Smoking weed. Getting weed.
The two things that now
consumed my every waking thought. I had
demonstrated my willingness to break a quarantine to get it, thus cementing my
undeniable status as a drug addict. And
addicted I was, by every definition. It
was an ugly moniker to bear. Society had
conditioned me into believing those words were bad, and thus reserved for bad
people possessed of little self-control and an evil spirit. I became racked with guilt, knowing that I
had bottomed out on the lowest rung of our society. Like living a double life, I made sure I appeared
“normal” when faced with work or family.
To the untrained eye, I would simply look like some guy. Only I
knew the truth – it stared back at me from the mirror – sad, sunken eyes
burning for a solution and hungry for affection. A little voice buried in the background of my
thoughts still told me repeatedly that this lifestyle wasn’t healthy, that I
was sick. I consciously chose to ignore
it.
My initially vigorous attempts
at dating had thus far produced mixed results.
High off my success with Wheeler, I resolved to soldier on, asking guys
out faster than they could stalk me on social media. What followed was a curious montage of
strange social interactions, both hideous and educational. There had been the New Zealander who worked
in a slaughterhouse, a fat guy who lied about being fat with some impressively
doctored images and of course the unforgettable David.
Admitting that his only hobby was eating, David reached
across the dinner table and stole my dinner!
“Are you done with that?” he
asked, not waiting for my response.
Shocked, I watched as he
quickly shovelled down the last of my chicken teriyaki like a pig at a trough. Adjourning
to a nearby bar for drinks afterwards, David fell asleep in mid conversation
while I ran for the men’s room, lamenting the small size of the windows through
which I could hardly effect a stealthy escape.
Bringing these horrible tales
of the mating dance home to my friends, I suddenly understood why relationships
and dating in particular were such ample fodder for the writers of TV
sitcoms. Forced and awkward, I found
myself an actor engaged in a series of awkward vignettes. Under other circumstances they would be
funny, but they were a body blow to my self-esteem. Evidently, I wasn’t
attractive or compelling enough to even stay awake for!
Mitch and Owen would patiently
listen to my stories as we got stoned in my apartment. Mitch, ever the outsider to these rituals
simply seemed glad that it wasn’t him while Owen exhibited strange pride,
congratulating me for being ‘out there’ as I clumsily tried to stick my penis
into something.
Recently having moved back to
Melbourne, Owen’s vegan passion had led him to some good fortune – a job at
Lord of the Fries. Offering a tasty
array of burgers, chips and hot dogs, the restaurant surreptitiously used only
mock or imitation meats and vegan cheese.
In his element, and rapidly working his way up the chain of command, Owen
bestowed mountains of free food upon Mitch and I, including delicious chicken nuggets
which tasted like God’s testicles.
Elated that I would be seeing
more of him, Owen’s recent success served as a timely reminder that in spite of
my sizeable drug habit, life moved forward.
Getting stoned had become akin to being encased in a high tech stasis
field in which time had no meaning and I never grew, changed or achieved
anything of real meaning. Owen’s new job
was a wakeup call. While Mitch and I
riled against shadowy government forces and invading aliens, he was out in the
world literally making his own opportunities and seemed happier for it. I was envious of him, and for the first time
in my young life, was conscious of the passage of time. The years would soon start slipping away.
Lost in the dark dimension of weed and my own
increasingly morbid thoughts, I felt as though I were standing still while
those around me seized life by the gonads.
Bad dates like the one with food stealing David only reinforced how much
I enjoyed my stasis – I never wanted to leave it. With a constant dialogue of negative thoughts
swirling around my head, it seemed as though the very act of living was indeed
a skill – and I was simply bad at it.
Still, the turmoil of those
around me reassured me that I was not alone, and that the early twenties were
not simply a vast expanse of insanity for me alone. Philip, newly single had found himself a new crush
and pursued her with vigour, bombarding her with hundreds of text
messages. After eventually ‘succumbing’
to his charms and tired of being harassed, the two went out to an expensive
club in the city where she seemed cold and distant. The night ended with her leaving the club to
go home with another man while Philip, confused and hurt, headed over to my
place where Mitch and I were busy smoking.
“Perhaps next week I’ll only
send her thirty or forty text messages” he reflected, seemingly nonplussed as Mitch
and I shook our heads and struggled to react to the bizarre tale.
Worse still was Craig, whose
anxiety had gotten the better of him.
Prescribed a revolving door of different medications, he soon found it
difficult to leave the house. Still
living across the street from me, his mania was made worse when his apartment
was broken into. Craig awoke from a nap
to see a man climbing through his kitchen window, immediately phoning Mitch and
I who were driving around the city scoring drugs. It was now clear that Craig was having
difficulty with the pressures of daily life and the responsibilities of living
alone.
The situation came to a head
one morning at my apartment when I awoke to find Craig sobbing in my living
room. He had stayed over the previous
night, sleeping on my sofa. Following
the attempted break in, he would often sleep there – too scared to return to
his actual home. Concerned to find him
in such an emotional state, I gently placed my hand on his shoulder. He tearfully explained that he had been
standing over my bed watching me sleep.
Recognising his deteriorating
mental state and his need for a support network, Craig would eventually pack up
all his belongings and take a plane to Queensland where he could live with his
family. He was the first real casualty
of mental illness that I had known, and it scared me intensely. Not long after his departure, Philip
inherited Craig’s old apartment providing me with a nearby sober chum with whom
to watch Doctor Who.
We never bothered to ask where
the weed came from. In fact the entire
act of buying drugs had become antiseptic and as commonplace as a quick run to
the Seven Eleven. One night, in the
middle of 2009, Mitch and I faced a dilemma.
Without warning, our supply had been cut. The usual shady middlemen who supplied us had
run dry sending Mitch and I into a panic.
We desperately phoned our contacts, talking to friends of friends and
acquaintances hoping to achieve success.
No luck. If Mitch and I sought
drugs that night, we would have to go directly to the source and that meant a
journey into the belly of the beast.
Chasing urban legends and half
remembered facts from Owen, we ventured into a part of town known colloquially
as the ‘Broady projects’. A darkened,
circular arrangement of dilapidated housing commission flats, the projects were
in essence the wrong side of the tracks.
Parking my car several blocks away, Mitch and I cautiously entered the
darkened streets, conscious of the very real possibility that we could be
robbed, attacked or worse. Complete
silence hung in the air as we strolled through dark streets festooned with
garbage, burnt car parts and medical waste.
Gardens were overgrown and windows were boarded up – it was no place for
a couple of privileged city kids seeking twenty bucks worth of weed. More than fear for myself, I felt guilty that
I had taken Mitch to such a place and put him in danger for the sake of some
weed. I knew I would blame myself if
anything happened to him, but he was complicit, and in spite of his brave face -
likely just as scared as I was.
Locating the house we had been
directed to, we tip toed through the front yard, opening and closing the front
gate slowly and quietly. Inside there
were no lights on, save for the dim glow of a television. Mitch bravely knocked on the thick steel
security door while I kept watch for marauders or ethnic thugs.
“Yes?” came a crooked voice
from beyond the security door.
I turned from my vigilance
momentarily to see a withered old lady conversing with Mitch. After some short, clipped exchanges, Mitch
handed over the money as the old woman quickly pressed a small plastic baggie
into his hand.
“Don’t worry, Grandma will
look after you” the old lady said as we left her front yard, quietly closing
the gate behind us. The surreal
transaction complete – I was eager to leave.
“Let’s get the fuck outta
here” I whispered to Mitch as we made our way through the scary streets and
back to my car, trying our best to look nonchalant.
The deed was done – we had weed for the night –
and our strike mission ensured that our habit of would continue, at least for
one more week. The thrill of the score
was exhilarating, and the two of us, triumphant, made our way back to my place
like thieves in the night. We promised
each other that we would never return to that place alone, still wary of the
dangers it presented. Needless to say,
it was a promise that both of us would soon break.
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