an informed choice about what
to put into my body.
And so,
as if by osmosis, Mitch and I became socially conscious stoners. Owen was happy – lactose intolerant, I always
had an ample supply of soy milk to consume when exploring altered states. His passion for food had been ignited and he
would often use my tiny kitchen to experiment with wacky (and often ludicrously
expensive) vegan ingredients. Despite my
concern at the considerable expenditure (he once paid a whopping $8.95 for a
packet of vegan jelly!), Owen’s veganism had given his life a sense of purpose
and direction and he soon began to search for employment at a vegan restaurant.
To my
complete and total shock, I also discovered that vegans face a world of
opposition from meat eaters, often confronted with unadulterated hatred and an
endless stream of boneheaded questions. Owen’s
parents didn’t take kindly to his new life choice, seemingly baffled, angry and
confused.
“Just
say that you’re gay” I would tell him, certain that the shock of their son
engaged in man on man action would prove less controversial than his sudden
conversion to veganism.
Justifiably
irritated by the amount of commentary his private diet choices had stirred, and
feeling “locked out” of social gatherings involving food, Owen hatched a plan
to hold a vegan Christmas dinner later in the year.
While
it had opened Mitch and I up to new realms of mock meats and seitan, veganism
also had the happy side effect of introducing us to the Convent. Home to a no-frills vegan eatery, the Convent
was just that – an ancient building with vast surrounding parklands housed
squarely in the inner city suburbs of Melbourne.
Sunday
morning trips to the Convent quickly replaced our customary journey to obtain
hangover food, and needless to say – we were healthier for it. As if the binge eating of being stoned wasn’t
enough, Mitch and I had made a habit of extending our poor eating trends into
the next day. I can vividly recall
scoffing a gigantic cream cheese bagel by the roadside, while Mitch’s favourite
– the so called ‘dirty bird’ often inspired feelings of nausea as I watched him
rapidly devour it. A quarter of chicken
drenched in gravy served atop a bed of soggy chips, this five dollar culinary
crime came housed in a tin foil container and was obtained from a filthy take
away shop in the plaza near my apartment.
Instead,
our morning repast now featured Dahl, rice and low fat soy chai lattes,
followed by a brisk walk around the gardens.
When the weather was nice, we would lie on the grass, sun baking in
silence.
But
elsewhere, things weren’t so idyllic.
The black helicopters and unmarked vehicles that populated the dreams of
our fellow resistance members soon fostered resentment, and then dissent. Disagreements became common as Brad, the
oldest of our members, attempted to seize leadership, accusing me of ‘not being
committed enough’ to the cause. Just as
quickly as it had sprung up, our resistance cell dissolved, fading into
obscurity without a single government plot exposed.
My
relationship with Wheeler, which had burned so brightly at the beginning
quickly went supernova after a couple of arguments and a rather harsh text
message exchange between us. In truth,
we had barely been a couple – our union still in its infancy – and so not a
great deal had been lost. In spite of our
spiky final conversation, the split was an amicable one – he even returned my Jurassic
Park DVD.
I
missed Wheeler, though I missed getting regular sex even more. My supply had been cut off suddenly, and it
had caught me by surprise. But I was
sanguine about the loss, as I found that I had been instilled with a renewed
sense of confidence – something I thought lost along with Callum. I was capable of attracting nice, good
looking guys who would have sex with me – a lot. I had proved myself capable of dating, and
understood that I had worth beyond being a pathetic stoner. The realisation was therapeutic and
reassuring. At that moment, I knew that
I would persevere with this “dating thing” a while longer – or at least until
my new supply of confidence ran dry.
Aside
from regular excursions to the many vegan restaurants around town, life
returned to normal and I once again settled into the routine of work and
weekends not bitter, but thankful for all the awesome sex I had gotten and the
resistance I had almost been a part of.
Just as the status quo returned, everyone’s attention turned to a news
story that seemed to ignite the country’s panic.
Swine
flu – a deadly viral strain – was spreading through the cities fast, striking
down its victims with sometimes fatal results.
At work, many of my colleagues seemed glued to the news websites,
checking for updates and the locations of so called infected zones. Impromptu clinics were sprouting all over the
city to treat and test infected cases. I
wasn’t sure whether this was panic mongering from the media but some people –
ordinary intelligent people – seemed alarmed.
Convinced
that this was another tired government plot to incite hysteria and sell pricey
medication, I sat down at my desk, dismissing the overblown reports with a wave
of my hand. I sneezed, spraying droplets
of clear mucous all over my computer screen.
As I reached for a Kleenex, I looked up to see several of my co-workers
staring at me incredulously.
I
was starting to get sick.
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