Chapter 09: Tow Truck Into Darkness

By the end of 2009, Mitch and I had found ourselves deeply entrenched in a full blown relationship – with each other. 

While not of the naked sexy variety, our bond had become one of dependence as we both entered a world of television, junk food and wild eyed conspiracy.  The addition of weed to the mix made for the most seductive threesome of our young lives.

Days and weeks ticked over – I lived a life without variation.  Wake up, go to work, come home, go to sleep - do it all over again.  Spending time smoking with Mitch was my reward for making it through the week without bursting into tears or stabbing a co-worker with a letter opener. 

I used to consider my mundane routine normal – this was life – wasn’t it? At some point during this phase, I chose to ignore the seeds of sadness and resentment slowly festering inside me, and just focus on getting to the weekly finish line so I could get stoned.

There was never any need to make plans for Friday night.  Mitch and I maintained a standing order of oblivion with a side of reptilian humanoids, genetic manipulation and impending economic collapse.

I’ve often wondered whether our friendship may have had its drawbacks.  Being so invested in each other and our all consuming passion for drugs left little emotional or physical energy available for other endeavours.  I watched, as though a silent observer, the supporting characters of my life fall away.  I frequently cancelled plans with others and barely maintained my domestic habits.  On Sunday night, I would shave and shower and see my parents for dinner pretending to be perfectly happy like a lie in a collared shirt.

Our nights were sacrosanct, with customs and itinerary to be strictly adhered to.  Music was carefully chosen for each occasion, and the shows we watched formed our personal modern mythology.  I can still remember Mitch’s arrival at my rickety front door.  It was a joyous moment for both of us – we knew our reward was at hand.  Our greeting ritual completed, Mitch would inspect the premises for cleanliness and any changes that had been made in his absence. I marvelled at his attention to detail. 

These weekends had become the brightest spot in my life, and while I knew not of the specifics at the time, on some level I was certain Mitch felt the same way as too.  Fridays were for the two of us, while Saturday was reserved for shopping and seducing handsome idiots.  But time was short – we only had one night, occasionally two out of a seven day week, and the other five loomed large and black and pointless.

My job at the advertising agency had become tedious, not least of which I attributed to a manipulative new boss whose political machinations and favouritism were blatant.  By that point, I was on autopilot, breezing through my day by taking painkillers during my coffee breaks and meticulously organising my iTunes library while the boss wasn’t looking.  I had worked my way into a comfortable rut and wasn’t about to hoist myself out without just cause.  With the cracks in my macho façade beginning to show, I was desperate to feel something, anything as I grew cold to my surroundings.

It was during this time that I met ‘The Whore’.

In keeping with my fine tradition of assigning (not so) affectionate nicknames, The Whore was a guy I had met over MSN chat during a particularly tedious day at work.  I’m ashamed to say that I can no longer remember his name, but he was gorgeous.  With strawberry blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, he was possessed of a beauty more commonly found in a young woman.  I was immediately smitten. 

Lucky enough to have a desk in a secluded corner of the office, I could comfortably converse with the Whore, free from the judgements, questions and prying eyes of my co-workers. 

I had long given up hope of any real friendship with that miserable lot, and consequently spent much of my work day online and in self-imposed solitude.

With a surreptitious smile, I worked my magic on the keyboard.  The Whore lived in Cardinia, an outer suburb of Melbourne, some 70 kilometres from my desk.

 “Come over and fuck me”

His words appeared on my computer screen.  I felt my face flush with embarrassment. Self-conscious, I quickly glanced around the office to make sure no one had seen his obscene message.

“I can’t.  I’m at work right now.  I can’t just walk out” I replied, frantically trying to think of a fictional sickness that I could credibly manifest.  After all, I had already suffered false bouts of scarlet fever and smallpox during my brief employ.

“Come over to my house after work.  I’ll be waiting with my legs in the air”

I stared at the screen in disbelief.  No one had ever been so direct with me.  I was aroused, yet disgusted.  Who was this guy?  Truth be told, I disappointed at being deprived of the hunt.

Determined to behave like a gentleman and maintain what little dignity I had, I offered The Whore a counterproposal.

“You know…we don’t have to rush things.  Maybe we could meet up first.  Have a coffee or maybe see a movie?  I’d like to get to know you a bit”.

I waited impatiently for his response, drumming my fingers on the mouse pad.

“I could put a movie on while you fuck me”

“That’s not really what I had in mind”

I scratched my chin, confused, now wondering if this guy was for real.  Could this be some sort of scam or trap?  Did a gorgeous blonde guy really want me to come round to his house after work and fuck him senseless?  My growing cynicism informed me that this was likely too good to be true.

“I have to go for now.  I’ll be waiting for you tonight”

With that, his address and phone number flashed across my screen, and then he was gone, leaving me feeling horny and uncertain.

I felt my heart pound with indecision.  What was I going to do?  I entered the address into a search engine.  It would take an hour to drive to his place, and just as much time to get back.  Allowing forty five minutes for hot sex, I calculated that I could still be back at my place on time to meet Mitch for our weekly smoke.

At lunchtime, I took two Neurofen and went downstairs to consult Craig.  He listened thoughtfully while I outlined my dilemma.

“He sounds like a fucken slut.  You lucky bastard!”

“Thanks dude.  That’s helpful”.

Clearly I hadn’t articulated the finer points of my moral quandary to Craig.

I spent the rest of my day distracted by this indecent proposal, my thoughts awash with morality and prescription medication.  Quitting time finally came, and I sat in my car, frozen by indecision.  I had written down The Whore’s address on a notepad which stared up at me from the passenger daring me to the long drive and dirty penetration.

“He mustn’t have very much self-respect” I thought as I wound down the window and lit a cigarette.

Despite my reputation as a would-be sexual predator, I’ve never been cavalier about sex.  It had to be done with respect, compassion and at the very least, an exchange of last names.  Sex with someone who ‘gave it away’ so readily represented a line crossed.  If I did this, I would be changed forever.

Tiny raindrops began to form on my windshield.  A storm was coming.  I fumbled with my keys and inserted them into the ignition.

“That’s it!” I said aloud, “I’m going to fuck the whore!”

I turned the key triumphantly – pleased at having finally made a decision.  Nothing happened.  A small sputtering sound came from the engine.

“Not now…!”

I began to curse and tried the engine again.  No dice.  The rain started coming down hard.  I extinguished my cigarette and ventured outside to check the engine.  Everything looked fine.  Partially soaked and sexually frustrated, I got back inside the car and called for roadside assistance.

“Someone should be with you in ninety minutes or so” said the disembodied woman on the phone.

“Ninety minutes!!!”  I screamed, pounding the steering wheel.  My penis couldn’t wait that long!  At that moment ninety minutes might as well have been ninety years.

With each passing second, my chances of obligation free sex faded like a hypercolour t-shirt.  I pictured him in his rustic bedroom, naked and writhing.  It appeared that the universe had interceded, and I would have to disappoint him tonight.

Two hours passed.

A surly looking bloke in a yellow van arrived, and, after a cursory glance at my vehicle, whipped out his phone.

“Where do you want it towed to?” he asked, a single raindrop dangling from the tip of his nose.

My heart sank.  In his professional opinion, the car’s fuel pump was ‘fucked’.  Unable to be driven, my trusty chariot would have to be towed home in disgrace.  The Whore, it appeared would have indeed have to wait. 

Resigned to my poor fortune, and now soaking wet, I attempted earnest small talk with the tow truck driver, trying my best to sound enthusiastic as he spoke at length about tribal tattoos.  I had texted Mitch; he was on the way and would meet me at my place.

Unable to secure a place to dump my sickly car outside my apartment, we set it down two blocks away.  There my car remained, gathering dirt and dust until I could raise the $600.00 needed for repairs.

Inside my apartment, I peeled off my wet clothes and took a quick shower.  I emerged just in time to hear the doorbell ring.  After a lengthy man hug, I regaled him with my tale of woe, outlining my painful narrative and explaining that I had been expertly cockblocked by an errant fuel pump.  Mitch agreed that I was in dire need of marijuana, and began the night’s chopping duties without haste.  We smoked long into the night as I tried to ignore my latest setbacks.  I was never gladder of his company. 

The ripple effects of that night were far reaching – short on cash, my car remained abandoned and unused for a full three months before I was able to effect repairs.  I would often walk up the block and check on it, wistfully clearing off dry leaves and longingly laying my hands on it’s now dirty bonnet.

Consigned to public transport, I began to employ a complex web of trains and trams to get to work and back.  Sporting headphones, a beanie and sunglasses in the middle of winter, I slowly began to withdraw from the world.  The weight of adult responsibility had well and truly began to weigh heavily on my shoulders.  Unbeknownst to me, I had begun a long slow descent into darkness, commencing hostilities with the invisible ravages of depression.

As for The Whore…well we never spoke again.  I never did make it out to Cardinia, though he did resurface in a surprising way.  Two years later – and looking ten kilos heavier.

Mitch once suggested that fate had interjected – preventing me from intercourse with The Whore.  Maybe I dodged a bullet.  Sex with The Whore would have no doubt been incredible, but I have no way of knowing how that action would have changed me.  Regardless of the timelines avoided, that night represented a nexus, a point at which the future dangled precariously.  Bigger challenges lay ahead, I was sailing into storm clouds on the horizon – but I did not do so alone.